Chapter 1: Chapter I
Chapter Text
“What Abraham said back at the barn. What Maggie said. What Carol told me earlier… They were talking about this, right? What I read in your book tonight?”
(Y/N) continued aimlessly running her fingers between Daryl’s, to stroke them with her thumb as one of each of their hands lay on his bare chest. She watched her movements tenderly, answering his question with a nod without looking away.
So, (Y/N) could speak. Not well, not strongly, but she could. She just didn’t want to… because Daryl reminded her of her dead husband. A man (Y/N) used to love, maybe still loved, and lost. She didn’t want to speak because that’d mean there was someone else worth relearning to speak for, worth loving and trusting, worth further heartbreak should they be lost too, and she was afraid. (Y/N) was afraid like Daryl was afraid. Afraid of his feelings. Afraid of losing someone he— Afraid of losing her.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured, continuing to stare up at the ceiling. “You ain’t gotta tell me shit, and I ain’t goin’ nowhere when ya do.”
Daryl adjusted his arm that’d been around (Y/N)’s body, holding her to him. His fingers brushed against the raised skin along the side of her upper arm, the scar from when (Y/N) had been shot by Terminus after Daryl had left her behind to go to Atlanta with Carol. As he’d adjusted, so too did (Y/N). Momentarily, she pulled her hand out of Daryl’s, for the other was pinned between them, flattened under the shoulder blade of his arm around her. With her now free hand, (Y/N) hummed warmly and bade a lazy but meaningful Shaka sign. Same. As Daryl sighed contentedly, (Y/N) returned her hand in his over his chest.
“Why would I wanna leave anyway?” Daryl went on, his tone taking a surprising though very light and playful turn. “You’d track me down and I’d end up like Aiden or worse if I did. Plus, that’d also mean givin’ up more nights like this.”
For a moment (Y/N) stilled, then she slowly leaned up to peer at Daryl. Her gaze was inquisitive, her brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and lips pursed in skeptic amusement.
“Ya know what I mean,” he declared, and he knew (Y/N) knew that he’d meant by his words to bring a moment of levity to an otherwise serious and intimate moment. “But, if ya didn’t, we could go again. Give me ‘nother reason to stay.”
(Y/N) scoffed incredulously, amusedly, a tender light gleaming in her half-lidded contented gaze. Though she smiled warmly, she shook her head side to side before resting it on Daryl’s shoulder once more and repeatedly drawing ‘Z’s on his chest.
Daryl smirked, pulling his arm and (Y/N) tighter against him. “Yeah, a’ight. Sleep,” he murmured down into her hair. His smile deepened. “I’ll wake ya up right in the mornin’.”
He felt (Y/N) sharply exhale a scoff against his bare chest. He felt her lips kiss his shoulder softly, her hand holding his leaving Daryl’s grip. As her lips remained on him, (Y/N) slowly trailed her hand downward, fingertips ghosting over the skin of his abdomen. Lower and lower, as Daryl’s anticipation grew higher and higher. But (Y/N)’s hand stopped at his pelvis, her fingers extending just enough to run in the crease of the inguinal groove between abdomen and inner thigh, before pressing firmly against the bone there.
Daryl groaned pleasurably yet frustratedly. “If I even make it to morning.”
When (Y/N) chuckled deeply, almost challengingly, Daryl knew, despite her reply mere seconds prior, her intention was to make sure he didn’t, in the best possible way.
It’d been three days since that night with Daryl, what you’d confessed to one another, the words and your bodies you shared with one another. Well, at least Daryl’s words. You’d left your notebook downstairs, and after Daryl threw on his pants to go get it so you both could converse, he’d returned emptyhanded. You’d panicked until Daryl’s words and arms comforted you to sleep. You’d worried until the next morning, when Carol had greeted you both with a snarky grin and cheeky comment about how she overheard part of your bedroom tryst, before handing over your notebook, which you took hastily with rosy cheeks.
Word spread fast among your group, if not about the coupling, then at the very least acknowledging that you and Daryl were now a couple. In fact, that first day, you’d gotten so sick of people telling you it was about damn time, that you simply wrote it in your notepad and flashed the words to the amused and well-intended group members. By the end of the day, it’d appeared Daryl had gotten just as much flack as you had, if the odd mixture of amusement and bitterness in the scoff he gave you after showing him the words in your notebook were anything to go by. That, and the scoff Daryl gave Carol when she teasingly wished you both a good night as you headed up to bed, she, Glenn and Maggie having difficultly stifling their mirth.
The ribbing eased as the days went on, especially when it came to light that Daryl and Aaron would be leaving on a recruiting mission soon, and that Deanna had assigned you to supply run detail with Aiden and Glenn. The decision, Deanna explained, was made because she understood that you, like Daryl, needed to get out once and awhile. That, and the fact that you could handle yourself, and keep her son in check. So, on the morning of that third day, you wished Daryl and Aaron luck, and a safe return, before heading out on a supply run with your own group. Not for food, but for solar panel microinverters. You didn’t know what the Hell they were, but Eugene did, hence why the selfish coward was forced to join the crew. He would ensure you all found and brought back the right shit in order to get Alexandria’s power grid back up and running.
But things had gone sideways. So incredibly sideways. Scenes from what’d happened played over in your mind as Glenn drove what was left of the group back to Alexandria in silence, not an ominous lyric of Dubstep music to be played. The grenade blast. The Walkers. Tara’s head wound. Your wound. Aiden, impaled against the overhead door and thought dead by that sniveling weasel Nicholas, calling out for help. Assisting Eugene get Tara out, then trying to find the secondary exit Glenn, Noah and Nicholas must’ve had to use. Nicholas running by, to the van where you’d left Tara and Eugene, without Glenn and Noah. Finding Glenn trapped in a revolving door, seated on the ground, deep in traumatic shock. Not finding Noah, or at least not finding his body; you were certain the copious blood on the pane in front of Glenn had been his. That meant Glenn had watched Noah’s death, front and center, up close and personal.
You couldn’t imagine how Glenn must’ve been feeling, and what he felt now. Glenn had lost people out on runs before, probably more than anyone else in the group. That burden must’ve weighed heavily on him. But this… this might’ve been the first time he’d seen it up close. The trauma of it, the shock of seeing Noah, someone he cared about, die horrifically before his eyes, was evident on Glenn’s face at the warehouse. Now, peering over, catching but a fraction of Glenn’s expression in the rearview mirror, the trauma and shock had yielded their outward appearance to a state of numbness. His words to Aiden from the other day echoed in your mind at that moment. As screwed as the last run crew, huh? Glenn couldn’t have said it any better.
That’s what you thought as your gaze panned back to Tara. She and Nicholas had been unconscious since you all loaded them into the van, but that didn’t give you reason to slack off. Your pistol you’d cocked and trained on Nicholas hadn’t wavered from the moment you took aim, and while the weapon hadn’t wavered, your eyes did, eventually landing on a notepad between Eugene and Tara. You’d noticed Noah carrying it earlier. As the van bumped along, the notepad’s front cover opened to reveal the first page. Written there were four simple words with a complex meaning. ‘This is the beginning’. But to what? What had Noah been thinking? What had he been dreaming of that it was the beginning for? A new life? The end? What future, idealized or reality, would he now never get to see?
Before the sun had set low on the horizon, Alexandria came into view and you were all waiting at the gates. Glenn became visibly antsy, strumming the steering wheel impatiently and repeatedly glancing back at Tara as the shift’s gatekeeper took their sweet time. Once the gates were opened enough to squeeze by, Glenn hastily drove through, baffling the gatekeeper. Glenn quickly maneuvered the vehicle through the empty streets, parking outside the infirmary, a few doors down from the Monroes’ house.
“Help! I need help!” Glenn called out the instant he jumped from the driver’s seat, rushing around to the back with Eugene to grab Tara.
Olivia had been the first to answer Glenn’s call, appearing on the street from the nearby pantry and armory. “Oh, my God, what happened?!” she exclaimed upon seeing the state Tara was in as Glenn and Eugene carried her out.
“She needs help!” Glenn insisted urgently, ignoring the inquiry.
“Get her inside,” Olivia declared bewilderedly as she hurried with them towards the infirmary, hanging in the doorway as the trio went inside. “I’ll get Pete!”
As the woman rushed off, you turned your gaze slowly from the open back doors of the van to Nicholas, who’d waken up just before Glenn pulled into Alexandria. Nicholas was peering at you wide-eyed, terrified yet still dazed from his semi-extended state of unconsciousness. More than that, he peered at the gun you still had trained on him, and the deadened expression on your face. Like the other day at the gate with Aiden, you were now begging Nicholas to give you another reason to pull the trigger. He’d already had, repeatedly, but now, if he gave you another reason at that very second, you wouldn’t hesitate. Your look and the subtle changes in your expression and body language said all that needed saying. The gun was just for emphasis. Then, upon hearing footsteps rushing towards the van, it became a liability. Quickly, you let your wrist go limp, the barrel of the gun tilting down to the floor between your knees, just as Deanna and Maggie came into view at the back of the van.
“What happened?” Deanna fretted.
Maggie looked to you with wide eyes. “(Y/N), your arm.”
You glanced down at the wound in question. The grenade blast had knocked you against metal scaffolding, giving you a minor concussion, but the visible trauma was a triangular piece of shrapnel, slightly bigger than your average Megalodon tooth, embedded in the outermost part of the deltoid muscle of your left arm. And, honestly, you preferred the tooth. At least then you could say you’d been bit by and survived an attack by a once-thought-extinct Megalodon. Regardless of the origin of your injury, you wordlessly got to your feet and slowly exited the vehicle. Once on the asphalt, Deanna and Maggie assaulted you with questions and concerns.
“What happened?” “Where’s Glenn?” “Where is everyone?” “Where’s my son?”
With a heavy sigh, you jerked your head toward the infirmary. Deanna rushed in first. Maggie lingered a moment, concerned but evidently not as much as you’d expected. She must’ve heard Glenn call out earlier, and knew he had at least returned. The expression on her face was still one of inquiry and worry.
“What happened?” she asked you again.
Still, you wouldn’t yield. Instead, you turned, looking back into the van where Nicholas remained sitting in the shadows. The hard look you gave him went unchanged as you brought it back to Maggie, and it told her enough. It told her what the incident at the gate the other day told her, and revealed an outcome you all saw coming, thanks to that cowardly, sniveling weasel.
“Come on,” Maggie said, looking from Nicholas back to you, gently placing her hand featherlight on your arm to guide you away from the van. “Let’s get you patched up.”
So, the two of you left Nicholas, his weapons you’d confiscated slung along your back and tucked into your waistband. You’d check them back into the armory later. For now, Maggie guided you into the infirmary, towards the sound of voices.
“I’m so sorry, Deanna.”
Glenn had told her, then. Maybe not the manner or circumstances of her son’s death, but at least about the bottom line of it. Aiden wasn’t there, and to Maggie’s distress, neither was Noah, and Tara was lying supine on one of the tables. Maggie rushed to Glenn’s side, the two embracing with evident relief. Eugene regarded the reunion fleetingly before returning his attention to Tara. You continued forward slowly, drawing closer in measured steps. When you finally joined the group, you’d positioned yourself directly next to Deanna. After a moment’s more in shock and denial, she turned to you, her gaze instantly meeting the shrapnel yet embedded in your arm due to your height difference. It eventually lifted to your face, and you looked down at her, eyes sympathetic yet dead. Like Aiden. Like Noah. Like Tara, if Olivia and Pete didn’t hurry their assess up. The other doctor, Denise, was pussyfooting around Tara’s bandage, so evidently out of place from her usual psychiatry discipline.
Pete arrived not a minute later, Olivia several moments after. Despite the mildly irate look in his eye, he triaged and treated Tara promptly, stabilizing her the best as possible before turning his attention to you. He’d made you sit atop another table as he slowly, steadily, pulled the shrapnel from your swollen, painfully throbbing muscle. The metallic sliver had fortunately been in one piece, and didn’t cause nearly as much damage coming out as it did going in. Pete then flushed the wound with antiseptic and stitched it together without so much as a splash of lidocaine. At least he prescribed antibiotics and a short course of analgesics for the aftermath.
By the time Pete was done and gone, you, Eugene, Tara, Glenn and Maggie were the only ones left in the room. Nicholas had appeared briefly, but was quickly whisked away by Deanna. Denise had been dismissed by Pete early on, the latter outright insulting and questioning the validity of the former’s doctorate if she couldn’t be of any use in situations such as the present one. It’d pissed you off, but what could be done? You needed the shrapnel out and wound tended to, and, as much as you hated to admit it, Pete was the best guy for the job. Probably. At least, until someone better, more sober, and less controlling came along.
“You should all go.”
Everyone looked over to Eugene, still sitting beside Tara’s head.
“I’ll stay with her,” he declared solemnly. “I promise to look after her until she wakes up.”
Glenn sighed dismally, hating to be the guy to say it. “What if she doesn’t?”
“She will.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” he repeated. “Could you kill her, before she Turns?”
Eugene appeared terrified, whether because the possibility hadn’t crossed his mind, so deep in denial as he was, or because he refused to believe Tara would die, was hard to say.
“She’d do it for me,” Eugene eventually said, looking back to his patient. “And when push came to shove, I ignored all instinct and got her back here safely, didn’t I? So yes, I could.”
There was an odd, contemplative silence among the group, specifically you, Maggie and Glenn. The three of you eyed one another momentarily, then decided Eugene was right. He’d kept Tara safe out there, and would keep her safe now. The selfish, cowardly man who’d used Abraham and his group, who used you and your group, to get to D.C. for his own safety, had cared for the safety of another. He cared for Tara, because she’d stuck her neck out for him. At the bookstore. On the road. Whatever was said and done, Eugene had resolved to do whatever it took to save someone else’s skin for once. And that someone was Tara. So why not let him tend to her now still? It’d be easier, back within the walls. Besides, the group, everyone else, needed to know what happened. They needed to know how dangerous the Alexandrians were, by virtue of their inexperience and delusion for what the world was like outside their walls.
So, you, Maggie, and Glenn walked back to the group’s two houses, but when you got there, you and Glenn still found yourselves unable to articulate what’d happened. Glenn was still traumatized. As soon as the three of you reached the stoop, Glenn said he needed some time and went to sit along the side of the porch. You were numb, worried about him, and didn’t know exactly what’d happened. It was up to Glenn to disclose the truth. You’d only had your speculations, no matter how accurate they seemed. Sharing a look with Maggie, you pointed at yourself then Glenn. She nodded with a small, pained smile, gently touching your forearm appreciatively before going into the house.
You went over and sat beside Glenn. He didn’t regard you as you lowered yourself, and neither of you said or wrote a word. Some of the group had come up the front stairs, maybe even spotted you two off to the side, but they likewise didn’t say anything. They let you be, as you let Glenn be, sharing in the voiceless space as you shared in his trauma the best you could, to support him through it. The sun had long set and the porchlights had been lit when Glenn at last broke down. He sobbed quietly, hand to his eyes. One of your hands held his opposite, squeezing comfortingly, Glenn’s grip tightening in response.
“I let go,” he wept. “I-I couldn’t hold on. I let him go.”
With a deep, shuddering breath, you realized your own tears had been welling up, and now spilt over your eyelids. Glenn’s pain, being this close to it, hurt far beyond any wound by shrapnel, bullet or blade had ever done to you. This would leave a scar one couldn’t see, but neither could it be so easily buried. It was a pain you knew well, one that’d debilitated you for more than your one lifetime cared to experience. But you’d pulled through, with help, and so would Glenn. You’d had your husband and sister. Glenn had Maggie and you, a friend who was there at the warehouse when it happened. It’d bond you, help provide support and understanding through his grief. Through the aftermath, whatever that might look like.
Don’t blame yourself. You and I both know whose fault this is
You’d written the sentence on your pocket notepad after Glenn had let go of your hand. He read your words with an unchanged expression at first, but then it grew frustrated, and confused.
“We can’t lose this place,” he said out of nowhere. “No matter how messed up they are, we can’t. We gotta—”
“Glenn.”
You and Glenn looked up, back towards the front of the porch. Rick stood there, his constable jacket reflecting the porchlight mutely.
“(Y/N).” Rick slowly approached you both, squatting against a post. “What happened?”
You and Glenn turned to one another. Your eyes were questioning, encouraging, supportive. Glenn swallowed and nodded. Shifting, you scooted back further onto the porch while Glenn turned to face Rick head-on, pulling his knees up and leaning back against his own post. After a moment, Glenn began iterating how it’d gone down. Aiden ignoring his warning not to shoot a grenade-armed Walker. Tara’s incapacitating injury and your much milder ones, for all comparative intents and purposes. Nicholas attempting to flee almost as soon as they got to Aiden, trying to pull him off the metal bars he’d been impaled on, and Glenn forcing Nicholas to stay. What’d happened at the rotating door, Nicholas panicking, saving his own skin. Noah slipping from Glenn’s hands. Watching Noah get gruesomely torn apart in front of him.
The broken, defeated tone of Glenn’s voice as he explained it all. It hurt all over again. You’d met his eyes several times as he spoke, and each time your expression was the same, sympathetic and supportive. Glenn eventually got through it all, and then got defensive, almost pleading like he had earlier, when Rick pointed out the Alexandrians knew nothing outside their walls. That the group was above them and their rules.
“We are them, Rick,” Glenn stressed. “We are now.”
Rick stared at Glenn a moment, then turned his gaze on you. You met it briefly, but turned back to Glenn promptly when he started speaking again.
“Noah, he believed in this place. I’m telling you, we gotta make this work.”
The three of you shared in silence again. Then, Rick looked to you. “What do you think? What’re your thoughts about all this?”
Oh, so Rick was openly asking your opinion now, and willingly taking your word for it? Well, the latter half of that thought had yet to be determined. Still, you jotted your reply.
Most of them are weak. Aiden got himself killed. Nicholas got Noah killed. I don’t think all of them should die because of their weakness, but it shouldn’t stop us from living. Glenn’s right, we’ve gotta make this work, but not by becoming them. I don’t know how to go about doing it, but they have to become like us. Or else all of us are gonna wind up dead
Rick and Glenn regarded your words silently, carefully, the former more stoically than the latter. He lingered at your and Glenn’s level for a moment longer before getting to his feet. Clearly, Rick’s attention was focused inward, though his gaze seemed far and away. Then, without another word, Rick walked off.
“Thank you,” Glenn said after a moment.
When your gaze returned to him, one brow shot up curiously.
“For having my back out there, and in here. For staying with me, and agreeing with me.”
You bade a half-smirk and small nod. Like you told Deanna, we need this place. I just don’t want to lose ourselves or each other in order to keep it
“I know,” he answered understandingly with a heavy sigh. “And like you, I don’t know how we’re gonna go about bringing them up to our speed so that doesn’t happen.”
Rick’ll think of something. It might not be right, but he will. He always does
After a moment, Glenn nodded.
You did the same. I’m going in. Want me to send Maggie out?
“Yeah, that’d be great,” he replied with a kind smile. “Thanks again, (Y/N/N).”
So away you went, around the porch and into the living room. Maggie rose instantly from her seat upon seeing you. Ticking your head sideways back towards the front door, she understood and went outside. You, meanwhile, looked amongst the others. Michonne, Carl and Judith. Rick was still outside, talking with Carol on the porch on the side overlooking the Anderson home.
“You alright?” Michonne asked after a moment.
It took that long for you to realize you’d still been standing there, silent and unmoving until she’d spoken. When her words broke your reverie, you turned your gaze to Michonne and smiled, nodding reassuringly. But, as you climbed the stairs and crawled into bed, alone, you wondered whether it was you or Michonne you were trying more to convince.
Chapter 2: Chapter II
Chapter Text
Trap
Bad people coming
Don’t stay
Yeah, that might be, but where the fuck were Daryl and Aaron supposed to go? They’d unwittingly sprung the trap and were now stuck in a beat-up sedan surrounded by Walkers with W’s carved into their foreheads. W’s, like the Walker Carol put down when she, Daryl and Rick first met outside the walls the other day to discuss their plans with Alexandria. Like the Walker Daryl and Aaron had come across yesterday, the woman having been tied up naked to a tree for other Walkers to feast upon, alive. But what did those Walkers matter, if he and Aaron weren’t getting out alive now to worry about them later?
What did any of it, the past week or two, matter, if Daryl wouldn’t return to Alexandria to enjoy it? He might not have felt right within the walls, but there was an even more important reason within them to get back to. Daryl thought about it, thought about (Y/N). He looked at his forearm, thinking about the four words that’d been there and since washed off. It was his and Aaron’s first run together and already shit had gone so far sideways who knew which way was up? What would (Y/N) think if she knew how wrong things had gone? Would she ever get a chance to know? Their present shitshow didn’t look promising in that direction, as Daryl looked out the window at a gaping mouth of rotting flesh and teeth. (Y/N)’d be worried if she knew, and will be worse when he and Aaron never walk through those gates again. Those gates and that community which Daryl had felt imprisoned in, trapped in, and yet it was a whole world away and an entirely different feeling than what he found himself experiencing in that moment. Realizing this irony, Daryl couldn’t help but chuckle.
“What?” Aaron inquired of his mirth.
“I came out here to not feel all closed up back there,” Daryl explained. “Even now, this still feels more like me than back in them houses. That’s pretty messed up, huh?”
“You were trying.”
Daryl thought about (Y/N) again. About Carol, Carl, Judith, and the others. “I had to.”
“No, you didn’t,” Aaron declared. “Listen, I saw you with your group out there on the road. Then you went off on your own by the barn. Storm hit, and you led your people to safety. That was it. I knew I had to bring you people back.”
For a moment, they were silent, Daryl pondering Aaron’s words.
“You were right,” he quickly went on. “We should have kept looking for that guy in the poncho. I shouldn’t have given up. You didn’t.”
Daryl contemplated Aaron’s words again, before popping a cigarette in his mouth. The melancholy, guilt-ridden tone of the other man, and the fact that it was him who’d really brought the group – brought (Y/N) – in to safety behind the walls, was enough for Daryl to make up his mind. To repay Aaron for what he’d already given him and the others.
“I’ll go.”
Aaron quickly looked over at Daryl, aghast at the statement and its implication.
“I’ll lead them out. You make a break for the fence.”
“No, no, no,” Aaron insisted as Daryl lit his cigarette. “This was my fault.”
“It wasn’t a question,” Daryl retorted, the smoke lazily rising in front of his face. “And this ain’t your decision. It ain’t nobody’s fault. Just let me finish my smoke first.”
The defeatist, self-sacrificial look in Daryl’s tone, expression and body language practically angered Aaron. “No. You don’t draw them away. We fight. We go for the fence. We do it together. All right? Whether we make it or not, we do it together. We have to. We have to try. We have to keep trying, for the people back home. For Eric. For (Y/N). We don’t get to clock out on them, because we know they’d never do that to us. We either get home or die trying.”
Try, huh? Keep trying. Yeah, Daryl guessed that was all they had left in the car. An ominous note, each other, and the willpower to keep trying. Aaron was right. Even if the people back home were safe, even if Daryl still cared a lot less what happened to him compared to them, that didn’t mean he didn’t want to get back. That didn’t mean he wasn’t afraid anymore. That didn’t mean (Y/N) wouldn’t come looking for him when he didn’t return, and might end up in the same trap they did, or worse. Because, Daryl finally knew, with certainty, that (Y/N) was just as afraid as him, and that – that she – was something, someone, worth trying for.
Daryl nodded after a moment, accepting Aaron’s speech. “All right.” He shifted in his seat, gripping his knife more securely. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“We’ll go on three. One, two—”
The next day, you got all the tea. Carol informed you about Pete beating Jessie. Maggie told you about overhearing Gabriel’s infuriating confession regarding the group to Deanna. Abraham proudly gloated about his endeavors at the construction site and subsequent promotion. Seemed like you missed a lot, being outside the walls for less than a day, but you felt more interesting things were yet to come. You could feel it, that static, that tension in the air. Alexandria was a powder keg ready to explode. All it’d take was a spark. And it wasn’t a matter of when, but who it would be from or what it’d be about that was the real question.
Would it be the grief-addled Monroes? That scared, sniveling weasel, Nicholas? The broken Anderson family? Or one of you? Maggie had every right to confront Gabriel for what he said, but she kept her actions subdued, for now. Glenn did confront Nicholas, with you as witness and backup, if need be, and while a fight didn’t break out, you could tell Nicholas wanted to get into it. Or, at least, he wanted it to get to a level that would result in Glenn’s, if not the entire group’s, immediate exile. Meanwhile, Carol and Rick, but visibly more so Rick, were bothered by Pete’s abuse against his wife, but did little more than talk with each other about it, growing more and more agitated with each passing word. Then there was Sasha. Ever since arriving in Alexandria, she’d appeared to be becoming more and more unhinged. Maybe she wouldn’t be the proverbial spark, but she’d likely be at the very least kindling, accelerant or fuel for the impending—
Muffled shouting. Dense thudding. Glass shattering.
HOLY SHIT! Nope, no longer impending. The powder keg had gone off and you practically had a front row seat. You’d been in the house, talking things over with Glenn and Carol, when you heard the glass and more pronounced shouting spill out onto the street. All of you jumped to your feet and rushed to the window, finding Rick and Pete bloodied and brawling with one another in front of the Anderson home. Several people had already gathered, and more were rushing in, when you and Glenn bolted outside and down the road. You yourself practically ran into Nicholas along the way, giving him a sneer that screamed to give you space or he’d very quickly join Pete on the ground.
It all happened so fast. In the background of your glare at Nicholas, you noticed Carol hanging back at the house, Sam running frightenedly to stand behind her. Then, by the time you looked forward again, Jessie had tried pulling Pete away and had gotten smacked to the ground for her troubles. Carl called out and ran forward almost immediately after, pulling at his father’s arm. Rick pushed him away, and Carl stumbled backwards onto the asphalt.
That was just about when Glenn arrived at the circle of onlookers, when Rick had rolled himself and Pete onto their sides and put the surgeon in a chokehold. He was going to kill him. The look in Rick’s eyes set deep within his bloodstained face told you so. But you couldn’t let that happen. Even if Pete was an abusive prick, killing him like that, in front of everyone, by an outsider, was not the way to go. And, most importantly, you all needed to be inside. So, you sprinted faster, about to pass Glenn when he turned and reflexively reached out and stopped you.
“Stay back,” he hissed, urgently yet softly. “It’s bad enough. We don’t want to make it worse. We need this, remember.”
That was exactly why you wanted to interfere! You could end the fight by joining it. Like you had with Aiden and Glenn’s fight the other day. You weren’t a simple housewife nor a teenage boy. You were a weapon. Rick had wanted to weaponize you and your skills barely a week earlier, and there you were now, finally, practically, giving in to his request.
“Stop it,” Deanna’s voice suddenly cut in. She’d given the order to Rick and Pete, but it also helped restrain your movements, along with Glenn’s hand around your arm. “Stop it right now.”
“You touch them again and I’ll kill you,” Rick muttered scathingly into Pete’s ear.
“Damn it, Rick!” Deanna shouted, leaning forward for emphasis. “I said stop!”
Rick let go of Pete and abruptly erected himself onto his knees. “Or what?”
Suddenly, the former sheriff produced a gun from the back of his waistband, pointing it at Nicholas and Tobin, who’d been advancing forward to help Pete out of there. The gesture startled everyone, even you and Glenn, who were practically in the line of fire. Glenn released your arm, and the two of you paced uneasily on your feet, turning to the Alexandrians to help keep them back and from doing something stupid that’d get them shot.
“You gonna kick me out?” Rick goaded, turning the weapon towards the Monroes.
“Put that gun down, Rick,” Deanna insisted calmly, she and her family with their hands slightly raised to show their defenselessness.
“You still don’t get it. None of you do!”
Rick went on, spewing truth and harsh reality but in a manic, uncontrolled manner. The group, your people, knew what it was like out there. You all knew what had to be done, and you did it. That’s how life worked nowadays. That’s how you survived and kept on surviving. Kept on living. You knew it. They knew it. The Alexandrians didn’t. You, Glenn and Rick had all agreed that these people needed an education, and you’d said that Rick’s way might not have been right, but you never expected it’d be this wrong. You could still end this fight by joining it, just now playing as a neutral party, if not for the opposing team, and none of it sat well with you.
As you shifted on your feet, waiting for your moment, you noticed Deanna lift her eyes from Rick as he continued his tirade. You heard the footsteps in the direction Deanna gazed. Rick did not. Suddenly, in the middle of Rick’s impassioned speech, Michonne appeared from practically out of nowhere and knocked Rick out with a single blow to the head. She promptly picked his gun off the asphalt, and just like that, it was over.
“Take him to one of the empty houses next to the armory,” Deanna instructed. “We’ll keep an eye on him there until he wakes up. And Pete?”
The man in question glanced at Alexandria’s leader with a peculiar expression.
“Pick another house. Stay there, for now. There’ll be a meeting tomorrow night to settle all of this once and for all.”
The Alexandrians warily looked at you and the others of your group who’d gathered. If Rick could go off the deep end like that, would the rest of you, and what would it look like? The thought had you amused. If only they knew.
“Help me out, (Y/N/N)?” Glenn asked, tapping your arm to get your attention as he backed up towards Rick, all the while keeping his eyes forward. Keeping his eyes on the Alexandrians, on Nicholas.
Stifling a groan from the pain still dully throbbing in your arm from the shrapnel wound, you and Glenn stooped to pick up the unconscious constable. Michonne wordlessly handed the gun to Deanna, then grabbed Rick by his ankles. The three of you followed Tobin just down the street, down some steps into the basement level of the long row of townhouses around the corner from the Monroes’ mansion. Unlike your group’s, this residence was unfinished, unfurnished and empty. Cold. Hollow. Like a prison. Even more prison-like than the actual prison you’d all called home just a few short months ago.
“I’ll keep watch,” Michonne declared, as coldly as the room, once the three of you lowered Rick to the ground. “Wouldn’t mind a few bandages to clean him up, though.”
Glenn nodded. “I’ll send Rosita in.” He looked around the empty space, at the barren floor. “Get you a chair while you keep watch. Maybe some blankets for Rick.”
“Thanks.”
Again, Glenn nodded, you doing the same, before the two of you stepped out. Glenn went to the infirmary where Rosita and Eugene had been taking turns keeping an eye on Tara. You, meanwhile, went back to the group’s home, gathering blankets and a pillow from Rick’s bed. By the time you returned, so had Glenn and Rosita. Not only did they bring bandages, but a short, cheap, thinner mattress for Rick to lay on. Rosita had already cleaned Rick’s face and was throwing on bandages to the many cuts by the time you made up the mattress with the blankets and pillow. You didn’t stick around after that, gesturing to Michonne and Glenn that you were heading out. They nodded wordlessly, and then you were gone.
Gone back to the house. Gone to check on Carl, clean up the scrape he’d sustained to his hand when Rick pushed him back. Gone to find Carol returning from the Anderson’s home, probably having checked in on Jessie and making sure Sam would stay there and not on Carol’s hip in the aftermath. Twilight had fallen, and you met Carol’s gaze from the dimly lit living room when she walked through the door. She stayed there a moment, taking a deep breath before joining you on the couch. You immediately turned your notebook out for Carol to read the words you’d already written there, prepping for her arrival.
That gun Rick had… you got it the other night, didn’t you? When you slipped out at Deanna’s party? Stole it from the armory after Olivia had left
“Yes.”
Why?
“We need to be prepared,” she answered evenly. “These people are weak. You and I both sensed that from the moment we walked through the gates. I wanted us to be prepared for anything; so did Rick and Daryl.”
Did Daryl take a gun too?
“No, just me and Rick,” she replied. “Lots of people want Daryl to try. Aaron. Glenn. Me. You. So, he did. He is. That’s why he didn’t take one.”
The knowledge brought a small smile to your face.
“But that doesn’t make him right,” Carol went on. “And after what happened last night, after what happened to Noah, we can’t be too careful.”
Of course you all needed to be careful. The Alexandrians were dangerous because they were naïve and could easily get you all killed, not because they could kill you. One could argue they were dangerous because they had the power to exile the group. You were outsiders; they didn’t have to let you in nor did they have to keep you. But, realistically, it was no secret that if the group wanted this place, you could take it. You just… really hoped it didn’t come to that. Like Glenn said, like Michonne and several others said, the group needed this place, and, if you could just get the Alexandrians on the same page and level as you all, you needed them too.
“Don’t tell anyone about any of this,” Carol continued after a moment. “It’s just me, Daryl and Rick. I inadvertently brought you in on that first day when I asked you to help me seem more nonthreatening, and I still need to keep that up. Whatever Deanna has planned for tomorrow night’s meeting, I think it’ll help Rick if I continue to play the defenseless widow saved by a big strong man who knows how to handle what the world is these days.”
You smirked, mostly at the insinuation that Carol couldn’t keep up or surpass most big strong men these days. It pained you to know, to remember, that Carol had once been that way before. Her act now wasn’t so much an act back then. And yet, you were impressed by how easily Carol could channel her old self, her old habits and mannerisms to suit her needs for the current situation. Carol had once said her old self had burned away, and yet she could still resurrect it for times like this. Your old self you’d locked away, but it was very much alive. You wondered, if you ever had to resurrect it, would you have Carol’s strength to use it with purpose one moment then lock it away again the next? Or, because her past was dead and yours simply buried alive, would it reclaim what was once (not rightfully) its own and burn you away?
The smile from your smirk deepened as you turned your face to Carol. It didn’t meet your eyes, but the gesture was genuine. Looking down, you carefully ripped the length of the bottom inch of the paper you’d been writing on, and held the long edge into the flame of a nearby candle. Once ablaze, you dropped the piece onto the decorative tabletop plate, the two of you wordlessly watching the incriminating evidence incinerate to ash.
The next morning, you, Carol, Glenn and Abraham went to visit Michonne and Rick. You’d all hoped but were still surprised to find him already awake, sitting up and talking with his personal guard. Carol immediately began spinning a story for the others, pinning the armory theft on Rick to keep up her own innocence ruse, even from the group. Although Rick took a clear moment to think, he didn’t give anything away, playing right along with Carol’s game. She went on to spin Rick his own story for why he took the gun in the first place. Plausible, but the Alexandrians were unlikely to buy it, their fears running wild after seeing last night’s altercation firsthand. To your surprise, Carol also revealed her feigning innocence routine to the others, bringing to light the Alexandrians’ incompetence and naivety should any of your small group still be in the dark about it.
Not surprising, however, was Rick planning a coup should the meeting that night go south. Threaten violence to get what one wanted. You knew that shtick all too well. Glenn and Michonne were clearly opposed to the plan. Abraham, when you met his eye, seemed to be in the same boat as you, not jived about it but also not wanting to sit back and let Rick and possibly the whole group get exiled. Carol’s mentality was best aligned with Rick’s; take them out before they could take you all out, no matter what you had to do.
When Rick answered Glenn that Rick had screwed up, you felt like saying aloud ‘No shit, asshole.’ When Rick said he needed more sleep, you felt like saying the same. Frustrated by Rick’s suggestion of a coup, Glenn was the first one out the door, followed by Carol, then you, Abraham, and finally Michonne, closing the door behind you all.
“We all know the plan?” Carol asked everyone, quietly, up on the sidewalk.
Glenn sighed heavily, shifting on his feet. “Yeah, sure.”
The shifting quickly transitioned into walking backwards, which then quickly became him walking away. The rest of you shared looks, the most meaningful being the last, between you and Carol. You looked at her to say you’d go talk with him, or at the very least check in. She looked at you with a reminder not to say anything, and to make sure Glenn was on board. The plan didn’t need all six of you, but it would definitely be easier.
You sighed much more quietly than Glenn had and went after him. Your pace was slow, controlled, giving Glenn time to settle on the porch where the two of you sat the other night after Noah had been killed. Approaching even more slowly, your footsteps purposefully and almost playfully loud against the floorboards, you came to stand beside Glenn. For a moment you stood, looking out at the rest of the community. Then, hearing Glenn scoff, you looked down to meet his gaze and small half-smirk up at you. Returning the gesture, you lowered yourself beside him.
“Do you agree with Rick?” he asked. “What he wants us to do?”
I agree these children need to be taught a lesson, but Rick’s isn’t the right one. Taoist philosophy of ‘teach a man to fish’ seems most appropriate for our current situation
“If I were to tell Rick that, would you back me up? Would you side with this plan over Rick’s? To stop his hostile takeover from happening?”
You pondered a moment before glumly writing your response. Even if siding with you, saying at the meeting tonight we need to teach them to save them, ends in Rick or all of us getting exiled? Winding up back out there again?
Glenn hadn’t thought that far ahead. His expression and subsequent silence told you as much. He’d stressed above all else how much the group needed this place. How desperately you all needed to make this work. But you couldn’t lose yourselves to do that, figuratively or literally. If saving the Alexandrians meant potentially losing Alexandria, then Glenn was faced with a dilemma indeed. He was faced with an even bigger one when Maggie appeared moments later, informing the two of you the meeting was, in fact, to decide if Rick would be exiled or not, and when she inquired about the ponderous look in Glenn’s eye, he lied. Well, not lied, exactly. Just omitted the truth, skirting it by telling a more important truth, that he loved her.
She left shortly thereafter, to go talk with as many Alexandrians as possible before the meeting. You and Glenn weren’t likely to see her before then, so you said your farewells and you both sat in silence once more. That was, until metal rattling caught your attentions. Between two houses along the perimeter, you spotted someone climbing the fence.
“Nicholas,” Glenn practically growled. “I told him to stay inside. Deanna told him.”
Glenn got to his feet and started forward. You began to follow, but Glenn turned on you.
“No, you should stay here. I’ll go after him. See what the Hell he’s up to this time.”
He turned to leave but you held him up. When his eyes met yours again, his body language impatient, you quickly and insistently stacked ‘letter K’s on top of one another and moved them in a small, circular motion. Be careful.
Glenn nodded. “I’ll be back for the meeting.”
Darting between the houses, Glenn was climbing and then over the fence in no time. Before you knew it too, you were back in your own home. Carl sat in one of the living room chairs, reading a comic book. You lay across the couch, staring up at the ceiling, worrying about Glenn, and Daryl and Aaron. You wondered where they went. Wondered what they got into, if they got or were getting into anything. Wondering if they were safe out there. You worried if you would end up having to carry out Rick’s plan, and if you would still be calling Alexandria home later that evening. When Rick had returned to the house a few hours after you’d last seen him, Carl had tried to tell him the same thing you and Glenn had been discussing, the same thing you both told Rick the night Noah was killed. You wondered, and hoped, that if Rick wouldn’t listen to you, then maybe he’d listen to his own son.
Such appeared that way by late afternoon, when the hour of the meeting was rapidly approaching. Upstairs, you overheard Rick confess to Michonne about the trio’s secret meeting outside the walls, their plan and their harboring of more stolen guns. You overheard their unspoken confessions to one another, like when you and Daryl admitted your fears of not seeing each other again that night after Terminus. For Rick, it was admitting Michonne being able to convince him of something he’d otherwise wholeheartedly believed was necessary. For Michonne, it was admitting she’d be with Rick even if they didn’t find a way to get through to the Alexandrians together. So, maybe it wouldn’t be Carl to convince Rick after all.
You had to hide the smug, cheeky smile of this amused realization when Michonne came down the stairs. You’d been at the bottom, intending to check on Carl and Judith in the living room before leaving for the meeting yourself, when you’d heard them talking upstairs. Michonne had seen you before you could continue with what you’d originally intended, and gave you a curious look as she made her way to the first floor.
“What?” she asked, to the point but not callously.
The shrug you gestured told her ‘nothing’. The smile you bade told her ‘I heard you, and I know what it really meant’.
Michonne half-smirked back at you, bidding the lighthearted expression of affection she often reserved for Carl, before reining herself back in to not give any more away. “Wipe that stupid grin off your face,” she jested amusedly before her tone grew more serious. “Make sure Rick gets to the meeting on time; I’m gonna go on ahead.”
You nodded agreeably, and Michonne bid goodbye to Carl before leaving the house. You made your way over to him and Judith, occupying the next who knew how many minutes before hearing footsteps on the stairs. However, they weren’t the steps of a person in control. These were rushed, almost frantic. Standing up and looking over into the foyer, Rick was hurriedly slinging on his coat as he rushed downstairs.
“Carl, stay here with Judith,” he instructed resolutely. “(Y/N), come with me.”
“Everything alright?” Carl worried, standing up with Judith in his arms.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Just stay in the house until I get back.”
Without another word, Rick was heading for the door. You exchanged a look with Carl, nodding and smiling reassuringly though reservedly, before giving chase. Rick was heading for Alexandria’s front entrance, and as you drew closer, you saw why. The gates were unmanned and ajar. Not by much, but it didn’t take much to let someone or something in. Sure enough, when you stopped just inside the gates, Rick standing between the outside and in, he pulled bloody flesh from the bolt mechanism. Then, following his gaze, you saw the trail of blooddrops leading into the community. Rick hastily pulled the gates shut and you slammed the bolt home.
“Walkers,” he needlessly informed you. “We gotta search the place before someone gets hurt. You got a weapon?”
Like he needed to ask. Though you hadn’t anticipated any imminent danger that evening, and therefore left your machete at home, you lifted the bottom of your shirt enough to reveal your knife in its sheath.
“It’s getting dark fast. Don’t stray too far. I can’t help you if you run into trouble.”
You knew what he meant. Not that he wouldn’t help you, but that he couldn’t, because he probably wouldn’t hear any call for it. He was preparing for a small herd when there may have only been one. But, like Carol said earlier, you couldn’t be too careful.
“C’mon.”
Darkness fell quickly. The two of you had barely completed the entire perimeter by the time the sun had fully set over the horizon. Now, you both moved inward, into the community. Running, trying to beat the clock, more so to prevent any Walker attack, but also, at least for you, to try wrapping this up as quickly as possible. The meeting had already started. The meeting about Rick, and he wasn’t there to defend himself. He was there, with you, helping to defend the community from a threat you all knew too well and knew would eventually find its way in, find its way to reveal itself to those sheltered within Alexandria’s walls.
Suddenly, a dog began barking nearby. Its tone was muted, safely locked up within a home, but it had to have barked for a reason. Exchanging looks and unsheathing your blades, you and Rick hurried towards the source. The yard of the home with the dog you could see through one of the windows was clear, but whatever it was couldn’t’ve gone far. As the two of you looked around, moving to opposite ends of the yard, you heard the snarl. Turning, a Walker was already almost on top of Rick, the man reaching out to keep it at bay.
He took it out easily enough, but then two more converged, one of which was large and could pose a problem. As you were about to rush in, another snarl sounded behind you. The Walker’s fingers brushed your arm just as you moved out of reach, and a second, equally large one appeared from around the corner behind it. Three large Walkers out of four, against two of you. Should be interesting, but easy enough. Or so you’d initially thought. You’d quickly lost track of Rick’s progress in dealing with your own pair of Walkers. Your failsafe move was to kick the first Walker away to give you space to deal with the second, but this time, it failed.
The foot you’d extended to do just that, rather than push against solid flesh, sank into rotting meat. It forced you off-balance, and you panickily tossed up both arms to defend yourself as the Walkers converged, forcing you to one-legged hop backwards. You surprisingly made it until your back hit the wall of the house, but that didn’t stop their advance. The Walker caught on your foot, or rather, the Walker whose abdomen your foot was caught in, continued reaching and leaning forward, your foot sinking deeper into its viscera. The squelching sound of it was muted by their growls and the dog barking within the house. The Walker not entangled with your limbs wasn’t giving you a chance to get enough momentum to push it away, and with your arm still injured you found yourself at a disadvantage for the first time in a long time. And it scared you.
You felt useless. Cornered. What could you do? Maybe drop and hope your leg would dislodge from the Walker’s belly, but what if it didn’t? What if you stayed caught up and hung there, no leverage, arms above your head on the ground and body open for easy pickings? But what if it did, and the Walkers, the linebacker-sized Walkers, converged over you? You were strong, but not that strong, especially with one arm not up to full-speed. The Walkers’ arms continued their own reach, their teeth continuing to snap and mouths continuing to snarl. The bastards could vocalize and they were dead. Though it wasn’t something you’d planned anytime soon, you were given no other choice, and you’d rather not be dead when you’d do it too.
“Rick!” you called out, your voice urgent though weak and cracking from disuse, his name more like a cat’s hiss on your lips. “Rick!”
He was there a moment later, pulling the Walker not kabobbed on your leg away with a grunt. Your weaponized arm finally freed, you whipped it around and drove the blade through the side of the remaining Walker’s skull. The growls stopped instantly, but the squelching continued as its body slid down your leg. You stumbled forward briefly with the deadweight of it before stepping out of the abdomen. For good measure, you angrily stomped on the Walker’s softened cranium once you were freed, flattening it into the grass.
“(Y/N).”
Rick was looking at you when you looked up to him. He was covered in blood from head to chest. Meanwhile, one of your legs and part of the other was coated in your own Walker’s innards. The two of you were a breathless mess but alive. However, the look in Rick’s eyes said there was something surprisingly more important than that.
“You spoke,” he declared, brows furrowing confusedly under his bloody mask. “I-I knew you could. You told me you could, maybe. I just… didn’t think I’d ever hear it.”
And you didn’t want that getting out. Didn’t want anyone else to know. Not yet. Not until you were more comfortable with… yourself. So, you furrowed your own brow sternly and pointed at Rick. Then, bringing your pinched fingers and thumb of one hand just in front of your lips, you turned your wrist 90-degrees before signing for ‘please’.
Rick nodded. He owed you respect. But more than that, he owed you. Besides, he already knew the part about you that could potentially pose a threat, or at the very least a problem. He’d accepted it, accepted you, and even tried to use it for his own benefit, without issue. This was a schoolyard secret compared to that. So, he wouldn’t tell. For now.
“Think you can grab one of ‘em and follow me?”
You looked amongst the felled Walkers. The first two Walkers were slight compared to the last three the both of you dispatched. Surely you could manage, so you nodded in return. Sheathing your blades, you both slung a Walker over your shoulders, leaving the other three and the yet barking dog behind. In no time, you realized where Rick was going, the Monroe mansion and firelight dancing off its stone wall perimeter quickly coming into view. As you drew nearer, you could hear someone speaking, sounding like they were advocating for Rick’s removal. Well, maybe this would change their mind.
Rick walked around the corner and into view of the meeting attendees first, you following close behind. The two of you paused in the open gateway briefly, letting the others get a good look at you both before Rick stepped forward. He aggressively tossed his Walker at the base of the firepit, a few Alexandria women gasping in shock and many others backing away. You took an approach with more decorum but equal disgust, stepping forward to push your own Walker off your shoulder and drop it atop of Rick’s. As everyone took in the scene, you realized, unsurprisingly, that none of your group was terribly phased by this turn of events.
“There wasn’t a guard on the gate,” Rick announced breathlessly. “It was open.”
“I asked Gabriel to close it,” Spencer explicated to his baffled mother.
“Go,” she instructed her son, who quickly ran off to check for himself.
“I didn’t bring them in,” Rick continued, beginning to pace around the firepit in front of the group. “They got inside on their own. Five of them, maybe more. A dog in a house kept them away from here until (Y/N) and I found them, but you would’ve been next if we hadn’t. They got inside. They always will, the dead and the living, because we’re in here.”
Rick carried on with his speech. Explaining how the dead would come in because it was in their nature to seek out flesh to consume. Explaining how the living would come in to hunt, to use, kill and take what Alexandria had, to consume in their own way. Explaining how he’d teach those less experienced to survive. Explaining his former plan to kill some of them in order to save all of you, and point blank calling out their weakness, their bullshit of being lucky all this time. But through most of his speech, you noted Rick’s choice in words. We. Us. He had come to accept the Alexandrians as one of the group. It was us vs. the world outside, no longer us vs. them within the walls. Well, maybe with a few except—
“You’re not one of us! You’re not one of us!”
To your wary and still adrenaline-addled defensiveness, Pete had appeared in the open gateway, brandishing Michonne’s katana.
Reg rushed forward to stop his advance. “Pete, you don’t want to do this.”
Pete wouldn’t listen. Reg wouldn’t take no for an answer. Deanna couldn’t get either of their attentions. Rick was readying to unsheathe his knife again, but Carol admonished him against it. Abraham shifted uneasily on his feet. You and Michonne stepped in front of the Alexandrians, pushing them behind you as they were already stepping warily away from the threat. A new powder keg was building. Then, just as Rick predicted not thirty seconds ago, luck ran out.
As Pete made to push Reg away, the length of the katana slid across Reg’s throat, slicing it open. Deanna screamed out. Abraham rushed forward to tackle Pete to the ground whilst Michonne rushed in to disarm Pete, reclaiming what was rightfully hers. The Alexandrians stood horrified. Carol and Eugene remained where they were. So did Rick, looking between Pete, still trying to put up a fight under Abraham’s restraint, and Deanna cradling Reg as he quickly bled out. Your reaction was likewise closest aligned with Rick’s. Once you registered that Abraham and Michonne had things under control with Pete, you surreptitiously began gliding your hand to your sheathed knife. Though you didn’t anticipate any more retaliation from the mortified crowd, this just proved the Alexandrians, in all of their naivety and fear, were dangerous.
“Rick.”
Deanna had been the one to speak, her voice no longer desperate, but sorrowful, wrathful. You knew where this was going, and you turned squarely to face Jessie. She reflexively appraised your sudden position change with eyes still wide in fright, before returning her gaze to the scene behind you.
“Do it.”
Gunshot.
Though Jessie and a few of the other women screamed, you kept your hardened gaze on the now-widow. Again, you didn’t expect any resistance, but it didn’t hurt to put on a show of force.
“Rick?”
Who the Hell? That voice didn’t belong to anyone you recognized. Knowing there was now a stranger amongst the group, you turned abruptly, knife coming out of its sheath. In the open gateway stood Aaron, Daryl, and the stranger they must’ve brought back from their scouting mission. Aaron was frozen in petrified confusion. Daryl appraised Rick solemnly. And the stranger, carrying a big, bloodied walking stick, seemed almost… disappointed.
Chapter 3: Chapter III
Chapter Text
“I still don’t like it.”
Shouldn’t I be the one saying that? You’re the one heading out
“Just for the dry run. Gonna be back in a few hours.”
Daryl looked around at the group assembling by the gate, a few of the Alexandrians already loading up into the cars. When he looked back at (Y/N), she was still taking in their surroundings. She tilted her chin down with closed eyes, her expression soft, before lifting her head and meeting Daryl’s gaze once more. He read her every micro-expression, taking in the gentle glint in her eyes and slight twitch of her lip.
“Ya don’t want me goin’.”
(Y/N) shook her head. It’s not that. I know you gotta go. Just be careful, alright?
Daryl smiled assuredly. “Always am.” They shared the smile a moment longer. “C’mere.”
He reached out, pulling (Y/N) into a one-armed embrace before briefly turning his head down into the crook of her neck. When Daryl lifted his face, he saw Spencer walking towards the tower with a gun strapped over one shoulder, watching them as he went.
“You too, alright?”
(Y/N) pulled away and glanced confusedly at Daryl before turning towards his line of sight. When she realized why and how Daryl said what he had, (Y/N) smirked. She bade Daryl a cheeky grin, nudging his arm to get his attention on the notepad. Jealous much?
“Not jealous,” he denied gruffly, with the tiniest hint of embarrassment.
Just possessive
Daryl scoffed, looking away when he gravelly retorted, “Didn’t hear ya complainin’ ‘bout it the other night.” When he returned his gaze to (Y/N), she was peering at him with wide eyes in irksome panic at potentially being eavesdropped. Daryl chuckled. “Ya know what I mean.”
(Y/N) rolled her eyes, gently biting the tip of her tongue between her front teeth as she briefly glanced away. You’ve been watching him like a hawk for over a week
“Yeah, well, didn’t like ‘im flirtin’ with ya at Deanna’s party, or the other day before Aaron and I went out recruiting. Still don’t. S’wrong with that?”
(Y/N) smirked bemusedly. You weren’t even at the party. I shut that shit down fast then, and we both shut it down the other day. Besides, he knows now we’re together, much like everyone else, and you don’t have a problem with them
“They don’t flirt with ya.”
You trust me?
Daryl was taken aback, brow crinkling almost offensively. “Course.”
(Y/N) smiled. Then it shouldn’t matter. I can take care of myself
“I know.”
Besides — (Y/N) smirked as she continued writing. After striking out with both me and Sasha, the man’s pride’s pretty wounded. Don’t wanna add an ass-kicking to that, but you know I will
They shared a small laugh before falling into contented silence. Their soft gaze broke a moment later when approaching footsteps were heard. Looking up, Daryl saw Rick heading their way. His face was still taped up in places but looking much less swollen than it had that first night several days ago. Alexandria’s rising leader grinned, continuing on his path though slowing considerably near the couple.
“Mind if I borrow him for a while?”
(Y/N) scoffed amusedly, rolling her eyes. Rick’s grin widened, and he carried on his way towards the gates. (Y/N) scribbled on her notepad. Come back safe, and if I’m not motivation enough, then imagine Spencer and I ending up together if you don’t
Daryl pushed (Y/N)’s hand and the notepad away. “Stop.”
She smiled widely, knowing he took her teasing lightly despite his hardened tone, and Daryl knew she knew. A grin formed on his face as he slowly started stepping backward.
“Don’t worry, ain’t never gonna happen.”
Though Daryl stepped further and further away, he could still see (Y/N)’s brows lift high and cheekily in question. She then brought the index finger of an otherwise closed hand to the top of her chin before extending all fingers and bringing the palm down atop the thumb side of her opposite-hand fist.
Daryl nodded. “Yeah, promise.”
“While you’re out there, if you come across one, think you could bag a boar?” Olivia asked as she jotted across her inventory log. “I asked Sasha once, when she was still, well, you know, confused? I figure since you’re going out too that I’d ask again.”
You were exiting the armory, having finished checking out and strapping in your blades, sidearm, and bow and arrows for a hunt outside the walls. It’d been over a week since you even handled the archery tools, and, honestly, after what happened the other night with the Walkers, you both needed and wanted the patience and focus required for long-range hunting. After accepting that your weaponry was kept in good condition while in Olivia’s care, and now that you were out on the sunny armory steps, your attention turned to Olivia and her peculiar request.
She looked up from her record book, noticing your equally peculiar expression, and she swallowed uneasily. “Or, not. I mean, you don’t have to. I just thought—”
Scoffing, your expression melted into one of mixed amusement and support as you flashed the ‘ok’ sign with one hand and smiled reassuringly. Olivia’s countenance mellowed out soon after, a smile spreading across her face.
And that’s when you heard it. Lots of its. Metal banging. Glass breaking. Screaming. You abruptly turned your head to the sound and flattened yourself against the bricks. Looking down the road, you saw Alexandrians running. Running for safety. Running from strangers brandishing weapons with deadly intent. Rick’s prediction, what he warned everyone about the other night at the meeting, was coming true. You knew it would, but of all days, why today, when more than half the group was gone?
“What’s going on?” Olivia worried frightenedly, joining you and looking over the brick wall.
More screaming. Agonized. Frightened. Desperate. And Olivia was becoming more like them by the second. Then, down the road, you saw two Alexandrians brutally cut down by a trio of invaders, their machetes arching the victims’ blood high overhead with each repeated downward slash.
“Oh, my god!” Olivia cried out horrifically before covering her mouth with a trembling hand.
Without further hesitation, you grabbed Olivia’s arm and shoved her back through the open armory door. Once she was inside, you forced her to turn around and look at you. She did so with panicked eyes, but nodded when you splayed one palm out and pulsed it downward repeatedly in front of you, and with the other hand brought a finger to your lips. Stay here. Stay quiet. Olivia emphasized her terrified understanding by then grabbing the door and hastily slamming it in your face, hiding herself away.
You could’ve hid with her. You could’ve stayed to protect her and the armory. You could’ve simply grabbed a few more guns before heading out, but you worried her scream had alerted the invaders, and you wanted to keep them as far away from Olivia and the armory as possible. She’d be killed for sure, and then they’d have your guns. Both were not an option. Thus, after stealing a glance over the wall to ensure your path was clear, you gunned it for the Monroe house. It had a small patio on the second floor you could use to pick off the invaders with your bow and arrows. You’d planned on hunting, after all, and these beasts deserved it far more than any boar, deer, or Walker beyond the walls. So, into the Monroe house you ran, bursting through the patio doors and staring in horror at the scene below.
Alexandrians lay dead or dying everywhere, the murderers still running amuck. Some were painting their foreheads in their victim’s blood. Others were overkilling, chopping off limbs from already corpses. But, across the board, you saw that none of them were carrying guns. No long-range weaponry, to the naked eye. Your plan could work, at least until you ran out of ammo. So, notching an arrow, you took aim and let loose one after another after another. Most were kill-shots to the chest or abdomen, death imminent. Only a few allowed your target to continue moving readily, for the moment. The first of these shots had been at the exact moment you heard a crash near the tower, followed immediately by a blaring horn that just wouldn’t stop.
What the Hell was going on?! Whatever it was, you realized you’d done all you could with your archery. It’d made a small dent, but it’d been nowhere near fast nor efficient enough. So, throwing your bow back over your shoulder, you unsheathed your machete and headed down to the street once more. The immediate area outside the Monroe house was clear, but down the road you spotted an Alexandrian running from an invader. You recognized her as the woman from Deanna’s party, the one asking everyone in your group for their favorite meals to cook. Maya, you remembered, and without further thought rushed towards her. They were running near perpendicular to your approach, and practically blindsiding the invader, you slashed your machete in an uppercut, slicing open his neck. The man gurgled in pained surprise and collapsed to the ground.
Maya had stopped running to behold the spectacle and her savior, but you wouldn’t have any of that shit. You stop, you leave yourself open, you die. Gawking and processing would have to wait. Pivoting sharply, you ran over and grabbed Maya’s arm, ushering the breathless woman forward. If not the armory or the uninhabited Monroe home, the next closest place where she might’ve been safe was the infirmary. Once you got near the side door, you pushed Maya towards it but yourself remained on the road, not intending to seek shelter just yet. It’d only taken a few seconds, but your act of heroism cost you, and the price was blood.
The continuously blaring horn had almost completely drowned out the footsteps rapidly approaching from behind. By the time you registered their presence, it was both almost too late and not soon enough. With a wrathful cry, an enemy swung their blade downward, intending to catch you right in the neck. Your reflexes saved you, but not completely, and not your bow. The invader’s blade caught one of the bow’s arms as well as your own, slicing through a strip of flesh that would’ve been much worse if the bow hadn’t deflected it. The pain startled you back into full alertness as you hastily turned to confront the man head-on. In his hand he held his own machete, the tip dripping with blood. Yours alone or joining that of others you couldn’t be sure, especially when your opponent didn’t give you a moment to breathe before attacking again.
Your bow had slipped off your shoulder and clattered to the asphalt, allowing you to now move freely though painfully. Your shrapnel wound throbbed, and you could still feel a tightness in the ankle of the leg that’d gotten lodged in that Walker’s abdomen the other night. But what threatened to slow you down the most was the wound your assailant had just inflicted. It was long, and though not too deep, you could feel fresh blood running over your shoulder blade and down your back.
The man relished in this as he lunged forward, your blades colliding and the grating metal cutting through even the sound of the horn. He chuckled darkly, thinking he had the upper hand against an injured woman. But your opponent didn’t know who the fuck he was up against, at least not until you quickly twisted your machete around and sliced his wrist open. He dropped his weapon with an angry cry as blood poured out, and you returned the favor of not granting a chance to breathe by getting in close and shoving the blade into his chest, sideways, right between the ribs. You lingered just long enough to recognize the spark of surprise in the man’s eyes, before ignoring the pain of raising your opposite arm and driving your bowie knife into the base of his skull. Life drained from your assailant quickly, a corpse by the time he hit the ground. The very next second, the horn ceased, and you were grabbing your bow, readying to run off and continue the fight.
“(Y/N)!”
Looking up, you found Tara and Maya in the infirmary’s open doorway, their eyes startled and the latter still breathless.
Tara rushed forward. “You’re bleeding! You should get inside!”
You shook your head, the appendage on a swivel. Though the screaming had muted considerably, and the gunshots were becoming more and more infrequent, that didn’t mean the threat wasn’t still at large.
“Come on!” Tara insisted, grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards the door.
It was easy to resist, the amount of warm, slick blood you felt between Tara’s hand and your skin making your wrist slip right through her fingers.
“Tara!”
The woman turned at her name being called from inside. You looked up too, then at Tara when she faced you again. Hastily, you waved her away, to go help whoever called for her, not giving Tara time to protest before you were already heading out. Towards the remaining shouts and gunfire you ran, sheathing your heavier blade once more in favor of the much lighter firearm on your hip. Bullets were precious, life even more so. And yet, despite this preparedness, despite once more jumping back into the fray, you didn’t have to fire a single shot. Morgan was returning from the now-closed front gates by the time you reached them, several mutilated corpses littering the way. Mostly Alexandrians. A few invaders, much more whole than their counterparts.
The entire attack had lasted within an hour, maybe even only 30, 45 minutes. Now began the search. For survivors. For corpses to grant final deaths. For invaders still lurking around corners and in any of the dozens of houses within the walls. But you found solely corpses. That is, until you came upon the armory again. Outside, sitting on the stoop leading to one of the homes above the cache, was Aaron. Two invaders’ corpses lay in pools of their own blood in front of him, but he didn’t seem to care or notice. Aaron’s attention was on a handful of papers, and as you drew closer, you noticed the papers were actually photos, and that his backpack was positioned between his feet. The backpack… that he’d lost at the cannery with Daryl the other day. If he didn’t retrieve it earlier, then someone, one of the invaders, had brought it in.
“I did this.”
Aaron’s guilt-ridden voice cut through your logic piecemealing the series of events leading up to this moment, and why it’d happened.
“They found my bag, the photos of the community in it,” he went on. “It led them back here. I led them back here. It’s all my fault.”
The man hadn’t looked up at you once, and you hadn’t taken your eyes off of him. With a deep breath, you stepped closer and sat beside him. Aaron began to cry, harder once your hand started consoling his shoulders supportively and forgivingly. The simple action of lifting your arm sent a wave of pain through your body, the adrenaline high having been steadily wearing off since the fighting stopped. But you wouldn’t stop, not until Aaron had. He did a few moments later, and when he looked up at you, you shook your head and mouthed with clear precision placement of your tongue and lips that it wasn’t Aaron’s fault.
Though you knew Aaron didn’t fully believe your words, he nonetheless nodded, grateful for your attempt to make him feel better. That is, until he at last took in the state of you, and the copious blood staining your shirt and arm.
“Jesus, (Y/N),” he breathed worriedly, leaning away and gently turning your body around to get a better look at your wound. “We gotta get you to the infirmary. Come on.”
Though unnecessary, you let Aaron assist you to your feet and help guide you forward with one hand at the square of your back. There was a small group outside the infirmary, sitting silently on the porch. Maya, Eugene, Tara and Eric. The latter was pressing a handkerchief into the crook of the opposite arm’s elbow. When he saw you approach, and despite his booted foot, he immediately jumped to his feet.
“Oh my God, Aaron, (Y/N)!”
“I’m ok,” Aaron consoled hastily, still guiding you forward. When Eric reached towards Aaron’s face, he added for good measure, “It’s not my blood.”
“(Y/N)—?”
You smiled, waving Eric off with the hand still carrying your bow. Just a little flesh wound, or at least that’s what you were trying to make it out to be. Eric promptly turned and hastened ahead of you and Aaron, opening the infirmary door. When you walked in, followed by all the others, Denise was there with an Alexandrian supine on the table. It was Holly, the girl Noah had been talking to before he was killed. Judging by the somber set of the others’ shoulders, the defeated look in Denise’s eyes, and the puncture wounds to Holly’s lower abdomen and skull, you sadly realized Holly was too.
“Sit down, sit down,” Aaron stated, he and Eric guiding you to the nearest unoccupied bed to rest upon.
“What happened?” Denise wondered, her tone flat and, yes, even frightened.
“Not sure, but the cut’s deep. On her arm,” Aaron explained, stepping out of the way as Denise came over to examine you herself.
“Bleeding’s mostly stopped, but you’re gonna need stitches,” she said after a few moments. Then, her brow furrowed curiously as she gently leaned you forward. “Looks like your back took a hit too.”
Huh, really? The adrenaline was wearing off, but apparently not quickly enough. After Denise had cleaned your wounds and began stitching you up, you wished it hadn’t been so quick.
“You’re lucky these didn’t go deeper, especially the one on your back,” Denise remarked as she patched up the lengthy cuts. “Could’ve lost your arm, or punctured a lung.”
“But she didn’t,” Tara commented with a supportive smile and encouraging attitude. “Now she’s your patient, and she’s gonna make it.”
You didn’t see the way Denise smiled tightly back at Tara, the way Alexandria’s new doctor’s face became slightly crestfallen, but you could feel it. Denise’s hands holding your bandage slowed momentarily, then resumed pressing down on the periphery to secure it in place.
“You’re all set.”
Denise helped you readjust the base of your bra and roll down your tattered shirt to cover the bandage, because lifting your arm even just a little pulled at the stitches and stung something awful. Hell, without yet needing to, you knew turning in place, lifting your arm, and maybe even walking would be painful. You grimaced at the mild agony, but still signed your thanks to Denise. She smiled reservedly and nodded once. Then, gritting your teeth through the burning pull of the stretch, you reached for your bow you’d set on the table beside you, bringing the weapon into your lap. However, your weapon would be better aptly described as a piece of kindling. The bow saved your life by giving up its own. The attack had splintered the top arm into pieces beyond repair and severed the string. You’d only noticed on the road after the fighting stopped, but couldn’t bring yourself to part with it just yet.
Suddenly, Rosita burst through the door. “Get to the gates, now.”
Tara and the others jumped to or otherwise spun on their feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Rick’s back. We’re surrounded by Walkers.”
“What?!”
“Let’s go!”
Tara took off after Rosita, and Eugene took off after Tara. Aaron and Eric came to your side as you slid off the table, suppressing a grimace in doing so. You kindly waved off their chivalry, encouraging them to get going, that you’d be there soon. The couple did, and after looking to Maya and Denise, gesturing for them to follow you, so too did you take your leave. Once outside, even with the others tailing behind, you’d made to lightly jog to the gates, but even this simple act burned and jarred every strained and inflamed muscle in your body. By the time the three of you were in eyesight of the gates, most, if not all, of what was left of the community was already there. The sound of Walkers snarling, heard from the moment you stepped out of the infirmary near the center of Alexandria, was now a roaring waterfall just beyond the walls.
Rick had been talking with Michonne and Maggie but now broke off, heading down the road your way. You turned, painfully, and gestured for the women to continue on ahead, pointing just off to the side while you angled the opposite way to intercept Rick. When he drew near enough to appraise your haggard appearance, his brows furrowed curiously and worriedly.
“You good?”
Mustering through the pain with a grimace, you nodded. Without pen and pad on your person, for you’d intended to go out hunting alone and needn’t require such items for that endeavor, you resorted to choppy hand gestures. First, you pointed beyond the wall, then at your machete, and then, carefully, traced a finger over your bandage. Rick’s brow furrowed even more deeply in worry. You waved a hand in front of you, smiling before lightly patting your chest and giving thumbs up. Rick nodded in understanding, and after he did so, the implication of his presence suddenly hit you. If Rick was back, that meant the others had to be back, right? You blinked rapidly and looked around him, behind him, towards the gates and the people there.
“He’s not here,” Rick informed absolutely, hurriedly adding an abridged explanation when he saw the worry in your eyes. “The quarry… We went live, we had to. Half the herd broke off when the horn sounded. Daryl, Abraham and Sasha are leading the other half away as planned. He’s alright.”
You nodded understandingly and with just the slightest bit less worry, before then pointing at Rick and his bandaged hand with raised brows.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he declared, lifting his gaze behind you. “Gonna take a look around, check out the damage before talking to everyone. I’ll meet you back at the gate.”
So, you joined the others and learned from Michonne what happened to Glenn and the rest of her and Rick’s group. You stood with Maggie as Rick gave an impassioned speech about how Glenn and Nicholas would return. How Daryl, Sasha and Abraham would return and lead the Walkers surrounding Alexandria away in their vehicles. How the Alexandrians had to be strong, and hold up like the walls that’d kept them safe for so long, until the others returned to save them. Then, when the Alexandrians seemed to be questioning Rick for getting them into their current situation, it was Aaron who came to rescue him, by confessing to the community what he’d confessed to you earlier at the armory. You stood your ground, you all did. All except Deanna, who wordlessly walked away and ignored Tobin calling to her.
The rest of the day was almost equally as silent. Part of it spent on watch at the gate, looking out for the others’ returns. The rest of the time spent at home. The group’s second home next door had been looted by the invaders, and you helped clean it up and make it livable again as best you could, before returning to your own, building 101. You kept watch over Carl as he worried about Enid. You kept watch over Maggie as she worried about Glenn. You kept watch over Rosita as she worried about Abraham. And you kept watch over yourself, as you worried about Daryl. He and the others still hadn’t made it back by nightfall. They should’ve been back. Why weren’t they back?
“Hey.”
You looked up from your spot on the porch stoop, where not two weeks ago you and Daryl had begun your official relationship, to find Maggie and Aaron returning home from lookout duty at the front gates. Maggie joined you on the steps while Aaron stayed standing, the three of you listening to the Walkers snarling beyond the walls not a stone’s throw away.
“Has anyone checked on you, since this morning?”
The look you gave Maggie was one of confusion. You shook your head, wondering why they would. Slowly, carefully, painfully, you raised your injured arm as high as possible and began lifting the side of your shirt with your opposite hand from the bottom. The bandage Denise had placed several hours earlier had just come into view when Maggie reached out to stop you.
“That’s not what I meant.” After a moment, Maggie nodded and hummed shortly, setting her concerned gaze back on you. “You’ve been checking in on everyone else, making sure they’re alright. Letting them talk out their worries with you. The two of us included.” She gestured between her and Aaron. “What about you?”
You peered at her reservedly after lowering your shirt and your arm, frozen in contemplation. Casually, you bounced your gaze between her and Aaron, their expressions of concern and support. With a sigh, you reached beside you for the pen and notepad Deanna had given you the first day the group arrived in Alexandria, scrawling across the paper in the dim light breaking through the drawn curtains of the living room window behind you.
I’m worried. Like everyone else. What more is there to say?
“Maybe that you’re angry at yourself you didn’t go with Daryl, like I am with Glenn?”
“Or that you’re angry at me,” Aaron proffered. “For leading those people here, even though you said you’re not.”
Not wanting to waste paper, you pointed at Maggie, nodding once.
She smiled understandingly. “I get it. I do. But even if you did go out there, you wouldn’t’ve been in his group. Sasha and Abraham in a car, Daryl on his bike. You would’ve been with Rick or Tobin’s group. It’s better you were in here, helping us protect this place.”
You shook your head with mild frustration, even more building as you were forced to take your time writing in the dim light.
I’m mad I wasn’t out there to protect Glenn
It was Maggie’s turn to furrow her brow. Aaron’s too.
I was there on the supply run with Noah. I know what Nicholas did the other night—
You’d picked your words carefully, not knowing if Aaron knew too. By the puzzled expression on his face, you realized you’d chosen wisely.
—Now Glenn’s out there with him, alone. Again. Who knows what that son of a bitch is gonna try to do. I should’ve gone. I could’ve helped
“You could’ve died,” Aaron declared realistically. “Michonne said her group had to run. Annie died because she couldn’t keep up after twisting her ankle. You did the same the other night fending off Walkers with Rick. But you’re still here because you decided to stay, and so are a lot of others. What you did today, what we all did, we’re still here because of that. You helped keep Alexandria our home for the rest of us still out there to come back to.”
For a moment, you processed Aaron’s words, before looking up with a smile and signing your thanks.
He smiled in return. “I’m calling it a night,” he declared, stepping further into the shadows down the sidewalk. “See you both tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
You nodded and bid a small wave.
Once Aaron had gone, Maggie looked squarely to you. “They’re gonna be back. All of them. They’ve never not been back before. I know this is different, but, they will. They’ll be back.”
The jury was still out as to who Maggie was trying to convince more between the two of you, but it was nice to hear nonetheless. That reassurance, that optimism. It’s what Glenn would believe if he were in either of your shoes. Daryl… well, people didn’t say the two of you were alike for no reason. But Maggie had another reason to believe, to pine for Glenn’s safe return.
By the way, congrats
Maggie narrowed her eyes curiously before lifting them from notepad to you. Grinning warmly, you pointed at her abdomen, emphasizing with inchworm movement.
Her eyes widened. “How’d you know?” she hissed, paranoidly glancing back at the house.
Overheard you and Glenn the other day, talking about how and why he wanted you to stay here, safe within the walls. Even if we were attacked, guess he had the right idea
A small smirk came to both of your lips. Then, knowing how couples, or at least how she and Glenn, communicated, Maggie’s expression became more even-keeled. “Does Daryl know?”
You smiled deeper. ‘Course not. That’s your secret to share, not mine
“Thanks.”
Glenn’s gonna be back. You’re reason enough; the little tike’s extra incentive
Maggie grinned and hummed appreciatively, bringing you into a warm embrace.
“You too, alright?” she insisted. “Daryl’s gonna be back. He’s not stupid enough to lose something it took damn long enough for the two of you to make happen.”
That comment garnered a strong chuckling scoff out of you, and with that, Maggie placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder before taking her leave. You, on the other hand, stayed out on the stoop awhile longer. It surprised you how fast and easily you’d gotten used to sharing your bed again. Now that it’d be empty once more, one of only a few times since Deanna’s party, and now that there was nobody’s sleep to disturb, why not stay up listening to the ominous sound of death trying to break through Alexandria’s walls? Why not drive yourself a little madder wondering if you really had to face your fear of doing this anymore without him?
Chapter 4: Chapter IV
Chapter Text
The mission had been 20 miles, but when Daryl got word about Alexandria being hit and half the herd breaking off, when he saw that dilapidated billboard sign for the community on the road, 15 more miles felt like an eternity. He had to get back. No matter how Sasha and Abraham protested, Daryl had to make sure Alexandria was alright. He had to make sure (Y/N) was alright. So, he’d left Sasha and Abraham behind, speeding off back to Alexandria. Back to her. Down the empty highway with nothing but the bike’s engine and words of pleading hope that (Y/N) was safe ringing in his ears. And then it’d been Rick’s voice, cutting through the walkie, and Sasha’s tone, guilt-tripping him for the decision he’d made.
“There’s gunfire coming from back home,” Rick went on.
Shit, Daryl thought, throttling the bike subconsciously.
“We gotta sit with it, and hope they can handle it. I think they can. They have to.”
What the Hell was Rick getting at? Let them handle themselves? The rest of the group was back home. His son. Little Ass-kicker. Outnumbered by people who didn’t know jack from shit up against who knew what. They’d been invaded, and Rick wanted them to handle it alone?
“We keep going forward for them. Can’t turn back ‘cause we’re afraid.”
“We ain’t afraid,” Abraham’s voice came over the walkie. But Daryl was.
“This is for them,” Rick continued. “Going back now before it’s done, that’d be for us.”
Though Daryl didn’t want to admit it, Rick was right. The people at Alexandria knew what they were dealing with there. They didn’t know what was coming. They didn’t know about the quarry, the Walkers breaking off. Daryl and everyone out there had to do whatever they could to keep those back home from having to deal with both things at once, or else they’d surely be dead. And as hard as that was to accept, Daryl knew he had to.
“The herd has to be almost here,” Rick proceeded. There was silence on all fronts again. A moment later, the telltale static of someone coming over the air crackled through, but instead of a voice, there was gunfire.
“Rick?!” Daryl shouted into the walkie. “Rick?!” When he didn’t get a response, Daryl throttled again, coming to a stop further ahead to try once more. “Rick?! Rick?!”
Nothing. Still nothing. Shit. First Alexandria and (Y/N), Glenn, now Rick? Daryl leaned forward into the handlebars. What to do, what to do?! Sit with it, Rick had said. Gotta sit with it. Gotta let them handle it themselves, and that included Rick. Daryl still had a job to do, so he changed course, heading to where he thought Sasha and Abraham might’ve been by then. But his physical location didn’t stop Daryl’s mind from wandering elsewhere. From wandering back home, in the literal and figurative sense of the word.
“I promised,” he declared, eyes forward, determined yet pleading. When Daryl realized he’d unwittingly said this aloud, he chastised himself and kept his remaining pleas internalized. If he hoped the roar of the engine would drown them out, he had another thing coming, the words getting louder and more desperately demanding. I promised. And I keep ‘em, remember? I keep ‘em. Just be there when I do. Just be there! You promised too! So just be there! Please.
The others hadn’t returned by morning. Maggie was already up on the watchtower at the front gates, talking with Rick, when you’d decided to walk the perimeter. The walls were holding. The Walkers still snarling, beating against them. And everyone was just trying to hold it together in their own way. The (supposedly formerly) ungrateful Father Gabriel was attempting to repent and contribute to both the group and community, if only Rick would let him. In truth, you hadn’t either, but then again, your interaction with the man had been extremely limited since the church. Alexandrians were learning from Rosita how to defend themselves with machetes, Eugene among them, looking as scared as the man he was before the botched supply run. Rick and Carl were putting a weapon into the hands of an abusive asshole’s son in hopes of teaching him to defend himself and his family, but you knew, for most people, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. You knew this was probably a bad—
“(Y/N)?”
By then you’d circled the community a few times and had begun moving inward. Now on the streets, people – those who were left after yesterday’s attack – were more abundant, Maya among them. She’d attended Rosita’s machete lesson earlier. With class no longer in session, the Alexandrians had dispersed, going their separate ways, and it just so happened you were walking right in front of Maya’s home when she came upon you on the sunny street.
Maya crossed her arms protectively, almost shyly. “I just wanted to say thank you, for yesterday, for saving me. You didn’t have to. I’m not one of your group; you don’t owe me anything. But you did anyway, so thank you.”
She was being sincere. Meek, but sincere, and that’s what mattered. With a small smile, you nodded and made to continue forward. Maya abruptly sidestepped after you, and you stopped.
“H-How are you?” she asked, adjusting her hands on her crossed arms before quickly pointing at your bandages and torso. “It must’ve hurt. I’m sorry.”
Again, she was being sincere, and this time truly apologetic. Kindly, you deepened your smile, placing your flattened palm over your chest and then flashing an ‘ok’ her way.
“I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to make it up to you, what you did for me, but I’d like to try,” Maya continued. “I can start with that favorite dish of yours? I realize I haven’t gotten around to much of the rest of your group’s yet, after everything that’s happened since the party. But I’d like to start again with yours, if you’d like?”
So naïve, yet so sincere. You smiled again, nodding and signing your thanks.
Maya grinned back, giddy at your approval. “I’ll start right now, then. See what I have and if Olivia is willing to ration out whatever I don’t. It’ll be ready by suppertime.”
She paused a moment, abruptly looking away awkwardly. Her sudden shift from bubbliness to uneasiness piqued your curiosity and flagged your concern.
Maya eventually returned her gaze to you, her tone softening and crossed arms closing tighter around her body. “Maybe Daryl and the others will be back by then. That’d be nice, right? Share a meal together? Like a date? A little normalcy from all of… this?”
The thought had you both dismayed and amused. The memory of Eric’s suggestion after Deanna’s party, the invitation of you and Daryl joining him and Aaron for another spaghetti night, bubbled hope and delight within your body. But in your mind, you couldn’t help but dwell on the fact that Daryl and the others still weren’t back. That they were still out there somewhere, and none of you knew for certain if they’d ever return.
Maya needn’t know any of that, though. She already had a lot on her simple mind, already felt overwhelmed by yesterday’s invasion and the real world literally knocking on the gates. So, you merely grinned, nodding and signing your thanks once more.
“I’ll see you later, then, bring the dish over when it’s done,” she announced, stepping towards her home and bidding a small wave goodbye before turning fully away.
You’d nodded at her yet again, before she turned you out of her sight and ventured inside. The street was quiet, and yet the air still buzzed from the sound and stench of Walkers carried on the breeze. The sun beating warm on your skin made you feel even colder inside. The stark contrast made your wounds itch, the muscles in your hands tense. Move. Just move. Keep moving. Even with no imminent threat, it was like when you were saving Maya yesterday. You stop, you die. Maybe not now, maybe not literally, but inside, dwell on it too much and it’d leave you numb, incapacitated. And you couldn’t afford that. Your group, these people, couldn’t afford that. Not now. Not unless you were all safe. And when would all of you ever be safe?
So move, damnit. And move you did. Down the street, around the perimeter, over and over again. Even when it was your shift up on one of the towers, or on the porch sharpening your blades, you kept moving. Hell, you were running when you overheard the commotion at one of the side lookout posts, where Spencer had the brilliantly asinine idea to use a grappling hook to try getting outside the walls and draw the Walkers away. Your stitches had opened up for your troubles, earning you another trip to the infirmary. Just as Denise finished patching you up a second time, Morgan strolled in, asking if he could talk with her alone. The request seemed peculiar, the man in question even more so, but if he needed a private moment with a doctor to discuss something medically personal in nature, who were you to stick around?
Thanking Denise and nodding to Morgan, you took your leave. For a moment you lingered just outside, then headed down the road. You passed home, acknowledging Carol holding Judith on the porch with a smile and another nod before continuing towards the gates. Along the way, you encountered Carl, falling into step beside him. He gave you a grin and you nudged his arm lightheartedly with your uninjured one.
“How’re you holding up?” he asked kindly after a moment.
You sighed through your smile, shrugging and bobbing your head noncommittally before tilting your hand rapidly back and forth a few times.
“They’re gonna be back,” Carl reassured. “I know it.”
You smiled and bumped into him playfully again, before turning your gaze forward once more, sighing heavily. Maggie was still up in the main watchtower, ever vigilant for the littlest sign from Glenn outside the walls that he was alive and well. Turning back to Carl, you pointed at yourself then to Maggie.
“Yeah, alright,” he understood, beginning to veer off. “See ya.”
Carl went left, you straight, down to the gates. You passed the pond and cluster of solar panels, where Gabriel was leading his prayer circle. It must’ve been one o’clock, or close to it, then. Another day halfway gone, and still the others hadn’t returned. Keep moving. You shook your head and pressed forward. Maggie understandably didn’t notice your approach. At the base of the tower, you unsheathed your knife and tapped the blade a few times on the metal scaffolding. She turned around and stepped to the inner banister, gazing down at you. First pointing at yourself then up where she was, you raised your brows questioningly.
Maggie shook her head. “No, I’m alright. Thanks,” she replied gratefully, and promptly turned away to scour the area outside the walls again.
You sighed heavily once more, looking away from her. Back towards the community, down the road, where people were all beginning to point or otherwise look up in the same direction. Your gaze followed theirs, to a cluster of green balloons floating above the tree line in the near distance. Green balloons… like the ones Rick’s plan had involved. Was this—?
Hastily, you clanged your knife against the scaffolding again. When Maggie looked back down, you pointed insistently to the sky off in her 10 o’clock direction. She followed your gesture, and became visibly more and more cautiously overjoyed.
“Glenn,” she said under her breath, smiling as she hastily descended the ladder. Maggie repeated the name when she’d gotten to the ground, briefly meeting your equally reservedly hopeful gaze and smile before rushing off down the road to where Rick had been fortifying the wall with Tobin most of the morning.
You’d wanted to run with her, instead settling for a brisk walk. The wounds on your arm and back had already opened up once today. Besides, Denise was probably still busy with Morgan, with whatever he needed to talk in secret with her about. You’d wanted to know. It was always better knowing. But that could wait. This moment of hope, for you and the others, but mostly for Maggie, was everything. And then, it wasn’t, and nothing could wait, and nothing could stop you from running.
Wood splintered. Metal groaned. Glass shattered. The tower that’d been rammed by the invader’s truck was crumbling. Falling, into the community. Onto the wall.
“Go! Get back!” Rick shouted, pushing Maggie and Deanna away from the landing zone.
Far enough away, for the moment, you just stood and watched the steeple fall. The wall Rick and Tobin had been fortifying collapsed under its weight like a domino. And like a domino, it set off a chain reaction you were all too familiar with. Walkers. Screaming. Running. Death. Just, maybe not necessarily in that order.
“Everyone, get back!” Rick jumped from the ground and shouted again once some of the dust from the collapse had settled. And when it did, you saw just how many Walkers had already poured in from outside. “Get into your houses, go!”
On Rick’s order, sheer panic, or intelligent self-preservation, everyone scattered like roaches. Some immediately back. Some forward, helping those too petrified to move or having fallen taking cover during the collapse to their feet. You were in the latter category, once more rushing in to save people who otherwise didn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell. Specifically, those of Gabriel’s prayer circle. More specifically, Bob Miller. He and his wife Natalie had immediately been smitten by Judith since the day she’d arrived, the couple missing their own numerous children and grandchildren. But now it was just Bob, for Natalie had been brutally killed yesterday during the attack on Alexandria. It was just him, he was old, and he needed help.
So, you rushed forward, taking his arm and ignoring the startled look he gave you as you hurriedly guided him through gaps in the swarming herd. Having sheathed your knife the moment Maggie had descended the watchtower, you now brandished you sidearm, taking out what Walkers lurched between you and Bob’s safety, which just so happened to be the garage that served as the church.
“Here!” Tobin called out, eliminating several Walkers by the door with his knife.
Behind him were two other Alexandrians whose names escaped you but who you recognized as having been part of Gabriel’s prayer circle. And yet, Gabriel was nowhere to be found. What’d happened to him? For that matter, what happened to the others? Popping off a few more Walkers, you dragged the breathless Mr. Miller the last dozen yards and well-intendedly shoved him into the doorway, where the two other Alexandrians held him out with frightful concern.
“Get inside!” Tobin ordered, wrenching his knife out of the skull of another Walker.
Instead, you grabbed him by the back of his shirt and dragged him backward, into the doorway and other Alexandrians, before hastily darting around the side of the building.
“Stop, come back!” you heard Tobin yell out, then one of the other Alexandrians cried shrilly to shut the door as Walkers’ snarls sounded behind you.
The others. What happened to them? Did they make it out? Where were they? For the most part stitched together, and hopped up on adrenaline, you bobbed and weaved effortlessly through what Walkers had already made it deep into the community where you were now sprinting. You’d been running for home, building 101, when you noticed a horde of the undead in your path. Just in front of them was much of your group. Rick. Michonne. Carl. Gabriel. Deanna and Ron were with them too, and Jessie was waving them into the Anderson home. Another horde of Walkers separated you from them. No way you’d get there.
“(Y/N)!”
Turning, you saw Aaron and Heath on the infirmary porch, taking aim and shooting into the swarm closing in around you.
“Inside! Hurry!”
Didn’t have to tell you twice. Taking out two Walkers before pivoting sharply, you dashed the last few yards of asphalt, onto the porch, and into the infirmary.
“You alright?” Aaron worried, hurrying to you while Heath locked the door and began drawing the curtains on the flanking windows.
Breathless from pain, adrenaline and exertion, you leaned on your hands against your knees, briefly flashing an ‘ok’ sign without deviating from your current position.
“Sit down,” Aaron advised, guiding you to a nearby chair.
Along the way, you glanced around the infirmary. You, Aaron and Heath weren’t the only ones sheltering in place there. Scott still lay infirmed in his bed, but it was Spencer’s presence that surprised you most. He stood quietly in the corner, appearing as scared shitless as you expected him to be after his botched escape attempt earlier. You averted your gaze from him once you found your seat. Sitting down, Aaron then reached over to a nearby table, snagging a notepad and pen from amongst the pile of medical books Denise had been reading up on since she officially took the job, and handing them to you.
“What happened out there?”
Still catching your breath, you began to write. The tower outside the walls fell inward. Crushed the wall. Walkers flooded in
“Did you see what happened to anyone else? Did you see Eric?” Aaron pressed worriedly in a hushed tone, squatting in front of you.
Rick, Michonne, Carl, Gabriel, Deanna, Ron and Jessie all holed up in the Anderson house. Deanna looked hurt. I helped Mr. Miller into the church. Tobin and a few others are there too. I don’t know about anyone else. Maggie… she was at the front gate before the tower fell. We saw green balloons outside the walls. We thought it was Glenn, signaling us. I don’t know what happened to her. I didn’t see Eric. I’m sorry
Putting on a brave face to suppress his abounding worry, Aaron pressed his lips together and tapped your knee, supportively yet almost frustratingly. You quickly took his hand up in your own, squeezing tightly in reassurance. Aaron covered it briefly with his other hand before standing once more. He barely moved a few feet when he came up short. Looking up at him, you found that he was looking down at you. More specifically, with fresh concern of a different nature, at your back.
“You’re bleeding,” he observed as-a-matter-of-factly.
Sure enough, glancing over your shoulder, you found your wound had split open again.
“Stay here,” Aaron instructed. “I’m gonna get some water and clean bandages to patch you up.” He briefly glanced out the window, between the drawn curtains, saying before walking away, “Figure out what we’re gonna do next after that.”
You knew the answer. You all did. You were going to sit there and either wait it out, or die. Silver lining to it all: you got to do it with friends. Well, one of them at least.
Chapter 5: Chapter V
Chapter Text
Murphy’s Law, anything that can go wrong will go wrong, couldn’t have applied any better the last 36 hours. The quarry’s dry-run went live. Alexandria had been invaded. Half the Walker herd broke away and headed for home. Rick’s fate after those gunshots over the walkie was still a mystery. Daryl, Sasha and Abraham got ambushed and separated after completing their mission. Daryl had been captured, betrayed and robbed by the small group he’d tried to help. Having to blow up a group of assholes on the road with the RPG Abraham had found after the trio regrouped. Pulling up to Alexandria, only to find a wall down and Walkers inside.
It might have taken longer than expected, but Daryl had kept his promise. He made it back to Alexandria. Now, standing atop the fuel truck, watching as dozens, maybe hundreds of Walkers were drawn into the flaming pond he’d just blasted another RPG into, the thought that’d been on Daryl’s mind the entire time demanded attention louder than ever: what happened to (Y/N)?
As the sun moved across the sky, so too did the Walkers move across the property that once belonged solely to Alexandrians. Incessant. Strangely captivating. Terrifying. Their snarls, growls, and moans had been endless background noise to your thoughts as you gazed down on them from the second floor. It’s where you’d been since Aaron patched you up and your breathing had normalized. The others had moved Scott and Denise’s other patients upstairs shortly thereafter, when things had calmed down. Well, as calm as they could’ve been, given the circumstances. It’s where you formally met Heath, the man introducing himself and the distant way he spoke reminding you for a moment of Noah. The feeling had been brief, your meeting even briefer, before you were once again left alone with your thoughts.
How were the others holding up? Did everyone outside of Rick’s and Tobin’s groups make it? How badly was Deanna hurt? Were the balloons you saw earlier truly a signal from Glenn? Was Maggie safe? What happened to Daryl, Sasha and Abraham? Why weren’t they back yet? Would they be back? Could they even get through the herd, or would they be able to lead them away? When they returned… who’d be left to welcome them home?
“(Y/N)?”
Pivoting slowly, you saw Spencer standing in the open doorway. He glanced to Scott, yet unconscious on the bed, before slowly pacing over to your side. You’d turned around as he’d done so, noting his gaze lingering on you contemplatively, before it too looked through the gap in the curtain and beyond at the unchanged scene below. Silence. More thoughts.
“You told Aaron my mom had gotten to safety with Rick and some others, but that she looked hurt,” he said solemnly, turning his gaze back to you. “Do you know how bad?”
Taking a deep breath, you shook your head.
Spencer looked back outside. “You and your group, you’ve been out there. You’ve seen a lot of shit. Been through it,” he remarked offhandedly, eyes still facing front. “We’re not getting through this, are we?”
Slowly, you took in another deep breath, then effortlessly brought Denise’s notepad out from under your arm and casually scrawled across the page. Spencer only noticed you’d replied after a moment, when the movement of your proffering the notepad to him caught his eye.
Not with that attitude we’re not
His brows furrowed at your response. “How are you not afraid?”
I am. I just know how to hide it better than you. That’s how you survive. And after you survive, maybe you get to live. And I want to live. I want myself and our friends and this place to still be standing when Daryl and the others return, because more than anything I want them to live too
“You and Daryl…”
For a moment Spencer trailed off, garnering a sideways glance from you.
“I didn’t know until after my mom’s party for your group. Sorry, if I made things awkward.”
You scoffed. You couldn’t’ve known what I didn’t know myself
Spencer peered at you peculiarly.
We weren’t together until after the party. I don’t blame you for shooting your shot, even if you were barking up the wrong tree. Multiple trees, best I remember. Just don’t try anything else. Pissing off Daryl’s one thing. You don’t wanna see what I’m like
Spencer chuckled, his gaze becoming far away and reminiscent. “I wasn’t there, but I got an idea hearing from Maggie and my mom what you did to my brother at the gate.”
The memory was bittersweet. You’d both lost someone who’d been there, who could’ve remembered and maybe even laughed with the two of you. Aiden. Noah. How fast things changed since the prison. How fast things changed in the last two weeks alone.
“Even heard you were holding back,” Spencer went on. “Maybe one day you can show me full strength? Teach me to take down people like you took down Aiden?”
You smiled almost fondly. Yes, to the second. As for the first, wouldn’t be able to even do the second if I were to go all out on you, now would I?
“You tell me.”
I am
Spencer laughed softly. “Then for my sake, and my mom’s, let me know if I piss you off, before it gets too late.”
The corner of your mouth ticked up with a smirk. Trust me, you’ll be the first to know
Both of you shared a smile, before looking back out at the Walker horde once more. After a few moments of silence, you nudged Spencer’s arm. He looked to you, then down at the proffered notepad again.
Have I given you enough of an attitude adjustment about our current situation?
Spencer smiled dismally. “Not as much as both of us hoped,” he admitted. “But it’s a start. I’m just not sure it’ll be enough to get through this if it comes to a fight.”
You breathed deeply again, looking between Scott on the bed and the Walkers outside, before scrawling across your notepad. It has to be
He read your words in even more profound silence, before you left Spencer alone with Scott. You ventured downstairs, joining Aaron and Heath near the windows. It wasn’t much change in scenery, but you were now again closer to the action. The late afternoon sun had begun to set. Darkness would soon be upon Alexandria. Both men turned to acknowledge your presence.
“We think we saw Gabriel,” Aaron declared.
What? How?! Your eyes said as much.
“He was draped in a makeshift serape, just walking among them out there. It was like they didn’t even notice him.” Aaron turned to you. “How’s that possible?”
You scrawled hastily in the twilight. Was it dark red and black?
“Yeah,” he breathed. “How’d you know? Did you see him too?”
You shook your head. Old trick. Cover yourself in their guts. Mask your scent. You become one of them, without becoming one of them. Glenn and Rick taught us
“Seriously?” Heath asked, looking a little green around the gills. “That’s just sick.”
It just works. Be silent, calm, slow, like them. They don’t know the difference, so long as the stench doesn’t wear off
“Let’s hope for Gabriel’s sake it doesn’t, at least until he gets to wherever he’s going.”
You nodded at Aaron agreeably, the three of you looking outside again. Gabriel had been part of Rick’s group. Where was he going, alone, nonetheless? What’d happened to the others?
Twilight quickly gave way to darkness. The Walkers became shadows in the night. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. Gabriel, that coward you knew of only a few weeks, just recently trying to do right by his sins, had emerged from suspected safety to walk amongst the dead. Alone. Whatever was about to happen, you felt was going to be big, and you gripped your machete handle in anticipa—
Screaming. Distant, but distinct, high-pitched. Human.
“What was that?!” Heath hissed, straining to peer through the windows.
“You see anything?”
“No, nothing. I can’t see anyone.”
“Someone’s out there!”
A second scream suddenly wailed in the night, this one clearly different from the first. You proffered your notepad to Aaron, insistently jabbing it into his arm to get the man’s attention. Rick’s group? Gabriel was part of it
“Possibly, I can’t tell.”
BANG!
Aaron exhaled in breathless, nervous excitement. “That was a gunshot.”
“Someone’s seriously out there in all of this?!” Heath exclaimed incredulously. “The Hell are they thinking?”
“Probably what I thought trying to get across the wall,” Spencer declared, suddenly appearing in the doorway leading into the other room. “They had to try.”
More gunshots, and indistinct yelling. From a different direction this time.
“The Hell was that?!”
More muffled shouting under your footsteps as you all moved towards the side door.
“Denise!” Heath exclaimed, pulling back one of the blinds.
Aaron was at the door to let her in. “Come on, come on!”
The second she ran inside, Aaron and Heath shut the door behind her.
“You ok?” Spencer asked as Denise turned startingly, breathlessly, to face him.
“I’m fine,” she panted. “How are my patients?”
“They’re doing well,” Heath answered. “We moved them upstairs just in case.”
“Oh, my God.”
You all looked. Aaron had pulled one of the curtains on the adjacent window to the side. He must’ve seen something, and it was good that he had. Sidling up next to him, you saw what he saw. Michonne, cutting down Walkers with giant swings of her sword, leading the way for Rick carrying what looked to be a dying Carl. Your heart practically stopped.
“It’s the kid,” Heath said, looking over your shoulder. “Is he bit?”
Beside you, Denise took several deep, steadying breaths. “Nope.”
Her tone was absolute, and then she was in motion. Purposeful. Driven.
“What?” Aaron asked confusedly, all of you following Denise into the main room.
“I need bandages. Top shelf, next to the sink. Two IVs from the fridge and all the clean towels you can find.”
You, Heath, and Spencer were on it like no tomorrow. Because there might not be.
“Aaron, grab the gurney.”
Denise hurried to the front door, Rick running in carrying Carl, then Michonne, closing the door behind her as she briefly declared what happened to the young Grimes. Rick was clearly distraught, staring at his unconscious son. Someone had to. You all knew Carl wouldn’t be staring anytime soon, his right eye socket blown out and bleeding. And like a black hole, the dark abyss suddenly pulled you in, bringing you back to a time you’d rather forget. Back when you’d inflicted similar wounds yourself, in order to get information deemed critical for national security by your superiors, who didn’t give a rat’s ass what it did to you mentally. A person could live without their eyes. A person could survive having them cut out. You’d know; you’d done it. Not many stayed conscious for the entire process, but they’d lived. That is, until their usefulness, also determined by your superiors, ran out.
Well, not this time. Carl was still useful. Carl was not one of them. He was one of you. He was your friend. He was still alive. And you would use what you knew from the pain you’d inflicted on others in your past in order to keep it that way.
Denise had been giving orders to Spencer and Michonne during your mental lapse, and you’d appeared as dazed as Rick had, staring at his son. But in your haze, you realized she had missed two key details for Carl’s case. Carl had been bleeding a lot more profusely than expected for damaged orbital contents. An artery must’ve been severed. Maybe not the internal carotid itself, possibly still safe behind the sphenoid bone at the back of the orbital cavity, but surely the retinal artery, if not the ophthalmic artery. And what about the bullet, and was it fragmented? You couldn’t very well leave the bullet in his skull, and you had to stop the bleeding before anyone could stitch him up. The others figured out this much the very next second, when Michonne was instructed to dab away a certain spot of Carl’s mutilated orbit and a thin geyser of blood shot out.
“Shit!”
“Oh no. Carl. Carl.”
“Keep the pressure up,” Denise ordered Michonne. “I gotta find the bleeder.”
You didn’t need to find it. From experience, you knew where it was. Forcefully, you stepped forward and snatched up the suture Denise had discarded onto the surgery tray in favor of a pair of hemostats. Normally she’d be right, but none of you had the luxury of wound exploration.
“What’re you doing?”
“(Y/N)!”
You didn’t know who’d protested your actions nor did you care. Only that you were permitted to carry them out, and that someone, the next moment, stood up for you.
“Let her.”
It was Rick.
“Please. Let her. Save him. Please.”
You hadn’t looked up from your work. You’d stretched the entire length of the suture out of its pack and wound each end around several fingers of each hand, firm and controlled but not tight enough to cut off circulation. Carl’s blood continued to spray, to pool in his orbit. Some even got on your face. With no visibility or preamble, you shoved your fingers inside and deftly unwound the suture, tying it around a macerated protrusion of flesh and cinching it down, tightly and blindly below the blood line. You gestured for Michonne to get in there with the towel. She blotted just enough away for everyone to see that’d you’d gotten the bleeder on the first try. A few more throws, and you gestured for someone to cut the excess suture.
Now for the bullet. The permanent cavity appeared narrow. What caused most of Carl’s trauma was the temporary cavity and pressure wave from the bullet’s kinetic energy. With precise, intentional though gentle movements, you’d taken the hemostat from Denise and began probing the permanent cavity. Quickly, the vibrations in your hand of the tip connecting with tissue gave way to firmness. At first organic, bony, which transitioned as you guided the hemostat sideways into a distinct, curved, metallic firmness. Opening the ‘stats up, narrowly widening the permanent cavity in order to do so, you gripped the object’s base and retracted your hand, careful not to disturb the vessels you’d just ligated along the way. Sure enough, the bullet, in all its intact glory, had been stopped by the sphenoid bone, effectively saving Carl’s life.
The instant you were done, you stepped back and dropped the hemostat and bullet in the kidney bowl that Spencer had been instructed by Denise to grab. The group looked at you wondrously before realizing that you’d tapped out, and the rest would be up to them.
“We gotta clean and close it now,” Denise declared. “Michonne, keep following me with the towel. Keep pressure on the wound as I go.”
“Hey.”
You hadn’t realized you’d been staring forward at Carl blindly again. When you looked up, you found Aaron beside you, his hand on your shoulder.
“You alright?”
The words sounded garbled in your ears. Still, you were coherent enough to nod.
“Quick thinking,” he complimented, handing you a clean towel to wipe your hands on. “Might’ve saved his life, long enough for Denise to finish up. You did good.”
That wasn’t something you often heard after doing what you’d done. No, that wasn’t entirely true. You’d heard it enough, just in different context. Back then, the praise had been for prolonging the torture. Now, it was to prolong Carl’s life. To give him a chance. To give Carl what he wanted. What Rick wanted. Not what your commanding officers had want—
“What–what are you doing?!”
Michonne’s terrified tone cut through your haze. Looking up, you and Aaron found Rick, not eight feet away, opening the front door with axe in hand.
“Rick!”
He ignored Michonne, walking out onto the porch and swinging the door closed behind him.
“Rick!”
“The Hell’s he doing?”
“He’s gonna get himself killed.”
Killed. Killed. Killed.
The word echoed in your head, emptying it of all other thoughts and making that one word even more resounding. Like Carl’s wound, it’d brought you back to a time you’d rather forget, when you’d killed more than your fair share. At times you felt those deaths still outnumbered those of the Walkers you’d killed since the Apocalypse started. But that was about to change.
The word had brought back memories of violence and gore. The violence and gore of yesteryear had then faded into the present, like the amplified snarling of Walkers just beyond the infirmary walls were fading into your thoughtless mind. The snarling brought you back. Michone’s protest had brought you back. Back to here, and now. Carl unconscious on the table. Rick fighting outside. He was out there! Alone! That idiot! This was not how things worked in the group! This was not how things were going to be or how they were going to end! You didn’t push through years of PTSD for Rick to squander it all by dying for his son the very next second!
You’d told Spencer not an hour earlier you wanted to ensure there was still something for the others to return to. You’d told him you wanted to live, that you wanted your friends to live. Not just the ones still out there, but the ones trapped inside Alexandria with you. But you’d only get to live if you worked together. If you had each other’s backs. You saved Carl. You saved Maya and Mr. Miller. Now it was time to save Rick, to return the favor from the other night. Besides, Spencer wanted a full-force demonstration, right? You turned and met his mortified gaze at that moment, narrowing your eyes determinedly. Careful what you wish for.
Your gaze panned to Michonne. She’d been almost frantically looking between the door and Carl, wanting to stay yet desperate to leave. Eventually, her eyes met yours, and you gave her a solid nod that left no room for misunderstanding.
“(Y/N), don’t—” Michonne murmured insistently.
Leaning forcefully up off the table, you dropped the bloodied towel and hastily took up your machete in one hand, heading for the door.
“Wait! Don’t!”
“(Y/N), stop!”
Curtly, you shook Aaron’s hand off your arm, just below the bandage, giving him a dark look in doing so. It was nothing against him; he was your friend, after all. You simply wouldn’t let anyone stop you from going out to help Rick, and the only one who maybe could wasn’t there. But, let’s face it, if Daryl were, you knew if you hadn’t been the first one out the door after Rick, then he would’ve been. Neither of you would’ve liked it. You might’ve protested with the other’s safety in mind, but you’d have done it anyway. He was the pot to your kettle, and Rick was the spark that got your blood boiling. Thus, you opened the door, leaving Aaron to do with it what he would, as you took up your knife in the opposite hand and hurried outside.
The first crop of Walkers beyond the porch were too preoccupied with Rick to notice your approach. A half dozen fell by your hand before you saddled up beside Rick, putting yourselves back-to-back like the countless formations the group had run in the past. He was both shocked and relieved, frustrated and glad to see you, but it was done. No going back. Not with dozens upon dozens of Walkers converging on the only readily available source of fresh meat—
Suddenly, you and Rick weren’t the only ones out there. Michonne, Heath, Aaron and Spencer were all at your side in moments. You’d have liked to admit that those moments had been spent wondering if this was how you’d die, going down swinging with Rick. Never seeing Daryl or the others in the group you cared about again, like Tyreese hadn’t. Not even having the chance to say goodbye, like Bob had. But you’d be lying. There was no time to think. Only to act. Only to survive. Act. Survive. Kill. To live.
“Knock ‘em away! Drive ‘em down!” Rick called out, now from the other side of your group’s small, loosely knit circle. “We can beat ‘em! We can beat ‘em!”
That’s the spirit. There’s the attitude you’d been looking for with Spencer earlier. You turned to him quickly, the man fighting just beside you. He dispatched another Walker with a buttstroke of his rifle and met your gaze. It was brief, and still acutely panicked, but where there was once only despair you now saw a spark of life. A desire to live. You grinned cunningly at him, then quickly turned back to another of the never-ending horde bearing down upon the group.
And as you fought, your own numbers were fortified by Alexandrians running out into the streets. Eric. Olivia. Bruce, from the construction crew Abraham had been put in charge of. Then came the rest of your people, and more Alexandrians. So much hacking and slashing. So much blood. Such loud snarling in your ears, and yet over that, somewhere deep in the recesses of your subconscious, you thought you heard nearby gunshots. Pistol, maybe multiple, followed by automatic rifle fire. But you couldn’t dwell on it. Things hadn’t changed from earlier. You still had to focus, to fight. To not was to die. To think was to die. And you wouldn’t. Not yet. Not when you’d just gotten a taste of what it was like to live again.
“Move it!” Rick shouted. “Back up!”
Weren’t you all doing that already? The Walkers had been pushing the group back, further and further down the road. You’d already passed both homes the group had been given. Now you stumbled over the uneven ground in the field alongside your home, building 101, quickly finding your backs literally against the wall.
BOOM-FWOOSH!!!
The group universally, temporarily froze. Beyond the Walkers, down the road, back towards the infirmary, a large fire had broken out. From the looks of the light, dancing flames against the nearby buildings, if you didn’t know any better, you thought it came from the pond in the center of the community. But how? Did the Walkers somehow trip a gas line? Did it have something to do with the gunfire you thought you heard moments before?
“Don’t let up!”
Rick’s order snapped you back to the situation directly in front of you, just in time to lob off half the head of an outreaching Walker. Focus. To think was to stop. You stop, you die, like you told yourself earlier that day. And right then, more than ever, you and the others couldn’t afford that. They needed you, and you needed them. So move. Keep moving. Don’t stop. Because you don’t get to stop. Not until it was done. Not until everyone was safe. Even if it was only for a moment, for the immediate present, because this world would never truly be safe. The future was unpredictable, more than it ever had been before. All you could do was make it safe in the moment. Keep yourself and the others alive so they could live another moment, and another, and another. Fight. Survive. Live. Repeat. Walker. Slash. Repeat.
And repeat you did. Over and over and over again, until repeat came to a jarring and resistant stop. Breathe. It was over. Mostly. Only a few staggering Walkers remained on the street, held up and stumbling over the many that’d already fallen on their way towards the flames. Michonne and a few others went ahead to take care of them while the rest of you stayed back, surveying the carnage around you. Here and there a Walker still twitched, but the overwhelming majority had fallen still and silent, piling up bodies-deep in some places.
“Group up,” Rick ordered, gathering the attention and gazes of most who remained as he walked forward to be seen by all. “Some of us will search the grounds and houses. Make sure there are no surprises. The rest will start doublechecking Walkers, and try boarding up the opening in the wall with whatever we can until tomorrow.”
For a moment no one moved. Everyone was catching their breath, yourself included. Aside from Michonne’s group and Rick, you were one of the first to venture out, not waiting or even putting in the effort to form a team as you angled towards building 101, electing yourself to Rick’s first category. Soon, you were joined by Aaron, Eric, and Spencer. Building by building, room by room, the four of you cleared all of the houses along Alexandria’s back wall. Your group’s homes. The former Andersons’ home. Aaron and Eric’s home. And right next to theirs was Maya’s. You hadn’t seen her with the group that’d just fought their way through Hell. You hadn’t seen her at the church when you’d saved Mr. Miller. You hoped she’d been too scared to leave her house, but after seeing the condition it was in, the busted garden gate and side door with its shattered glass, your hope quickly began to waver.
The four of you advanced as you had the previous homes, with you out front, then Spencer, Eric and Aaron. Outside, the pitch black of night had just started giving way to the first gleams of dawn, but inside it was still complete darkness. Maya had done what the rest of you had and drew her curtains and blinds. On the porch, you rapped the butt of your machete against the doorframe, intending to draw out any Walkers. Inside, you heard one snarl, turning to the others and raising your blades defensively. They nodded in understanding, the four of you waiting for the Walker to emerge. When it didn’t, you rapped the wood again. Another snarl, but no movement. Thus, with a heavy sigh, you pressed forward.
Maya’s home had certainly been invaded. Furniture was pushed haphazardly out of place, dirt and dried blood were smeared across the floor, and the foul stench of rotting flesh lingered in the air. From one room to the next the four of you cleared, the flashlights you’d snagged from your home helping you all to see. Power and lights were available, sure, but until you cleared all of Alexandria, best to remain in the dark and not draw more Walkers. However, by the time you reached the kitchen and the source of the snarling, you wished you hadn’t. The Walker in question emerged from behind the kitchen island, dragging itself along the floor. As you watched it crawl towards you, revealing itself in its entirety, you saw why it hadn’t come when called in the first place. Its legs had been chewed right down to the bone, leaving little sinew, and what had remained wasn’t connected enough to provide any support for upright mobility. The rest of her didn’t fare much better, chunks of flesh missing everywhere you looked. But indeed the Walker was a her, for even with only half a mutilated face, you recognized that it was Maya.
Aaron stepped forward to stand beside you, the two of you peering down at her Walkerfied form in wordless sympathy. When it was evident you weren’t going to make the move, Aaron carefully repositioned the knife in his hand and did it himself. The thud of her head against the hardwood floor after her snarls had ceased was the final nail in the coffin. Maya was gone.
“Spencer and I will clear upstairs, if you need a minute,” Aaron proffered.
You nodded appreciatively. Maybe he’d known what you’d done for Maya the other day, or maybe he just read it in your face at the moment. Either way, you were grateful for the respite. Once he’d left you alone, you stepped deeper into the kitchen and squatted close to Maya. For a moment you simply gazed on her with sadness, regret, and, yes, even guilt. You’d saved her from certain death not 48 hours ago, but you’d only delayed the inevitable. Bitterly at yourself, respectfully for her, you placed a hand tenderly over the crown of her skull, lingering in place for a few seconds. When you’d steadied your thoughts again, you stood once more and turned, but found yourself catching your breath at what the beam of your flashlight had caught.
Pushed so far back against the counter under the microwave that you thought it’d been discarded was a casserole dish covered in tinfoil. Stepping closer, you saw a sheet of paper crinkled between it and the backsplash. Freeing it, you read the words inscribed.
I owe you my life. Thank you. – Maya
P.S. Enjoy your date 😊
Lowering the page, you reached forward and lifted the corner of the tinfoil away from the dish. Sure enough, there was the meal Maya had asked to prepare for you as a small thanks for saving her from those invaders the other day. Well, at least her version of it. Rationing and use of canned products instead of fresh food and all. For a moment it made you smile, and then frown. Curiously, you turned back to the rest of the kitchen, scanning the beam of the flashlight around at all the details you hadn’t added together when you’d first walked in. The oven was off but the door was open. The dish was in an unusual place on the counter. And, most importantly, scattered on the floor, spattered in Maya’s blood, were oven mitts and a kitchen timer.
You finally understood. Maya had been making your meal when the herd invaded. She probably forgot about it in the chaos, understandably so, but she’d also forgotten the timer. It went off. She didn’t get to it soon enough. She thought she had, turned it off and pulled your dish from the oven, but the Walkers had heard. They had come. They had broken in, and killed her. And for that, a new wave of sorrow washed over you. Not your fault, and yet you felt it was.
“Upstairs is clear.”
Despite your inward focus, Spencer’s sudden presence didn’t startle you as much as one would’ve expected. You heard the lanky man’s heavy footsteps from a mile away, and saw the beam of his flashlight out of the corner of your eye.
“Side door’s busted in. Aaron and I braced the couch against it, just to keep the place secure like we did the other homes we already cleared,” he went on, gesturing to another part of the house. When you didn’t respond, Spencer lifted his light’s beam directly on your body, kindly sparing your eyes. “You alright?”
Shaking your head of the temporarily immobilizing thoughts and feelings, you lifted your gaze to him, bidding a tight smile and small nod.
Spencer didn’t seem to buy it, not that you were trying to make him, but nonetheless he let it go. “We got one more house left. Saw one of the other groups already search my family’s place and the brownstones. That’s everything, then.”
You nodded once more, agreeably. Good timing, too. You’d started to feel a bit unsteady at Aaron and Eric’s house. Probably didn’t have much more than one house left in you anyway. And yet, despite this knowledge that you were almost done, you couldn’t bring yourself to move.
“We’ll take care of it.”
Aaron and Eric appeared in the kitchen archway, peering between you and Spencer.
“The three of us, we’ll clear the last house,” Aaron said somberly, directing the statement at you. “Take your time. We’ll come back after we’re done and head to the infirmary, rendezvous there like Rick said. Besides, that wound of yours really needs to be looked at.”
Agreeably though mindlessly, you nodded, sharing a gaze with each man before they left out the front door. Outside, dawn was breaking even further. Mechanically, you moved to open the curtains of the living room windows, allowing the gray light in, before returning to the kitchen. You pulled the dish and note from the back counter and placed them on the island. Seconds ticked by. Minutes. You lost track. You didn’t expect Maya’s death to affect you so strongly, the fact she died because she was doing you a kindness having much to do with it.
You could’ve given a rat’s ass about experiencing your favorite meal again. You’d all but given up on it the moment the Apocalypse started. You’d have been happy with boxed spaghetti, and in fact looked forward to that night, invited by Aaron and Eric. But you’d indulged Maya out of kindness. If you’d just put your foot down, kindly rejecting the offer, maybe she’d still be alive. And as you wept over this simple thought, this simple potential fact, another popped into your head. That moment you and Maya shared on the road; it’d broken down a wall. It was an extended olive branch you’d quietly accepted, because while you didn’t care what Maya made for a meal, the simple fact she’d made the offer was the important part. The gesture was genuine and polite. It reminded you of life before the Apocalypse. What life was like before your tours overseas. What life should’ve been, could’ve been again, after. And for a moment, even if you didn’t realize it in the moment, it’d made you feel… normal.
Now that moment was gone. Now Maya was gone. All that remained of both was sitting in a casserole dish and handwritten note six inches from your hands trembling with sorrow and frustration.
“After everything I’d been told ‘bout ya—”
Startled, you looked up to find Abraham in the archway between foyer and living room.
“—never thought I’d see ya like this. Kinda ruins the image of the legendary demon you were made out to be.” He said the latter statement almost amusedly as he strode closer. “But it does prove one thing: You’re actually human, just like the rest of us.”
You took a steadying breath at his words.
“Aaron and the others told me where you were,” he explained without prompt. “I volunteered to come get ya. See if you needed a tit for tat of the talking to you gave me on the road before Atlanta. ‘Cause the way I see it, can’t be court martialed without a court.”
The burly Texan was going on in that way of his again, and the outlandishly accurate point he made was enough for you to crack a smile.
“Atta girl,” Abraham mused, giving you that characteristic half-grin of his.
You looked away from him, forward again at the dish and note. There was silence for a few moments, Abraham leaning around the island to finally take notice of Maya dead on the floor. He sighed heavily, the silence returning again, before Abraham’s hand came into your field of view. Turning the paper to read more directly, Abraham hummed at the words, scoffing short and gruffly, but evidently amused. You looked back up at him.
“Daryl’s at the infirmary.”
That’s right. It hadn’t hit you until that moment. Abraham had returned, and he’d been part of the missing group. He said Daryl was back, and hopefully the others were too. You stood up straight, eyes widening marginally, worriedly. Infirmary for what?
“He’s gonna be aces,” Abraham stated reassuringly, reading your expression like an open book and bidding you a warm smile. “So c’mon, Lieutenant, before I claim…” Abraham lifted a corner of the tinfoil on the casserole dish and made a perturbed face. “… whatever the Hell this is for myself.”
The jibe cracked your smile even wider. Abraham had provided you the perfect distraction and the even more perfect incentive to get your ass moving. You’d deal with your emotions later. But Abraham had given a trifecta of perfection by reminding you what you were. You were human. You weren’t dead. And you didn’t fight as hard as you had the past few days just to forget all that. You did it to live, emotional baggage included. So, scooping the casserole dish in your good arm with Maya’s note on top between tinfoil and thumb, you followed him out.
In the short time it took you both to reach the infirmary, Abraham had summarized his past few days, and what’d happened on their end last night. He clarified Glenn and Sasha had returned as well. Nicholas had not. He touted how Daryl blasted that group of biker assholes and then Alexandria’s fuel-polluted pond with an RPG he’d found. And as he spoke, you two had to tread carefully around all of the fallen Walkers on the road. Their numbers appeared somehow fewer and yet more numerous in the gray dawn and light black smoke of the smoldering pond fire. Down an adjacent road, you spotted the wall where the Walkers had breached, boarded up with planks and panels, currently being guarded by Francine and a few other Alexandrians.
You hadn’t seen more of your people until the infirmary came into view. Most everyone who’d fought last night was outside on the lawn or porch, surveying the aftermath of what you’d all accomplished, awestruck and probably wondering how you all survived the onslaught. In all honesty, you were wondering that yourself.
“Let’s get you inside.”
Turning, you found Abraham looking your way, even as he stepped over a pile of Walkers.
He pointed at your arm. “That’s gonna take more than just rubbin’ some dirt in it.”
You scoffed amusedly. Abraham wasn’t wrong. Your wounds hurt like a sonofabitch, but you hadn’t the opportunity to look for yourself since Aaron rebandaged you after the herd invaded. You could feel the gaping wound edges gumming open and closed with every movement of your arm, like a fish out of water trying to breathe. Blood had been dripping steadily the last few hours, drying, caking and crumbling over your skin, making you itch. And with this pain and blood loss came lethargy and dizziness, all coming to the forefront now that your adrenaline high had finally begun to fade.
“C’mon.”
Abraham reached toward you, guiding you with his hand just off of your back as you stepped forward, once more falling into step next to him. Aaron and Eric looked up and met your gaze as you approached, the three of you sharing exhausted smiles and nods. Spencer and a few others did the same as you and Abraham moved across the porch to the door. The burly Sergeant opened it and strode inside like he owned the place. You followed promptly, taking in what lay before you. Michonne held Judith in her arms immediately to your left. Glenn was preparing something at the kitchen island, the two of you sharing a look of relief when your gazes met. Maggie sat on a nearby hospital bed, looking as relieved to see you as her husband did. And behind Abraham, when he stepped out of the way to close the door behind you, was Daryl, seated atop a table with Denise patching up a laceration to his left shoulder. He was shirtless, dirty, bloody and bruised, but he was there, and he was alive.
Daryl didn’t look towards the door when it’d opened, and you hadn’t moved much from your spot initially. Abraham had, crossing the room towards another part of the home. Daryl lifted his gaze as the man passed, but promptly returned to staring forward at the floor, still unnoticing of your presence. But that was ok. You needed a minute, just drinking it in. Daryl had returned safely. Well, mostly. The point was he wasn’t dead, or on death’s door, and he’d come back. Because of that fact, everything you personally went through in the last few days was worth it.
Slowly, meticulously, you took two steps closer, turning to place the casserole dish and note on the side table you’d been leaning against only a few hours ago. When you looked back up, Daryl, having been alerted by the sound of dense glass on metal, was just lifting his gaze to you. In an instant, his eyes softened and his hardened expression practically melted. Daryl leaned further upright and made to turn himself more squarely to you.
“Sit still,” Denise chastised calmly, bracing her hand against Daryl’s shoulder and slowly pushing him back into position. “Almost done.”
The two of you glanced at her before returning your gazes to one another. As slowly as you’d placed the dish on the table, you approached Daryl, stopping directly in front of him so he wouldn’t be all askew for Denise to finish her work. For a moment, all you could do was stare, and then your chest rattled with a deep sigh of relief and a smile to match.
Daryl’s mouth twitched. His eyes shot up and down your body, taking you in, taking in the state you were in. Covered in blood, which, at face value, to Daryl’s knowledge, hadn’t been any of your own. The near tearful look in your eyes. The exhaustion in your posture and expression, appearing as though you barely had the energy to stand. You must’ve looked like Hell, but Daryl gazed upon you with only concern, relief, and reverence.
“Don’t look so surprised,” he spoke, playfully teasing in order to cover the evident fear he’d been trying to hide. You both knew it didn’t work. “I made you a promise, didn’t I?”
Even if Daryl’s intention wasn’t met, he still succeeded in making you smile. Releasing a soft laugh, you stepped forward, gently dropping your forehead against Daryl’s uninjured shoulder and cupping the side of his neck tenderly. Daryl’s hand came up to your side, meaning to pull you closer. On contact, you winced sharply and reflexively. His fingers had landed perfectly at the bottom of your laceration, bridging the gap in your flesh.
Daryl pulled his hand away, worriedly finding it covered in fresh blood. Your blood. He looked almost panickily between his hand and your face. The exhaustion, the evident pallor of your skin under all the dried blood he noticed now that you’d stepped closer… Daryl feared it wasn’t all from having to fend off a horde of Walkers.
“Naw,” he exhaled incredulously, denying the very terrifying thought running through his head. And even as he denied it with his words, Daryl gently pulled you in closer by arm and hip, beginning to turn you to the side for better access. “Naw, you weren’t… You weren’t—”
He carefully lifted the bottom of your shirt up and then the bandage underneath. The material of both was caked to your skin with dried blood. It pulled at your wound as Daryl peeled them away, the sting and fresh air against the enflamed, oozing flesh causing you to hiss in pain.
“Shit,” Daryl whispered breathlessly, mixed heavily with both relief and concern.
“It’s from a machete,” Denise spoke informatively at that moment, looking up from her work and over Daryl’s shoulder at your wound. “The other day, when those people attacked. She got it saving Maya; (Y/N) helped save a lot of us from them.”
Denise met your eyes momentarily. If she was peeved you’d brusquely taken over when Carl was first brought in last night, she didn’t show it. Instead, Denise simply returned to her ministrations on Daryl’s shoulder, and you turned your gaze back to him. He was staring at your wound, still did for another few moments before letting your shirt fall from his fingers. Daryl remained silent, his eyes unwavering yet unseeing as he continued glaring at your now-covered wound. Then he trailed his hand down your wrist and into your own hand, squeezing it tightly as he furrowed his brow over closed eyes. The very next second, Daryl opened his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh before starting to shift off the table.
Both you and Denise immediately made to stop him, the latter protesting, “What’re you doing? I’m not finished yet.”
“‘m good,” he replied gruffly, gesturing to you with his free hand. “Take care of her first.”
You looked over Daryl’s shoulder at Denise, shaking your head before gesturing curtly at his injury with a single jut of your chin. Denise regarded her two patients warily, as though sizing up who she was more afraid of. The decision was clear when she then met your gaze, nodded, and continued stitching Daryl’s wound.
“I said I’m—!”
Before Daryl could say another word, your forehead was back on his uninjured shoulder and your hand cupped his neck once more. Your fingers rubbed his skin back and forth soothingly, insistently, and, eventually, with another heavy sigh, Daryl started to relax. He leaned his head against yours and placed a hand on your hip, bringing you in close, breathing you in under all the sweat, blood and guts. It was deep, angered at first, but soon grew steady and practically peaceful. Daryl’s hand on your hip grew less rigid, his fingers resting lightly atop the waistband of your jeans, softly holding you to him.
Without noticing it yourself, Denise had stopped to admire your publicly private moment. But quickly she realized how weird it was to watch – especially as close in proximity as she was to you both – and got back to work.
“I’m almost done,” Denise declared calmly, addressing the archer. “Just another stitch or two, then I’ll patch (Y/N) up again. Alright?”
“Yeah,” Daryl replied. “Fine.” (Y/N) shifted her head slightly, causing Daryl to do the same. “Sorry for yellin’.”
Denise hummed understandingly, if not a bit amusedly. “It’s ok, I get it. You were scared.”
“I wasn’t scared. Ow!”
Daryl glanced down. Though you hadn’t moved, Daryl knew there was a berating yet bemused smirk on your face after you’d pinched the skin of his neck for lying.
Their practicing surgeon, however, was none the wiser. “Sorry.”
“Wasn’t you,” Daryl answered, feeling your chest move with a slight chuckle. He bid a soft laugh himself, closing his eyes and tilting his face into your hair.
A moment later, Denise snipped the tags of her suture, dropping it and her instruments into the kidney bowl on the nearby table. “Done.”
“Alright,” Daryl huffed, snatching his shirt up and shoving it under one arm before he slid off of the table. With one hand still on your hip, Daryl gently gripped your opposite wrist with the other and slowly turned you around, back to Denise and the table. “Now you.”
Denise shifted her gaze between the couple almost awkwardly. “You gotta leave first.”
“What?”
Alexandria’s new primary – and only – doctor hesitated when Daryl turned his stern, assertive and practically offended gaze to her, but she eventually found her voice again. “You, and Glenn, you should go in the other room and wait.”
Oh, right. There were other people in the infirmary. You looked over Daryl’s shoulder and spotted the Rhees, catching their kind and awestruck expressions for witnessing the show you and Daryl had just put on, before they faded into looks of confusion.
“Why us?” Glenn asked for the men in question.
Again, Denise hesitated briefly, this time in embarrassment for you rather than fear from Daryl. She met your eyes permissively, and you nodded, bidding her an indifferent shrug.
Denise turned her gaze from you, switching it between Daryl and Glenn as she answered, “Because (Y/N) had to get half naked for me to stitch up her wound. This is the third time in three days I’ll have to do it, and it’ll probably take longer with all of that angry tissue.”
Daryl scoffed. “Ain’t nuttin’ I ain’t already seen before.”
You nudged his good arm firmly, giving Daryl a wide-eyed look of incredulity and mild embarrassment.
“What? ’s true.”
The Rhees chuckled at the other couple. Glenn shared a tender look with his wife, smoothing a hand over Maggie’s arm lovingly before glancing your way. “You know me, (Y/N/N),” he began almost amusedly. “I’m not gonna look.”
You nodded at him appreciatively before turning your eyes towards the other room. You inclined your head and Glenn looked, finding Abraham pacing beyond the archway.
Glenn understood. “I’ll tell him to stay in there until we say otherwise.”
You turned back to Denise and shrugged uncaringly again.
She tossed her hands up in exacerbation before slapping one hand down on the table twice. “Alright. Hop on.”
Chapter 6: Chapter VI
Chapter Text
The Law of Averages could kiss Daryl’s ass for all he cared. After all the shit they went through last month, the new world couldn’t throw them a bone? Not even one? Naw. Instead, it’d been dangled in front of Daryl’s and Rick’s faces, then thrown in a fucking lake, and they were stupid enough to bring the guy who’d done the dangling and tossing back home to Alexandria with them. Disdain was carved deep within Daryl’s features for most of the ride. Now, night had fallen, the gates had come into view, and Daryl cast a ponderous and perturbed glance at their long-haired captive. He’d been knocked unconscious ever since that hit from the truck’s door, but they’d tied him up for good measure. Even so, bringing him home, bringing him where everyone he cared about slept, didn’t sit right with Daryl.
Returning his gaze forward, addressing Rick up in the driver’s seat, Daryl spoke softly though assuredly, “You know, I was thinking… back before we went out to the quarry. The morning after Reg and Pete. You said we shouldn’t be looking for people no more. You were right.”
“No,” Rick answered simply, pulling to a stop at the gates. “I was wrong. You were right.”
As Rick flashed the high beams twice to signal their return, Daryl asked, “How ya figure?”
The gates started squeaking open, and Rick began driving forward once more. “You said looking out for the group meant going out and looking for more people to bring in.” Rick’s gaze met Daryl’s via the rearview mirror, before the former sheriff inclined his chin to indicate their prisoner. “That’s just what we’re doing. You might be dead if he didn’t kill that Walker.”
Daryl scoffed bitterly. “Wouldn’t’ve been out there in the first place if it weren’t for him. Wouldn’t’ve lost the truck and all that food neither.”
“That may be,” Rick replied, slowly creeping down the road deeper into the community. “But because of him, you get to keep your perfect track record of promises to (Y/N).”
Though surprised by the reasoning, Daryl didn’t show it.
“People outside our group, people like Denise, if it weren’t for her, for them, Carl and (Y/N) would be dead,” Rick continued judiciously. “I’m not saying there aren’t bad people still out there, but I’m also not saying there aren’t good people either. We should find them, bring them in, give them a chance, like Deanna gave us a chance.” Rick stopped the vehicle outside the infirmary and killed the engine. “We owe her that.”
In the brief moment of silence between them before hopping out of the Jeep to unload their captive into Denise and Tara’s temporary care, Daryl pondered Rick’s words. He recalled when the group, at the prison, let (Y/N) join them after the Governor. Even when they had every reason to turn her, the Woodbury refugees, and everyone else away, they let them in. They’d been through Hell, and brought new people in then. They’d been through Hell since, and yet brought nearly half of their current group in. It didn’t always work – fucking Adam, Daryl still seethed at his memory – and it would always be risky. But, if they don’t, if they hadn’t, then (Y/N) and who knew how many others of the group wouldn’t be with them either, and Daryl… may not have been so afraid to lose what he now had.
You had the early shift on the gate and main watch-platform. It meant you got to see Rick and Daryl off on their run that morning. Food was running low. Rations were getting more stringent. People were getting antsy. You weren’t immune to this feeling of concern, but more than anything you were relieved to just simply be out of the infirmary. Despite oral antibiotics, your wound had gotten infected, and you would’ve gone septic if Denise and Rosita hadn’t set you up on an IV and given you the good stuff. Two weeks of bed rest and your wound was finally healed. Well, mostly. The infection may have cleared and the laceration closed, but the injured muscles of your back were still healing, still scarring up and remodeling. It made for return to work a nuisance, but return to work you did.
First it was light duty, just things around the house. Laundry. Cooking. Even cleaning. You never felt more housewife-ish in your entire life. Perk, however, was that you got to sleep in your own bed again. Added bonus, Daryl would gently work the injured muscles of your back, kneading them to pain-free numbness as you both lay down to sleep. Triple bonus, it gave you and Daryl time to simply be, to converse. You each shared your experiences from those days of the quarry, the herd invasion, those people – who you learned had called themselves Wolves – attacking Alexandria, and Daryl’s time separated from Sasha and Abraham. It was a bit of a weight, knowing what happened to each of you. Daryl, however, still found some humor in all of the clusterfuckery. Both of your bows were gone, and while that might be equivalent to an identity crisis for Daryl, at least in your mind, he pointed out that it meant no one – ahem, Abraham – could officially call one of you the better bow person anymore.
But after a week of this, of feeling like you’d go stark raving mad if you had to spend another day on homebody duty, even with your multiple daily walks around the community, you finally got out of the house. Again, small things. Shorter shifts on gate or watch duty. Helping Olivia in the pantry. Carrying and helping move lighter items as the wall’s expansion was completed and now encompassed the nearby church. Helping Carl with his physical therapy. That was a big thing for both of you, and provided small bonding moments. You knew you’d never take Lori or Michonne’s place as his primary mother figure, but you both considered yourself the cool aunt. That title you’d happily take without reservation.
Now, a little over a month since it’d all gone down, you’d begun regaining your strength and building on your own PT. Bit by bit. Stretching. Weight lifting. Welcoming wherever the massages Daryl had been giving you might go, because it was easy to see how that would count as part of your flexibility exercises. Hell, you’d even done a few bouts of arm wrestling with Abraham to pass the time. Always losing, much to his amusement and pride, but always coming back for more because you could feel yourself getting stronger again.
That brought you up to the main gate platform. It’d been your third shift having returned to normal duration, each day the rifle, switching between your hands and across your back, feeling lighter and less strenuous. Daryl and Rick pulled up to the gate shortly after the start. Eugene handed Daryl a map, you handed him your hand, squeezing tightly, briefly. Be careful, your gesture and eyes told him. Your expression told Rick in the driver’s seat the same thing before they were gone. Not long after, Sasha and Abraham returned from their perimeter patrol, and that was all the action your shift saw. You grabbed a small, rationed bite back at the house before taking a walk around the community. Then, by one of the side watch platforms, a voice called to you from above.
“Psst, (Y/N).”
Michonne was stooped at the back of the platform, peering down at you when you looked up. She held the lookout rifle lengthwise across her lap.
“I saw someone sneaking out beyond the walls,” she explained. “Didn’t see who, but he had a shovel strapped to his back. Can you cover my shift while I go check it out?”
‘He’ and ‘shovel’ were all you needed to know who it was and why, even if Michonne didn’t. Though you’d just finished your own shift, with a heavy sigh you nodded, smiling in amusedly annoyed disdain as you shoved the notebook you’d been carrying under your arm in order to climb the ladder.
“Thanks, I owe you,” Michonne said once you’d gotten to the top. She handed over the rifle as you placed your notepad on the platform. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Which ended up being several hours. Hell, Michonne’s shift was almost over by the time you saw her and Spencer walking back through the gates. But once you noticed the bit of blood spattered on the remaining Monroe’s shirt and the dirt still caked to the shovel on his back, you knew none of this was in vain. You smiled, looking back out beyond the wall just after Michonne had parted from Spencer and began walking towards the platform.
“Hey.”
You glanced back, nodding kindly though quickly before returning to your task. You were meant to be a lookout, not a look-in.
“Sorry. Took longer than expected,” Michonne apologized. “Want me to finish up?”
Smiling again, you looked back and shook your head. Then, stooping, you snatched up your notebook and gently dropped it down. Michonne caught it easily though questionably, waiting until you gestured for her to feel free. She opened it to the last written entry.
Deanna’s at peace now, and you and Spencer have some closure. It’s good all three of you were there for it
Michonne looked up. “You knew?”
The soft laugh and half-smile you gave answered Michonne’s question. She chuckled incredulously, climbing the three bottom steps of the ladder to gently toss your notebook back on the platform.
“I owe you,” she reiterated before dropping back to solid ground. “Any shift, just let me know. Even the early one.” Michonne then smiled mischievously. “Give you and Daryl more time to sleep in. Can’t keep going at that pace forever without it catching up to you.”
Though you narrowed your eyes and pursed your lips slightly at her, the way it was done and the subsequent bird you flipped her was all in good fun.
She laughed loudly, declaring as she walked away, “Don’t think Daryl’d appreciate that!”
No, he wouldn’t, you thought, chuckling amusedly to yourself, once more getting back to the task at hand. The last hour of Michonne’s shift had been as quiet as your own. Before long, it was Carol coming for the shift change.
“Michonne told me what happened,” she said once she climbed up the platform. “You should get some rest. Back’s gotta be hurting.”
In truth, it was, and you told her as much, with heavy sugarcoating. “A… little.”
Carol smiled jovially. “Sound like a chain-smoker,” she remarked, garnering a small laugh from the both of you. “But it’s coming along.” For a moment, as you handed her the rifle and picked up your notebook, there was silence. Then, “Anyone else know?”
“Just you, and Rick,” you croaked with a slight shake of your head.
As you’d promised Carol back at the grove all those weeks ago, you’d begun taking your vocal cords out for a spin here and there on your own. Often outside the walls, to ensure no one would hear you, and if they did, animal or Walker, they wouldn’t be telling anybody anytime soon. Sometimes you’d try it out with Carol, but never for long, and always being aware of your surroundings. You’d just gotten to the point of wanting to try again. You couldn’t imagine taking the even bigger plunge of fully letting others in so soon. As you’d said, the only ones who knew what you sounded like beyond scoffs and grunts were Carol and Rick. Not even Daryl, who’d had carnal knowledge of you, knew about this little secret of yours. And for now, until the time was right, you preferred to keep it that way.
Carol read that in your eyes when they met hers. She sighed shortly, bidding a tight smile. “Well, can’t say I blame you,” she declared, putting her arm through the strap of the rifle. “The terms of our agreement were met. Everything else is up to you.”
Her smile had softened as she’d spoken, becoming more like the Carol you knew. But she still wasn’t herself. Not like before. The Carol in front of you was still a loyal friend, but you could see the actions she’d taken, from the prison to the grove to Alexandria, were taking their toll on her. The act she’d been putting on for the Alexandrians when the group first arrived was now an act she put on for herself. A brave, numb face. Just get through it. No matter what it was, just get through it. For the group. For her. To survive.
You too, Carol, you’d written with a somber expression. You know where to find me if you ever want to talk about anything again
She didn’t like to be reminded of the grove, even indirectly, but you had to. That was the last time you and Carol confided so profoundly in one another. It’d been cathartic, healing, even if only for a short while. But it’d been enough. To keep going. To find the group again and regain some semblance of normalcy before starting over. You knew you’d never get the old Carol from before the prison outbreak back, like you knew you’d never get your old self back. Now it was just a matter of not losing Carol completely.
“I’m fine, really,” she lied to your face, and she knew you knew it too.
After what’d happened in the barn when you all first met Aaron, the whole group knew. You were now the official unofficial go-to person for assessing truth and personality, especially of strangers. Most everyone knew why you were so good at it, but no one dared ask how.
“Go, get some rest,” Carol insisted, pivoting the conversation back on you. “Put some heat on those muscles.”
Knowing you wouldn’t win this battle and surely not the war anytime soon, you did just that, heading home and throwing a homemade heating pad of towels and a resealable plastic bag on your back. You did this on and off for a few hours, eventually conking out sometime after dinner and shortly after sunset. Guess Michonne was right; things really were catching up to you. Just like your brain was suddenly catching up to the sounds of footsteps lightly treading upstairs.
You’d called it a night before anyone else, surprisingly, but you knew who was and wasn’t home. After all, Michonne and Rick had woken you up, just as Michonne had indirectly claimed you and Daryl had been keeping her up over who knew how long. You’d spotted them through the crack in your bedroom doorway, sneaking into Rick’s room like two teenagers trying not to get caught by one of their parents. In this analogy, however, Carl was the parent, and the whole situation made you grin. It’d waken you up enough to head downstairs for a glass of water. Michonne was home. Rick was home. Daryl had to be too, even if he wasn’t in the house, and he had to have been safe. They would’ve gotten you if he wasn’t. Via the baby monitor, you saw Judith was sleeping peacefully. Carl had to be home too, or else Michonne and Rick wouldn’t’ve cared as much about their secrecy. The door to the study downstairs, converted into a bedroom for Maggie and Glenn, had been shut, so they were home.
Everyone except Daryl, and Carol on night shift, had been home, and those footsteps belonged to neither of them. Glenn and Maggie had no reason to come upstairs, and it didn’t sound like them either. Dressing quietly though hastily, you then made your way to the door. The footsteps had stopped, the origin of them nowhere to be seen once you’d fully opened the door.
“Rick. Rick, wake up.”
That voice… was definitely not one you recognized. It was followed promptly by a hammer clicking and the sound of Michonne’s sword being drawn. You did the same, swiping your sidearm off the nightstand back by the bed before treading slowly into the hallway.
“We should talk,” the unfamiliar voice declared.
“How the Hell’d you get in here?” you heard Rick ask threateningly.
“I’ll be right outside,” the stranger answered, off topic yet unperturbed. Cheekily, even. “Give you two a minute to get dressed.”
Whelp, that definitively answered that question, and now you were about to answer one of your own. Who the Hell was in your house? By the time the voice had declared its intention to wait outside Rick’s door, you’d reached the top landing of the stairs. Though you’d be giving the intruder the high ground, even by only one step, you ventured to the platform below. If the guy had a weapon, he’d have used it by now, and you had a gun. High ground or not, you had the upper hand. So, leaning back against the wall and facing the second floor, you crossed your arms over your chest and waited, ensuring the gun was in full view.
The stranger’s padded footsteps drew closer a moment later before stopping, and you knew he must’ve seen you. Lifting your gaze to him, he wasn’t what you were expecting. In truth, you hadn’t known what to expect, but surely not some skinny white guy clad head to toe in black or dark gray, his face obscured by well-groomed facial hair and long straight locks. He’d surely noticed your gun, eyeing it carefully and slowly showing you his hands, just at hip height. You curtly jerked your chin and head upward once. You didn’t expect the stranger to know what you meant, just so long as he didn’t try anything stupid. He didn’t, on both accounts, and instead took down the painting on the wall to your right, studying it as he sat on the step in front of you. The two of you had acknowledged each other as threats, but knew to play it cool. For now.
Carl, however, did not, as he appeared around the corner, cocking a handgun. “What the Hell are you doing in our house?”
The stranger lifted his eyes questioningly to you, then slowly looked back downward with resignation. Your gaze had likewise shifted, from him to Carl and back, heartbeat rising now due to the curveball Carl threw in your control of the situation.
“I’m, uh, sitting on the steps, looking at this painting, waiting for your mom and dad to get dressed,” the stranger calmly replied.
To which Carl’s head tilted confusedly, his one eye glancing at you for answers you yourself didn’t want to give. After all, he’d find out soon enough.
“Hi,” the stranger carried on, looking from over his shoulder at Carl to you. “I’m Jesus.”
Yeah, right, and you were Mrs. Claus.
A door downstairs opened at the same time footsteps down the upstairs hallway rushed forward. The footsteps stopped just before reaching the second-floor landing, keeping out of sight. But you knew who it had to be, and scoffed amusedly, almost smugly, at the panicked tone in Rick’s voice for being caught red-handed.
“Carl, hey, uhm…”
The door downstairs shut loudly. More footsteps rushed forward. Hammers started clicking before you saw Daryl, Glenn, Maggie and Abraham rushing halfway up the stairs.
“It’s-it’s ok,” Michonne reasoned, stepping into view and holding her hand over the banister.
Rick appeared a step behind, between her and Carl, shirtless and still buckling his pants. Despite the situation, and nearly a half-dozen guns trained in your general direction, you could only halfway restrain your smile. Glenn, Maggie and Abraham seemed more invested on the ‘Michonne and Rick bomb’ that’d been dropped. Daryl, however, kept his gaze forward, locked onto Jesus sitting in front of you.
“You said we should talk,” Rick declared stoically after a moment, beginning to unroll his shirt. “So, let’s talk.” He looked to Daryl. “Bring him downstairs. I’ll be right there.”
Daryl didn’t need telling twice, letting go of his gun’s grip with one hand to step forward, reach out, and snatch the front of Jesus’ jacket. He dragged the strange man passed you hurriedly, down the stairs and out of sight. Glenn, Maggie and Abraham hesitated a moment before following. You, however, remained where you leaned, turning your gaze from the commotion back to the second-floor landing, where Carl, Michonne and Rick still stood.
Rick’s gaze met yours quickly. “You too, (Y/N),” he stated assuredly. “We’re gonna need your input on this guy.”
You nodded affirmatively, leaning off the wall. The gesture was enough to get Rick and Carl moving back out of sight, but not Michonne. She watched them go a moment, then paused, before looking to you and your raised eyebrows. With a cocky, teasing grin, you first pointed at your chest, then tapped one ear twice, before pointing between her and down the hall where Rick disappeared and starting to slowly move away.
Michonne scoffed playfully. “Shut up.”
She disappeared down the hall after Rick the next second, and you strutted downstairs. Daryl had sat Jesus at the dining room table, Maggie and Glenn seated on the opposite side. With four, now five, sets of eyes on him, and all armed to boot, the guns had been put away. For the moment. Jesus simply sat there like a punished child in timeout. Bored, practically annoyed. You slowly made your way over, but not necessarily to Daryl. You’d have to follow him around with the way he was pacing, eyeing their prisoner like he had Aiden that day at the gates. No, instead, you sidled up near Abraham, balancing the semi-circle your present group formed around Jesus. Rick, Michonne and Carl joined moments later, all three taking the remaining seats at the table.
Dawn had quickly broken between the drama upstairs and when Rick had begun questioning your unwanted guest. Daryl’s pacing had stopped, but the man could hardly stay still. Especially his mouth, making snide remarks and comments at almost every turn of Jesus’. Glenn laid his gun on the table. Maggie lied about there being more than 54 people in Alexandria. You and Abraham stood with arms crossed and hard gazes fixed. That’s what this was. Intimidation, sizing up the threat. Seeing what he’d do, say or give away next. And what that was, was Jesus being from his own community, with food, livestock and commerce.
“Tell us why we should believe you,” Rick declared bluntly.
“I’ll show you,” Jesus proffered. “If we take a car, I can take you back home in a day, and you can all see for yourselves who we are and what we have to offer.”
“Wait,” Maggie spoke up. “You’re looking for more settlements. You mean you’re already trading with other groups?”
Jesus’ smile widened. “Your world’s about to get a whole lot bigger.”
The people around you looked around themselves, at each other. Wondering what that meant. Wondering if they could trust it, trust Jesus. Wondering if they could afford not to. Towards the end of the preponderant silence, Rick’s gaze met yours. He shifted in his chair, lowering his chin slightly but keeping his gaze up. He was asking for your permission, your cooperation. This time, however, from your experience at the barn, he knew where to draw the line. Both of you understanding this boundary, you nodded once.
Rick nodded in return, gesturing to you. “This is (Y/N).”
Jesus turned to face you, and you him.
“We’re gonna ask you a few questions,” Rick went on, turning his gaze back to their prisoner. “And she’s gonna tell us whether or not you’re telling the truth.”
“I am.”
“Maybe,” Rick supposed. “But it’s nonnegotiable. (Y/N)’s gonna tell us if you’re good people too. Her judgement on these kinds of things has never been wrong, and for your sake, you better hope she doesn’t start now.”
Jesus’ gaze lingered on Rick a moment longer before he lifted it over Michonne’s head to you. He leaned back against his chair, pondering Rick’s words, then began grinning almost amusedly. “First time having to interrogate a religious figure, I bet.”
You sighed, heavily and dismally. Not even close.
Jesus passed the three questions. He passed your assessment; he was telling the truth. But good people? Subjective. Your group thought you were good, but good people usually don’t have a long history of torture under their belts, even if it had been under orders. Still, your job was done, and it was decided to venture to Jesus’ community as he’d proffered. A good-sized group was going. Rick, Daryl, Maggie, Glenn, Michonne, Abraham and yourself would accompany Jesus. See for yourselves how the other half lived. If the grass truly was greener on his side. It had to be, right? After all, Jesus said they had livestock.
You’d just helped load the last of some supplies from the house into the RV, and Michonne had begun escorting Jesus out, when you approached the two of them. When the three of you met on the sidewalk, you offered Michonne your notebook to read.
I wanna take a crack at him. See for myself how good he really is
Michonne’s brow furrowed confusedly, maintaining the look as her eyes lifted to yours. “Really think that’s a good idea?”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. I’m not gonna kill him. Just size him up a bit
“I meant your back, (Y/N),” she clarified, glancing quickly at Jesus, who stood with a curious expression between you both, before her gaze returned. “You’re still recovering.”
Daryl appeared abruptly, wiping his hands on the rag from his back pocket after he’d just been fiddling with the RV’s engine. “What’s goin’ on?”
Michonne gestured haphazardly at you. “(Y/N) wants a kung fu match with Jesus.”
“It’s not kung fu,” Jesus clarified with a smile.
“Don’t care,” Daryl huffed, turning from Jesus to you. “The answer’s ‘no’.”
Your eyes widened under a heavily furrowed brow and stern face. Excuse you?
“The Hell you wanna fight ‘im for, anyway?”
“(Y/N) says she wants to size him up,” Michonne answered evenly.
Daryl returned his gaze to you. “Then there’s absolutely no fucking point,” he remarked, himself gesturing to your back. “Fight if you gotta, not just to prove whose sack’s bigger.”
“Technically that’d be mine.”
“Shut up, man,” Daryl snapped at Jesus, getting sick of his shit-eating grin and snarky comments. Jesus simply smiled, laughing softly as Daryl spun his hard eyes away. He softened them slightly on you. “I know this month’s been shit. You wanna get out there, I get it. But can’t you just stay here? Little longer? Go on walks with Eric or somethin’?”
Knowing Daryl meant well, your eyes had softened as his had, though your brow remained furrowed as you shook your head side to side.
“She’s coming with us,” Rick announced, suddenly appearing from behind the RV.
As Rick walked closer, you turned from him back to Daryl, smiling smugly from the reinforcement. Daryl tiffed, rolling his eyes and shoving the rag back in his pocket.
Rick came to a stop amongst the small group, looking at Michonne then Daryl then you, before settling his gaze on Jesus. “We’re gonna need her for Gregory too.”
If Rick had been fishing for a reaction, he didn’t get one, which was a tell for you in and of itself. You’d have expected Jesus to smile, or shrug, or make some lighthearted though truthful and insistent comment. He did none of those things. He simply stared at Rick. You knew by this lack of response it was because Rick was right. Though none of you knew Gregory, Jesus did, and, apparently, he was a snake oil kind of guy Jesus didn’t want you knowing about just yet.
“Let’s chew up some asphalt!” Abraham’s booming voice sounded off behind you.
The group looked to one another and then loaded up. Daryl was the last one in, sitting beside you sitting beside Abraham on the dinette table turned bench. As Rick turned over the engine, you looked out the window, finding Denise a short way off. She was looking at Daryl, maybe for the same reason she asked him to find a special request item while he was out on the road, the identity of which Daryl still kept to himself, or why she made him homemade oat cake. Regardless, you didn’t read much into it, and after a moment Denise’s eyes panned to you. While you’d been infirmed, the two of you hashed out what’d happened the night Carl had been shot and were now on amicable terms. Denise bade a small wave and you nodded in return with a smile before she carried on her way, and you carried on yours.
Chapter 7: Chapter VII
Chapter Text
“Thought you were joking when you said we’d have to carry her in.”
“So was I.”
Daryl and Abraham were just crossing the threshold of the group’s first home back in Alexandria, (Y/N) unconscious and dangling in their arms between them. Daryl had had to do the same thing with Jesus the night before, from Jeep to infirmary, ground floor only. Now, he had to carry (Y/N) up a flight of stairs. At least Abraham was there to help, the burly man using his superior strength to carry her upper half while Daryl juggled her legs. They managed the feat with surprising ease, and after taking direction from Daryl at the second-floor landing, it was just as surprising how gently Abraham dropped (Y/N) into her and Daryl’s bed.
“Doubt she’s gonna make it to the meeting Rick’s calling,” Abraham observed, his eyes lingering momentarily on (Y/N) before turning to Daryl. “You comin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright.” A slightly awkward silence came over the men. Abraham looked around the room, back to (Y/N) on the bed, then once more to Daryl. He paused, taking a deep breath before nodding and hastily heading for the door. “See ya there.”
Daryl turned as Abraham walked by, following the man with a peculiar gaze before he disappeared down the stairs. Did he seem embarrassed? Why? Whatever. Daryl shook his head with a small huff and looked back to the bed, to (Y/N), beginning to unlace and remove her heavy combat boots caked in dried mud. She hadn’t stirred since just barely leaving Hilltop. Even as Daryl and Abraham jostled her between them from the RV to the bedroom, (Y/N) had slept through it all, and with an expression that appeared truly unbothered.
He hadn’t seen that for a while, since before her injury. Daryl gently placed (Y/N)’s boots by the side of the door, and as he sat on the bed next to her knees and turned his head to face (Y/N), he wondered how and why that was. After what Abraham had said back at Hilltop, what (Y/N) overheard him say, Daryl thought she would’ve been troubled for longer. He understood why it bothered her personally. He just hoped it didn’t bother her because of him. Daryl couldn’t care less about something like that, never saw himself in the way that outcome would entail even if (Y/N) could. For him, it was more than enough, more than he could ask for, to simply be.
To continue to be, just like this. To keep living. To keep coming back. To make sure (Y/N) was safe and healing after everything she’d been through. To keep holding—
Daryl paused, looking from (Y/N)’s face to the appendage in question beside her thigh. He remembered when she grabbed his in her delirium in the RV on the way back to Alexandria. He remembered how startled by the action he’d been. He remembered how she looked at the image on that piece of paper, this strange look of peace overcoming her. Maybe it was real. Maybe it wasn’t. But she’d fallen and stayed asleep so restfully afterwards that Daryl, in all his secret admittance, couldn’t help but admire her vulnerability and took her hand more strongly in his to express his support and affection.
Just as he reached out now, to do the same thing, taking (Y/N)’s hand in one of his own. He ran his thumb repeatedly along the back of her hand, her peaceful expression and easy breathing bringing on a feeling of contentment throughout himself. It was punctuated at times, briefly, by sympathy for everything she’d been through that made restful moments like this so few and far between. But that’s what made them so special, and what bothered Daryl so annoyedly. He had to go to that meeting Rick called after their trip to Hilltop, but not yet. He had time, and, continuing to run his thumb back and forth, Daryl knew just how to spend it.
“Earlier, back in Alexandria, Michonne and Daryl said you were hurt,” Jesus spoke up, whether in nervous tension wondering if his friends were alive after their rollover with the Walkers, or just to make friendly conversation, was still up for debate. “How?”
You were outside with Maggie, benched again. Jesus was handcuffed behind his back. Maggie had a gun trained on him. The only Walkers in sight were pinned under or within the busted frame of the overturned car in the culvert by the road. You didn’t have to be there. You didn’t want to be there. You wanted to be inside, with the others, clearing Walkers and making sure they weren’t walking into a trap, like everyone except Jesus was paranoid they were.
Your gaze panned to Maggie. She lifted hers a moment later, and you nodded her way.
Maggie looked to Jesus. “(Y/N) took a machete to the back defending the community from a group of invaders,” she explained crudely, her tone firm and almost intimidating.
Jesus huffed, colored impressed. “Hate to see the other guy.”
“Can’t. Sure he’s Walker chow by now.”
“My point exactly,” he replied with a small grin. Jesus looked back to you, his expression becoming almost amused. “Injury aside, how’d you get good enough fighting to think you could take me on?”
“We know she can take you on,” Maggie answered for you, receiving a sly, appreciative smile from you for her words.
“Still wanna know how,” he pressed curiously. “Hobby? Job? And why are you the one Rick wants calling the shots when it comes to people telling the truth?”
“Uh-uh,” Maggie declared. “You don’t get to know that. Not until you’ve earned it. (Y/N) doesn’t give that information to just anybody.”
Jesus looked from you to Maggie then back to you again. “Well, then, I look forward to earning your trust.”
He’d said it with sincerity. He’d said it, not from a selfish perspective so that he would eventually know the answers to his questions, but as someone who truly cared about forming a connection with another person. Jesus saw you as he saw Rick and the others, how he saw Alexandria. As a person, an opportunity, a partnership, not some means to an end or an obstacle in getting there. You, the group, Alexandria, you were the end for Jesus, and the beginning.
Suddenly, the three of you heard approaching footsteps, then the doors to the building burst open. Daryl and Glenn were out front, Rick bringing up the rear, Michonne and Abraham in the middle amongst four unfamiliar faces, one of which was clearly injured.
“Oh, shit,” Jesus breathed worried. “Freddie, you alright?”
“Jesus!” the woman in the unfamiliar quartet exclaimed in relief.
“What happened?”
“Walkers in the road. Couldn’t avoid them,” one of the uninjured men declared.
“We shouldn’t stay here,” Michonne advised, glancing back to the group from facing the closed doors of the building, ensuring she’d handle the Walkers if they followed them out.
“Michonne’s right,” Rick agreed, marching over to Jesus and beginning to uncuff him. “We can fix your man up just as easy on the road in the RV. Let’s go.”
As a freed Jesus hurried to take the injured man off of Abraham’s shoulders, along with one of his friends, another started hurrying to the crash site.
“Harlan, what’re you doing?”
“We may have lost the car but this run wasn’t for nothing,” he declared, circling the wrecked vehicle, looking for something and keeping clear of the nearby Walkers’ reaching hands. “I’m not leaving it behind.”
He found the item a moment later, a drawstring canvas bag tossed a few yards away in the bottom of the culvert. You heard it rattling when the man picked it up and ran back towards the group. Piling into the RV, Rick once more got behind the wheel and turned yourselves back onto the road, heading for Hilltop. Glenn and Maggie gave up their original seats for Freddie, making room for Jesus and Harlan to treat him as the RV chugged along. It didn’t take much time before the injured man was patched up, and Harlan turned his attention to you, for you’d just begun rubbing your shoulder achingly.
“You alright?” he asked, to which you nodded. “Want me to take a look?”
“Nah, I got it,” Daryl replied, knowing that your muscles were having another spasm and what to do about it.
He scooted closer on the bench, drawing the straps of your pack down your shoulders and beginning to massage his thumbs up and down along the length of the scar hidden below your vest. At first it was painful. It always was. But after a minute the tension began to melt, the tight, inflamed muscles dispersing their throbbing energy away from the concentrated area. You sighed in heavy relief under Daryl’s fingers.
The archer scoffed. “And you wanted to fight? Like to see how long you’d last like this.”
You tossed a look over your shoulder before grabbing your notebook from your pack, writing as Daryl continued his ministrations. Smiling mischievously, you held it beside your head for him to read. Long enough to still kick your ass, babe
Daryl huffed at the last word, knowing you threw it in there just to tease him. Public pet names weren’t your thing, especially Daryl’s. It was probably mostly his personality, but you wondered if he didn’t like the names in part because you weren’t actually saying the words. He had to read them in a voice conjured by his own mind. Maybe even his own voice, since he didn’t know yours, which made for being called names like ‘babe’ a little weird. You’d written it to tease him, and reacted as such, but deep down, wondering if that little part of Daryl was true, it often filled you with guilt.
“Well, then I’m not gonna help dig my own grave,” Daryl mused, promptly removing his hands from your back and shifting away once more.
You furrowed your brow at him, bitterly and overly poutingly. Denise said it was part of my PT. You’re not gonna follow doctor’s orders?
“What, and you would be, fightin’ everybody?” Daryl chuckled. “Nah, I’m good.”
You laughed softly, leaning back and playfully shoving the side of Daryl’s head.
“Stop,” he huffed, serious and yet bidding a side grin through his forward fallen hair.
Respecting Daryl’s wish, you returned his grin and leaned further back into the bench, until the crown of your head rested against the window.
“Finally,” Abraham exalted under his breath. “Thought your flirting would never end.”
You slapped the man’s knee with the back of your hand, hard, but not enough to hurt either party. By the sound of Abraham’s chuckle, you knew it was all in good fun. Quickly, you jotted across your notepad and held it towards him.
Now’s not the time for insubordination, Sergeant. Try it again and I’ll sic Rosita on you when we get back
That got Abraham quiet, fast. Real quiet. Abnormally quiet. In fact, seeing the expression on his face, you realized he’d been quiet for most of the trip. It was the kind of expression one had when they were distracted, preoccupied, troubled. But why? What could Abraham be going through now? Did it have something to do with Rosita? Trouble in paradise, perhaps? You hoped not. Coworker relationships when the world had been normal were bad enough. This was the Apocalypse. Short of leaving, physically or with death, there was no avoiding the fallout of any drama that would come about if the relationship were to go south.
Hoping it was staying north, but knowing it likely wasn’t, based on Abraham’s reaction, you got quiet too. You let the man mull as he would, returning to your own silence and that of the rest of the RV. It was punctuated here and there along the rest of the ride. The Rhees’ chat with Harlan. The short story Freddie had about his wife. Then, before you knew it, you’d all arrived at Hilltop, leaving the RV stuck in a muddied pothole as you all walked to the gates. There, you were met with resistance by two men with spears. Please. Spears? Against a half-dozen fully-loaded rifles? Apparently, you weren’t the only one who knew how it’d go down.
“I like you people,” Jesus said, directing a small yet impassioned speech to Rick as he tried diffusing the situation. “I trust you. Trust us. Like (Y/N) trusts me.”
I wouldn’t go that far, you thought, cheekily though honestly.
“Trust and truth aren’t the same,” Rick replied, seemingly reading your mind, turning to face you briefly before returning his gaze to Jesus. “But we’ll play fair. For now.”
Jesus nodded, turning around to address the guards. “Open the gates, Kal.”
The large metal slabs slowly creaked open, permitting the group’s entry. Jesus was out front, Rick and Daryl, then everyone else following after. You and Abraham brought up the rear. It didn’t sit right with you how he was acting. If you couldn’t get to the bottom of it just yet, at least you could keep him company, give him some support, until you could. Everyone looked around as they followed Jesus. Various buildings were erected within the walls. A single three-story brick home stood out among several wooden shacks and numerous metal trailers. There were chicken coops and small vegetable plots, large lumber saws and even a smithery.
All of this you took in before the gates started squeaking shut. Both you and Abraham turned at the sound, eyeing it disdainfully. Neither of you liked the idea of being trapped somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere that may or may not be what it seemed, and if it wasn’t, and shit went sideways, your only obvious means of escape was just cut off. You and Abraham turned from the gates to each other, bidding wary looks and readjusting your hands on your weapons before slowly pacing after the others, following them into what Jesus had called Barrington House.
“Good gracious, Ignatius,” Abraham breathed upon entering the foyer.
You couldn’t disagree. The ornately decorated interior was a lot on your eyes. The staircase to the second floor was curving and grand. It was more than you ever thought could survive the Apocalypse, and yet there it was, as untouched as a museum ought to be in all of its glory. Jesus had been explaining more of the House and the community when the double doors just behind Daryl swung open. The archer stepped away quickly, wary and alert out of habit, as a man was revealed in the doorway.
“Jesus, you’re back,” the man announced, stepping forward. “With guests.”
“Everyone, this is Gregory,” Jesus introduced politely. “He keeps the trains running on time around here.”
Gregory opened his arms and smiled. “I’m the boss.”
You immediately didn’t like him.
Rick nodded to Gregory and introduced himself. “We have a community—”
“Why don’t y’all go get cleaned up, hmm?” Gregory interrupted, gesturing upstairs.
You liked him even less. The group was quiet, analyzing Gregory as you were.
“We’re fine,” Rick eventually said.
Gregory wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. “Jesus will show you where you can get washed up. Then come back down here when you’re ready.” He crossed half the foyer quickly to meet Rick, leaning in close to then whisper, “It’s hard to keep this place clean.”
If you liked him any less, you’d hate him.
“Yeah,” Rick appeased. “Sure.”
With a nod from Gregory, Jesus bid what you could tell was an apologetic smile as he turned from Daryl to Rick. “Follow me.”
Jesus led the way up the stairs. As Rick followed, Gregory’s gaze panned from one person to the next. He was friendly at first, smiling and mouthing a ‘hi’ at Michonne. His eyes skipped over you and Abraham to Maggie and Glenn. Gregory barely regarded Glenn, but gave Maggie the most surreptitious of elevator eyes that you absolutely did not appreciate on her behalf. And as the Rhees moved forward to follow Rick, at last Gregory’s eyes landed on you and Abraham. He seemed… disconcerted by your presence. Intimidated, even. Good.
As requested, the lot of you cleaned up in the washrooms upstairs. Maggie first, on Rick’s insistence, so she could then go talk to Gregory on Alexandria’s behalf, but not before you warned her about Gregory’s deviousness. She’d raised a flag herself, but now had all defenses up with your admonition compiling her own instinct. While Maggie negotiated with Gregory behind closed doors, Rick had pulled you aside in the foyer.
“I know he didn’t give us much to go on,” Rick began in a hushed tone, glancing towards the study where negotiations were currently taking place. “But what’s your impression?”
He’s a predatory asshole and Jesus is embarrassed by him. You?
Rick huffed, bobbing his head. “That about sums it up.” The two of you fell into a brief silence. “Think he’s got any redeeming qualities? Or at least a chance for a trade to work?”
No, to the first. Maybe, to the second. Jesus seems reasonable, well-intended, honest about wanting a partnership. He may not have the final say but he carries a lot of weight. Gregory seems to know this, feels the need to control Jesus and oversell his authority so no one else realizes Jesus is a better fit to lead this place and stages a coup. Maggie’s gonna have a hard time with him, but only because Gregory is an arrogant prick trying to prove his salt to people tired of his flavor palate
“Tell me how you really feel,” Rick jested with a smirk.
You shared in his mirth a moment, before you both reined it in.
“We’ll see how things go,” he went on more seriously. “One way or another, we’re not going home emptyhanded.”
Hoping that the other way wasn’t a violent one, but resolving to the fact it could be, you nodded at Rick before hearing footsteps approach. Looking up, Michonne was coming down the stairs. She glanced at you and Rick briefly before returning her eyes forward. Rick’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer before you nudged him with your notepad, getting his attention.
Even if we do, you’re not
Rick lifted his eyes under a furrowed brow to your face. With a cheeky grin, you winked and took back your notebook, just as Michonne appeared beside you. She noted the look on Rick’s face and the welcoming one on yours, and raised her brows curiously.
“Did I miss something?”
“No,” Rick answered, turning his eyes from her to you. “(Y/N) was just leaving.”
Fair enough, you thought amusedly. As you pivoted slowly on your feet, you met Michonne’s gaze with a playful shrug of one shoulder and a quick glance back to Rick.
“Ok, you made your point,” Michonne insisted. “I’ll stop if you will.”
You smiled. Truce, for now
By the way she smiled back, Michonne knew what you meant. A truce, only until you were both out of the proverbial honeymoon phase of your respective relationships. Once your newly announced couplings, ripe for teasing, lost their glow amongst the group, your own well-intended banter could resume. So, until then, and for now, you simply smiled and nodded at both Rick and Michonne, before walking towards the entryway. Abraham and Daryl were there, at the front door, facing and talking to one another.
“You ever think about it?” you heard Abraham wonder. “Settling down?”
You yourself wondered, as Daryl pondered his response, what had prompted Abraham to ask such a question. Did it have something to do with what happened earlier, how and why he reacted to your note in the RV? Did Abraham ask Rosita to marry him and she said ‘no’? Unlikely. Rosita was completely dedicated to the man. So, then, did she ask him?
“You think shit’s settled?” Daryl finally retorted incredulously.
“Shit is and forever will be the farthest thing from settled, but that don’t mean the world’s gonna stop anytime soon, and it sure as Hell ain’t stopping Glenn and Maggie,” Abraham replied. Then, after a moment, more curiously, “So, what about you and (Y/N)?”
“What about us?”
“Planning on having a pup of your own too? Help repopulate the world in the name of the living? Bound to happen sooner or later, way I hear in the gossip rags of our little group how often you’ve been going heels to—” Abraham laughed. “Well, guess we can’t use that euphemism anymore, given the new company we keep.”
Daryl looked at Abraham and huffed just as incredulously as the first answer you heard him give. It was evident he wasn’t going to answer this time, and even more evident that neither of them had realized you were standing just a few feet away. You yourself hadn’t realized you’d stopped at that distance, at the opposite side of the foyer’s entryway table, until you felt your arms and legs grow heavy, your throat thicken and chest tighten at Abraham’s inquiry and crass remark. You couldn’t blame him. Couldn’t stay mad for long. He didn’t know. Only Carol and Daryl knew. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That didn’t mean emotions you hadn’t felt in a long time didn’t suddenly start to roil inside you.
And in that silence after Abraham’s remark and Daryl’s scoff, Daryl looked away, finally noticing your presence. His expression immediately slackened, becoming saddened and sympathetic, almost guilty for being caught red-handed for something that wasn’t even his fault. Taking notice himself, Abraham turned and met your eye too. But your gaze quickly returned to Daryl, lingering for only another few seconds before, with a short though heavy sigh, you turned and headed upstairs.
“Asshole,” you heard Daryl insult Abraham.
“What?” he asked, both offended yet genuinely curious for what he said that resulted in such a reaction from the two of you.
“Forget it.”
“Hey?”
You looked up from the steps ahead of you. Almost to the second floor, you were a bit startled to find Glenn the next step up, his hand outreached towards you and expression of characteristic, genuine concern. Jesus stood a few steps behind him.
“You alright?”
Lying through your gesture, you nodded smally though insistently.
Glenn knew it too, but respected you too much to pry. “Wanna talk about it?”
This time you shook your head, then pointed upstairs towards the washroom.
“I’m here if you do. Alright?”
You nodded appreciatively, Glenn smiling kindly and placing his hand on your shoulder before you continued upstairs. Jesus smiled as Glenn had, though a bit more awkwardly, not knowing you well enough to know the most appropriate response. At least he knew well enough to keep his hands to himself. Glenn’s gesture had barely been allowed in your current state. You couldn’t imagine how Jesus touching you would’ve set you off.
Despite its numerous recent occupants, the washroom was surprisingly clean. Courtesy of Jesus, you reasoned, on Gregory’s insistence the house remain spotless. But this thought was fleeting, a pitiful attempt at distraction from the turmoil inside. You thought you’d gotten over it. You hadn’t given your barren status more than a factual acknowledgement since you and your late husband discussed adoption after your accident. Then shit hit the fan, the Apocalypse kicked off, and starting a family became the last thing on your mind.
Now Glenn and Maggie were expecting. You were happy for them, you truly were. But deep down, under all that delighted glow for their big news, you hadn’t realized how sad it made you for your own circumstances. That was, until Abraham decided to open his mouth, reminding you that you’ll never even have another chance to have what Glenn and Maggie did. That Daryl – if he even wanted kids, a topic the both of you had yet to broach – would never have the chance either. Well, the chance with you, at least, and who were you to stop Daryl from something he wanted? Something, a happiness, he deserved, no matter how happy being with him made you? It angered you. Made you feel selfish. Made you crave the simplicity of loneliness you experienced after your husband and sister died but before joining the group at the prison. Back then it was just you. Who you were and what you did got you from day to day. Nothing else mattered and no one else cared. Now everything mattered. People mattered, and they cared, about the future, both yours and their own.
So, looking in the vanity mirror, you wondered who were you… to steal that future away?
Doors opened downstairs. Footsteps moved hurriedly. You briefly looked with confusion at the washroom door you’d closed behind you before wrenching it open and quickly pacing to the landing. The front door and study door were open, your group and Jesus nowhere to be found. Voices outside drew your attention, so you hurried downstairs. You were halfway there when you saw an unfamiliar Hilltop member on the house’s porch reaching in to close the front door. He stopped when he noticed your approach, warily getting out of the way to allow you outside before closing the door behind you.
Gregory, Jesus, and the group were all standing in front of a trio of more unfamiliar Hilltop faces. The trio’s body language appeared angry, defeated, wary yet adversarial. Especially the man out front, stepping closer to Gregory. He put his hand on Gregory’s shoulder, and then, suddenly, everything happened very fast. You heard the familiar squelch of bladed metal in flesh before seeing it, the knife in Gregory’s abdomen coming away bloody as Rick and Michonne rushed forward to distance the man from his target.
“Get off of me!” he bellowed, pushing away Michonne and rounding on Rick. “I had to!”
The former sheriff had the assailant on his back and under blowing fists before the other man in the trio pulled Rick off. That’s when Abraham rushed in, driving the other man back and to the ground as Rick then reengaged with the original assailant. You’d been edging down the steps and lightly rushing forward, the situation seemingly under control. But when you noticed the other man had Abraham under him, hands around Abraham’s throat, and the others in your group were otherwise preoccupied, you threw caution to the wind.
Kicking back hard, you bolted forward, straight for the man choking out Abraham. Though he was smaller than Abraham, he was still bigger than you, and braced with both knees on the ground. A flying takedown like the one you’d given Aiden the first time you met wouldn’t do. So, plan b. Coming in from an angle, you planted one foot and, with the other, whipped around a low, sweeping, spinning roundhouse kick to the man’s face. He was instantly though briefly disoriented. It was enough, however, for you to grab one arm, pulling it completely vertical and then pulling it down with you as you rolled him over and off of Abraham.
The man growled angrily, managing to roll back on top, but you still had his arm firmly in hand. Before he could push himself upright over you with his free limb, you quickly brought your hands lower, one clutching his fingers, the other at the bottom of his forearm. With a sickening pop, you twisted and pushed them in opposite directions, breaking the man’s wrist. He cried out in agony, promptly rolling off of you and onto the ground. But you weren’t finished. Rolling up onto one knee, you dragged yourself with one long stride over to his writhing form. Pinning him down with one hand gripping tightly at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, with the other you unsheathed your blade, practically anchoring it alongside your jaw as though you were drawing an arrow.
“(Y/N), I got ‘im.”
It was Daryl who’d spoken, somewhere close behind you. But you dared not look. Eye on your enemy, at all times. Until they were dead. Or, in the current state of the world, doubly dead.
Daryl placed his hand on your shoulder. His other hand must’ve been holding a gun; you heard the hammer click. “(Y/N/N), enough. Let go.”
The man beneath you still moaned, still attempted to shift and roll in agony. But Daryl was right. He was done, the fight effectively leeched out of him. Slowly, you lowered your elbow below your head, then hastily pushed off the man’s shoulder and got to your feet. The knife remained in hand for a few moments longer as you stared your opponent down, before expertly sheathing it again and turning away. At first it was to Daryl, finding he indeed had a gun drawn and trained on the man in the dirt. Then it was to your surroundings. In your preoccupation, you hadn’t been privy to what went on around you. Now, you were greeted with the sight of a blood-soaked Rick standing over the man who’d attacked Gregory, vital ichor still steadily pulsing from his corpse’s lacerated cervical vasculature.
Hilltop members looked at you and your group, but mostly Rick, in fear. Some in anger. It was like Alexandria all over again. Only this time, weapons were allowed within the walls right from the jump, and your group had brought guns to a knife fight. Yet, it wasn’t weapons that won the fight, but words. Jesus’ words, the man running between Rick and Kal to stop the violence between the two groups. And it worked, it actually worked. Rick lowered his gun and Kal lowered his spear, before Jesus ran back to assist Harlan and Maggie with Gregory.
You, meanwhile, looked back and down to Abraham, still lying supine on the ground. He stared upward dazedly, almost dreamily, his chest rising and falling slowly and deeply. The man was far away from there, maybe somewhere he thought he’d go if the man continued to choke him out. But you’d stopped him, and Abraham would go on to see another day of making characteristically crass comments and stereotypically Texan references.
The big idiot still hadn’t moved, even as you walked back to him and Daryl lowered his gun. Even as you stood on either side of Abraham’s torso, leaning forward until your face was only eighteen inches above his. He continued to stare through you with that strangely peaceful expression. Though it wasn’t directed at you, just the sight of it was unnerving. And yet, you were strangely happy that Abraham had found peace, or clarity, or whatever the Hell it was frying his brain into an air of contentment. That is, until you reached out and forcefully though not too aggressively smacked Abraham twice across one cheek.
He startled, shaking his head slightly and finally bringing his eyes into focus. “Huh?”
You rolled your eyes and scoffed, bidding a half-grin and raising your brows as you pointed at him and flashed the ‘ok’ sign.
Abraham exhaled, almost with relief. “Yeah. I’m better than alright.”
When he started chuckling softly, flashing a genuine smile, you knew it was for real. You returned his soft smile, stepping back and offering a hand. Abraham took it readily, and he was on his feet the next second, at the price of another zinger shooting through your already aching back. A reflection off the ground where he’d just lay caught your eye. A necklace, one you noticed Abraham wearing that day. Something new, and important, meaningful, or else the man wouldn’t don it. Quickly, despite your discomfort, you scooped it off the ground and proffered it to him, the red oblong shape dangling freely at the end of the chain.
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Abraham declared breathlessly though appreciatively as he took the necklace from your hand. “I owe ya, again.”
You bid a small, two-finger vertical salute from your temple. After a moment, the group all began shifting, heading back towards Barrington House. Daryl had fallen into step beside you, Abraham bringing up the rear. Near the steps, you’d caught up with the others carrying Gregory into the house. Jesus, closest of the group to you, turned when he noticed your presence.
“For the record,” he began determinedly, though he struggled slightly under Gregory’s mostly-deadweight. “After what I just saw, how you took down Andy, if you meant what you wrote earlier about not killing me, and ideally won’t break any bones either, I’ll gladly spar with you anytime you want.”
A small smile slowly spread across your face as you rocked the Shaka sign on one hand between the two of you. Jesus grinned too, before quickly ushering Gregory into the house with the others. As they were directed to some undisclosed upstairs room, and Rick went to clean up in the washroom, you aimlessly paced to the chair off to the right of the entryway and had a seat. You leaned forward with the sides of your forearms angled across the tops of your knees and hands clasped between them. With eyes shut, you began rolling your shoulders and arching your back. That takedown caused a lot more strain than expected, but it was worth it. Though you’d learned such skills from a time in your life you hated, being able to do those skills again made you feel more like you than any other time in the past month of being infirmed.
“L.T.”
Abraham. He was the only one who called you that. You stopped rolling your shoulders and back, but kept your eyes shut and face turned downward.
“In the spirit of self-preservation, not wanting to get my ass handed to me like that asshole you took down outside, I’d like to apologize for what I said earlier that so evidently got your panties in a bunch.”
It sounded like a backhanded apology, and you looked up at Abraham with a dubious expression that said as much.
“Been awhile,” he went on. “Didn’t think the ribbing bothered you anymore.”
He thought you’d been offended by the completely overexaggerated part about how often you and Daryl had sex. That big, dumb, unawares idiot. It was enough to make you chuckle softly. Quickly reaching into your pack you’d earlier slung off and dropped at your feet, you removed the notepad and jotted across the page.
That’s not the reason, but apology accepted. Just no more talk about me and Daryl having kids, got it?
“Comprende,” Abraham answered assuredly. Though you knew that wasn’t the correct response, you knew what he meant. Then, with a coy smile, he asked, “So does that mean I have free pass giving you shit for all the squat thrusts you’ve been doin’ in Daryl’s cucumber patch?”
Where the Hell does he come up with this shit? You wondered bewilderedly. Texans.
Who said you had free pass?
“Everyone else does.”
Like Hell
“Oh, you just biding your time?”
You grinned, slyly and amusedly.
“Guess I better start sleeping with one eye open again,” Abraham jested, much to both of your enjoyment. He then began walking off, but you snapped after him twice. Abraham stopped and looked back, finding you once more jotting across your notepad. You held it out and he stepped closer.
I’m sorry too. What I said back in the RV, after rescuing Dr. Carson and his group
Abraham sighed heavily, ticking his eyes from the notepad straight up at you. “I won’t say jack about kids to you, if you won’t say shit to me about her. Deal?”
After a slow breath, you nodded.
He nodded in return. “Still working my shit out, L.T., and you’ll know it when I do. ‘preciate your patience ‘til then.”
The two of you shared nods again, and that was the end of it. Problem solved, at least for now. Like duct tape. That shit fixed everything, but nothing lasted forever. Like the resulting silence on the first floor. Once you and Abraham went on your merry ways, no one else spoke. That was, until Maggie and Glenn came out of the room they’d taken Gregory into. After that, the group all convened in the upstairs study, Jesus joining a short time later. There, you learned as a group who Negan was, the man behind the name Daryl and Abraham heard while out on the road when the quarry situation went live last month. There, your suspicions about Gregory were reinforced by Jesus’ iteration of how Hilltop’s leader handled the coming of the Saviors. There, Daryl proposed a new trade agreement, and Rick supported the proposal.
Rescue that dead guy outside’s brother. Kill Negan. Kill the Saviors. You and the group would do that, and in exchange, Hilltop would give you supplies. Food. Medicine. Even a cow. You thought Daryl was overreaching, but when Maggie was summoned to Gregory’s side later that afternoon, and you all learned she made the deal for half of Hilltop’s supplies, just like the Saviors’ deal, you were both concerned yet impressed. The feelings lingered as you helped load basket after basket of food into the RV. Apart from the scuffle earlier, these people didn’t do anything to you, and yet you felt you were robbing them of their critical resources. Especially since you and the group had yet to hold up your end of the bargain. What was worse, you had a bad feeling Maggie was right: this deal was going to cost something.
“Got somethin’ for ya,” Jesus announced to you as everyone waited in the RV for Maggie and Glenn. “Part of the deal, but Dr. Carson wanted me to give these to you personally.”
Jesus leaned forward and you did the same, taking the bottle of meds he offered.
“Muscle relaxers,” Jesus explained, in the odd chance you didn’t know what Methocarbamol was. “For your back.”
You smiled kindly and bade the ‘thank you’ sign before reclining into your seat, once more between Daryl and Abraham. Not needing telling twice, or feeling the compulsion to look a gift horse in the mouth, you snapped the cap and popped two pills in your own, forcing them down with a dry swallow.
“Easy, tiger,” Jesus chuckled almost nervously, halfway holding out a hand towards you. “Dr. Carson said one of the side effects was drowsiness.”
Your smile deepened as you softly chuckled. Quickly, you brought the fingertips of your dominant hand to the side of your temple, nodding and mouthing ‘I know’.
Daryl scoffed next to you. “We gonna have to carry ya into the house when we get back?”
Turning to him, you nodded affirmatively. You’d taken the drug before, after your accident. Unless your body somehow miraculously grew a tolerance for it the past few years, you knew you’d likely be out like a light within the hour and, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world for at least another six. What’s more, you knew you should’ve waited until you got back to Alexandria to pop those pills. Higher chances of something going wrong on the road and all. But screw it. Safety was relative, and you were as safe as anywhere with everyone else around you.
“Could just let her sleep it off in the RV,” Abraham jested, chortling thickly, the sound deepening when you elbowed his shin in good-natured annoyance.
It wasn’t much later when Glenn and Maggie returned to the RV, and it wasn’t long after that, after hitting the road, that you started feeling the medicine’s effects.
“C’mon,” Daryl mumbled beside you, noting how you were trying to fight gravity. He waved gently when you turned to look at him. “Lean back.”
With a tired smile, you didn’t just do as told, but practically fell with your full weight against Daryl. He caught you with a huff, but your upper-half slid so easily against him with the bumpiness of the RV that he resigned to just lay you face-up with your head on one thigh. The rest of you splayed out almost drunkenly, taking up the rest of the converted dinette’s space and even some realty on Abraham with your legs.
“She wasn’t kidding,” the burly Sergeant scoffed amusedly.
Everyone but Andy chuckled at your current situation, even Jesus. Even Daryl, who then glanced down at you, and you tiredly leaned your head back to look at him. Though his fallen hair around his face cast a decent shadow, the characteristic half-grin of his was bright. His arms were splayed out, one along the back of the dinette, the other across the counter behind him. Despite your private intimacies, Daryl had yet to feel comfortable with PDA. Maybe he never would, and that was mostly fine. Mostly, because you couldn’t deny wanting on occasion to give him a brief kiss or hug in public. Hell, to even hold his hand, like Maggie and Glenn were holding each other’s hand on the bench across from you right that minute. It surprised you, registering this detail in your slipping mental state. Even more surprising when you saw Glenn offer Michonne something to see, and Michonne had smiled before extending the item to Daryl.
His lips twitched back and forth slightly as he inspected the paper in both hands. You could only see shadows of it, viewing through the backside with the overcast daylight streaming through the window. The shadows revealed nothing, and even in your approaching delirium you were curious. So, when Daryl extended his arm over you to offer the paper to Abraham, you clumsily reached up like a lazy cat batting away a dangling feather toy. Catching Daryl’s wrist, to his surprise, you brought his hand lower, taking the item in one hand and his hand in the other. The item, the paper, turned out to be a sonogram image of an early first trimester fetus.
Baby. Maggie and Glenn’s baby. You’d forgotten Dr. Carson was an obstetrician. Said he owed Glenn for saving him, and thus, by extension, Maggie too. Guess that was where they were while the rest of you were loading up the RV. Could you blame them? First time parents. You remembered what that was like, but didn’t have your first sonogram image until several more weeks along, when your own baby had looked slightly more humanoid, less blobby. But you remembered. You felt. You empathized with Glenn and Maggie. And while seeing the sonogram had the same effect as Abraham’s earlier words had, it was dulled. Maybe in large part due to the medication coursing through your veins, but the emotional pain from those memories, that time, was overshadowed with new feelings. Ones of joy, and hope for the Rhees.
Your time had come, and was unfairly stolen from you, permanently. Fact. You accepted it, would acknowledge and feel the sadness brought forth when those memories came back, but you wouldn’t dwell. No more. You’d move on. You did move on. And maybe you would too from your earlier guilt and concerns about Daryl’s thoughts regarding your lack of fertility. Just… not when your brain was swimming in foggier and foggier pain-free delirium.
So, daintily gripping the edge of the sonogram between thumb and forefinger, you dazedly held it out to Abraham, waving it tiredly up and down until he gripped your wrist to make it stop and gently took the sonogram away. Your hand fell to your abdomen immediately after, grazing the side of your opposite hand still holding Daryl’s. You looked at the three hands perplexedly, confused why Daryl’s would still be there. With heavily lidded eyes you attempted to glance back at him, but barely succeeded in rolling your head an inch before falling sideways, facing the bullet-riddled wood paneling of the RV under the window. The last things you remembered before your eyes fully closed were your weighty hands sinking low on your abdomen, and Daryl’s fingers intertwining and gripping tightly with yours.
Chapter 8: Chapter VIII
Chapter Text
“You bitch!”
“What’re you doing?! Please, stop! Please!”
“You’re loca, lady!”
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!”
“We told you, you crazy bitch!”
When there weren’t screams of fear or agony, Daryl and the others heard cursing, insults and protests. When there was neither, it was only silence, which was just as unnerving, if not more so. Screams made Daryl wonder what was happening behind that closed door only a few feet away. Silence made him wonder what was going to happen next.
“We gotta stop this,” Daryl insisted, still pacing the hallway where he and the others waited, nervously and uneasily. “She shouldn’t—”
“It was her choice,” Rick enforced stoically.
“So what if it was?”
Glenn and Michonne cringed at yet another scream suddenly crying out from behind the closed door. Rick leaned further onto his knees. Daryl continued his pacing, running his hands through his hair with profound agitation.
“You’re a dead puta, you hear me?!”
That was the driver. The group in the hallway had come to know the distinct differences between the two men’s voices, especially as the session carried on.
“She’s doing this for Carol and Maggie,” Glenn declared defeatedly, slowly looking up to Daryl. “It’s either them or us.”
“And either way it’s gonna be her too,” Daryl snapped coldly. “Y’all don’t even know—”
“Yeah, we do—”
“No, you don’t,” Daryl interrupted Glenn just as curtly, venom dripping from every syllable. “You don’t know what this will do to her. What doing this means—”
“The fuck?!”
That was the passenger, and based on the pitch of the screams the group had been hearing, he’d been the one taking the brunt of (Y/N)’s wrath.
Daryl and Glenn had maintained eye contact for several more eerily silent moments before the archer shook his head bitterly. “You don’t.”
He moved away, then, extending his narrow pacing in front of the room to down the hall. Daryl needed to do something, anything, to keep his body and mind occupied while he failed to stop imagining what was going on behind that door. While he failed wondering if (Y/N) would—
A scream unlike all the rest turned Daryl’s blood cold. So ear-piercing, so shrill, this had to have been it. This had to be the moment… (Y/N) proved how she earned her military name. And the scream was unyielding, changing octaves as moments turned to seconds and seconds turned to revived screams. They cycled from high to low repeatedly. By the third round, Daryl had somehow found himself now inexplicably unable to move as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest and jaw locked closed, clenching his teeth.
“You’re sick!” he and the others heard the driver shout. “Stay the fuck away from me!”
Not ten seconds later, the passenger’s ragged screaming abruptly stopped, and the ensuing silence caused everyone in the hallway to look up. They all looked to one another in wary curiosity and concern. Rick pushed off the crate he’d been leaning against, and Glenn got to his feet off the floor, seconds before the door was wrenched open. The group started forward instinctively, but barely moved a few inches when Abraham marched out. For a moment he stood there wordlessly, sweat beading his brow, face ashen. Rick had just opened his mouth to say the burly man’s name when Abraham’s shoulders swelled and he abruptly turned, pitching behind the nearest crate on the opposite side of the door and spewing an ungodly amount of yellow bile and white foam onto the concrete floor.
“Get me the fuck outta here!” the driver’s voice suddenly demanded from inside the room. “I told her where your people are at, now get me outta here!”
Rick and Glenn exchanged glances with Michonne and Daryl, then each other, before they went inside, and Daryl heard Glenn exhale a single word in shock and incredulity.
“I said get me outta here!” the driver demanded again.
“Shut up,” Rick snapped back.
“Daryl?”
He looked up. Michonne was looking at him, expression insistently concerned.
“You alright?”
He’d been staring at Abraham, unable to look away from the man with the most vulgar turn of phrase suddenly having lost his proverbial lunch. What… what was it like in there? What’d happened? Daryl wanted to know, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to find out.
“Yeah,” he answered distantly. “Fine. Go on.”
Michonne swallowed and nodded understandingly before heading for the room, and Daryl returned his gaze from her back to Abraham. The Sergeant had just finished blowing chunks, and was now spitting out the foul, lingering loogies. As Abraham leaned more heavily against the wall with his forearm at head level, he partially turned to face Daryl, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Not a word about this to the Lieutenant,” he requested in the form of a statement, or mild threat. “Told her I could handle ugly. But that… was beyond anything I—”
Someone in the room groaned painfully, and not three seconds later (Y/N) exited the room, stopping just inside the hallway, her gaze instantly finding Abraham next to the door. Meanwhile, Daryl’s gaze instantly found her. It found all of the blood that wasn’t her own spattered over her clothes, her face and neck and arms. But her hands, the machete and knife in them, were covered in it, the hot, dark ichor dripping steadily onto the cold concrete floor. And her eyes, her expression, were a mix of the two: dark, and cold. Daryl’s shoulders sagged at the sight. He wondered just how much of her he lost with her decision, and was scared to find out.
“(Y/N/N)?”
Her back and shoulders visibly stiffened. Her eyes remained on Abraham. She’d heard Daryl, acknowledged him with her reaction, but refused to look at him. In fact, the very next instant, to Daryl’s unspoken horror, (Y/N) abruptly turned and hurriedly marched down the opposite hall, quickly disappearing around a corner and out of sight. Daryl stared after her a moment, before sharing a look with Abraham and then chasing after her. Though he didn’t know where she was going, Daryl had a trail to follow, literally. The blood dripping from (Y/N) and her weapons laid out an unmistakable path back to the garage bay. Daryl was about to burst out into the open space of it when he caught sight of (Y/N) and pulled up short, hiding behind the corner.
Bloody weapons discarded on either side of her, (Y/N) had sunk to the floor against the wall. She held her head in her bloody hands, rocking, trembling. Daryl could hear her ragged breaths, the sobs rattling around in her chest rather than be brought forth. He watched as she slowly rocked forward onto her knees, head still in hands as she placed her forehead against the concrete floor. So tightly was (Y/N) curled on herself, and yet her body still trembled, her shaky, stuttering breaths louder than any of the screams she’d brought on from those Saviors. And as those breaths broke the otherwise silence of the garage bay, so too did Daryl wonder how much longer he could watch (Y/N) break without breaking himself. He wouldn’t get the chance to find out, for Abraham’s words, from before they went through with one of (Y/N)’s worst nightmares, came back to Daryl in that moment. Realizing Abraham’s statement and the unspoken promise Daryl had made were more important, and although it almost broke him to do so, Daryl turned and walked away.
The Methocarbamol didn’t just knock you out for a few hours; it knocked you out for more than half a day. You missed returning home. You missed the meeting Rick held to discuss Alexandria’s deal with the Hilltop to kill off the Saviors, and Morgan’s protest of the plan. You missed Carol and Tobin’s blossoming new romance, and the eruptive end to Abraham and Rosita’s. You missed dinner, breakfast, and would’ve missed lunch if you hadn’t smelled something wafting up from the kitchen downstairs. Most everyone gave you some degree of shit for sleeping in so late, for being so sensitive to muscle relaxers. Rick, good-naturedly, even compared it to finding your kryptonite. That got everyone smiling. At least temporarily. There were bigger, more important things on everyone’s mind.
The rapidly approaching mission to wipe out the Saviors being the most prominent. When it was time, everyone loaded up into two cars and the RV. After your insanely long catnap, you were bright-eyed and bushytailed. Not eager, just alert, because, let’s face it, despite your past, you weren’t a psychopath, and you weren’t exactly jazzed to kill people. No one was. Especially Heath and Glenn, who you’d teamed up with to search the surrounding woods along the highway for a good Walker lookalike to Gregory. The two men hadn’t had to kill people before. You did. But that didn’t make the situation sit with you any better. It just made you a little more prepared for what was about to happen. Like Rick said, this was how you’d eat.
Just because you weren’t a homicidal psychopath didn’t mean the people you were about to kill weren’t. The way the Savior in front of Andy studied the Walker head, the way he played and mocked Andy with it while the other guard laughed, told you all you needed to know about these people. The act itself still didn’t sit right with you, but these men sure as Hell justified your actions. They sure as Hell deserved what was coming to them. And what was coming was a swift slice across the throat, a sword to the chest, and downward stabs to the head.
Everyone hustled and bustled into the compound while Andy and Jesus led their brutalized Hilltop man back to the safety of the vehicles with Tara and Gabriel. Tactical knowhow meant you and Abraham were two of the first ones in. He broke off one way with Sasha. You broke off another. Rosita and Aaron took a third. Then Daryl, Rick and Michonne. Couldn’t bunch up. Couldn’t have too many in one group. As much as you wanted to be with Daryl, have his back, make sure he stayed alive, too many bodies posed a bigger risk, so you broke off with Glenn and Heath again.
In the room at the end of the first hallway after Rick’s team cleared theirs, your trio found two sleeping Saviors. Glenn stepped in first, followed by Heath. You initially stayed at the door, rifle up and ready, but hesitated when you noticed the men hesitating. You remembered what they said earlier in the woods. They’d been lucky; you, not so much. So why would you willingly let their luck run out? Carefully, silently, you lowered your rifle and unsheathed your knife. You touched Glenn’s forearm with your free hand, wordlessly indicating yourself when he turned to look at you. He swallowed heavily but shook his head. He’d do it, it’s ok, even though it wasn’t. Understandingly, you nodded and stepped away, towards Heath. The man was hovering over the other sleeping Savior, bladed hand trembling above the intended victim’s face. You both empathized and were annoyed. Hesitation couldn’t be afforded at a time like this, yet you knew how Heath felt, the fear for his loss of innocence, and your concern for Glenn’s emotional wellbeing quickly extended to Heath’s as well.
Silently, you reached out and touched his forearm. Heath stiffened as he turned to face you with a frustrated and troubled expression. You nodded at him, understandingly and encouragingly. After a moment he pulled his blade back and turned away. You watched him another second, before swiftly stepping forward and driving your knife down into the Savior’s temple. Tissue, blood and bone scraped along the blade going in, then coming out. You felt every vibration across the metal, and every vibration shuddering down your spine when you next looked up. In front of you, above the Savior’s bed, was a trophy wall. But these weren’t bowling trophies, or even taxidermic animals. They were polaroids of people. People’s heads, smashed open to unrecognizable smithereens like some sick piñatas. The three of you exchanged glances, a mix of disgust, wariness, and anger, before moving on to the next area.
It wasn’t more than another few minutes later when an alarm started blaring in the compound, followed promptly by the sound of automatic gunfire, both your group’s and others’, friendly and not so much. You, Glenn and Heath covered one another as you continued retreating down the hallway, not knowing where in the Hell you were going but hoping it’d lead you somewhere better. It didn’t. To your brief panic it led to a dead end. But not for long. Having taken point, Glenn shot at and around the handle of the door at the end of the hall, because screw checking to see if it was unlocked at a time like this. Meanwhile, you and Heath provided cover, running backwards while firing your weapons at the advancing Saviors.
Glenn managed to get the door blown open and dove in the room, Heath behind not two seconds later. But you, you were caught by a Savior that’d been hiding behind the crate to the right of the door. You were lucky the asshole didn’t have a gun on him, only a knife he lashed out with. Normally distance was a good thing. Not this time. To put distance between you meant the other Saviors had an easier target, had less of a chance hitting one of their own. Close combat, then. So, you slammed the Savior against the wall, swiftly disarming him and dealing a quick one-two to the face and gut, before spinning him around and kicking him into the open. The moment you did, you dropped behind the crate for cover and lifted your rifle. In doing so, you briefly registered movement through the crack of the ajar door to your right, and then a hail of bullets cut directly in front of you.
It mowed down the Savior who ambushed you, and then some. You dared not move from your cover behind the crate and off to the side of the door until the friendly fire was over. It ceased after only five seconds, but seemed to last a lifetime when you knew other Saviors had been closing in. No more gunfire. No more footsteps. Cautiously, you slowly lifted yourself up from your squatted cover, peering over the edge of the crate. The Saviors who’d been chasing you lay in rapidly expanding pools of their own blood, bodies converted into Swiss cheese by the torrent of bullets Glenn and Heath had unleashed. A moment later, the two men slowly opened the door and stepped out, taking in the scene before them and your condition.
“You alright?” Glenn asked breathlessly, rifle still halfway raised in his hands.
Nodding just as breathlessly, you stood fully upright and turned away from them, back at the bodies. They’d been so close to you. Another few feet you would’ve been dead, either by their hands or friendly fire. Blood spattered the crates, walls, floor, and even sections of the ceiling. Most of the bodies were flat along the ground or piled on a limb or two, but the one propped against the wall between your crate and the next suddenly began to move. He had a pistol halfway raised in your direction, and you had been rounding your rifle on him, when a single gunshot rang out. But not from him, and surely not from any of you. Startled by the sound, the three of you looked up, where a few feet beyond the carnage stood Jesus, lowering a pistol.
Jesus pulled down the cowl covering his face. “So, this is the next world.”
The three of you didn’t respond. Not at first. Then Glenn declared, “We’ve got the armory.”
Sure enough, stepping away from the wall to see into the room he and Heath had sheltered in, rifles in buckets, gun racks, and mounted on the walls were plentiful. Both men turned back around to appraise the haul and check their weapons as Jesus stood guard and you began granting each Savior a guaranteed final death. The one that’d jumped you was last. You noticed when you stooped down to drive your knife into his temple that he was young, barely in his twenties, if that. You were that young once. That innocent. But that was a very long time ago, in a completely different world twice removed from the one of current circumstance.
Heath and Glenn kept the armory secure as you and Jesus ventured back through the compound. Gunfire quickly petered out, and not long after, you came across Rosita and Aaron. For the better part of who knew how long, the four of you, joined shortly thereafter by the other groups, finished clearing the rest of the compound. Which eventually brought you to a garage door, and the blinding whiteness of dawn outside. It was the side lot of the compound, cars lined up against the building. Clear, no Walkers or Saviors in sight, and it was there that you all started to breathe a sigh of relief.
Heath and Tara said their goodbyes and hopped into the small Class C RV, heading out directly for their two-week supply run. The rest of you milled about the open field of the lot, decompressing, thinking, patrolling, whatever each of you saw fit to do… until the sound of an engine revving pulled everyone’s attention back to the compound. Two people on a motorcycle shot out from the open garage door you’d all walked through. Apparently, you hadn’t cleared the entire compound, that fact pissing you off more than anything.
“Son of a bitch!” Daryl yelled, running forward as Rosita opened fire.
The man driving the motorcycle suddenly snapped backward, hit by a bullet. The momentum knocked his passenger off balance and the two toppled off the bike onto the ground. Everyone was rushing forward by then, but it was Daryl who reached the Saviors first, tackling the driver back to the ground the second he’d gotten to his feet. Aaron had his gun trained on the passenger as Daryl began laying into the driver with his fists.
“Where’d you get the bike?!” Daryl yelled.
You looked, curious as to why he’d want to know such a thing at a time like this. Sure enough, it was the bike from Aaron, the one Daryl fixed up for recruiting missions and had lost when he met those double-crossing assholes on the road during the quarry mission. Rick arrived the next second, leveling his gun at the man under Daryl.
“Just do it!” he demanded, looking beyond Daryl to Rick with a bloodied expression of mixed anger and desperation. “Like you did everyone else, right?!”
“Lower your gun, prick.”
You instinctively lifted your rifle. The voice hadn’t been from the man under Daryl or the passenger, and it sure as Hell didn’t come from any of you. It was a new voice. An enemy voice. An enemy nowhere in plain sight, so you had to make yourself ready.
“You with the Colt Python.” The discarded walkie-talkie next to Daryl and the driver crackled with static. “All of you, lower your weapons right now.”
Daryl jumped off the man but leveled his own gun at him, the hammer clicking loudly in the resulting silence of the walkie’s static. Everyone had their head on a swivel, eyes through scopes trained at the roof of the compound or scanning the surrounding woods. But nothing and no one could be found. Rick stooped and picked up the walkie.
“Come on out,” he instructed. “Let’s talk.”
“We’re not coming out, but we will talk,” the woman on the other end replied. “We’ve got a Carol and a Maggie. I’m thinking that’s something you want to chat about.”
A whole other level of on-edge came over the group at that revelation.
“Now, we’re gonna work this out right now, and it’s going to go our way.”
“Get ‘em up,” Rick demanded derisively.
Daryl and Glenn each used one hand and hoisted the driver onto his feet. Aaron did the same with the passenger, bringing him over so the hostages could stand side by side.
“You can see we have two of yours,” Rick went on. “We’ll trade.”
And so the negotiations proceeded. Proof of life. Two for two. Everyone would go home happy. But you knew that was a lie. The surviving Saviors had to know it too. Your group had just wiped out the compound. The people holding Carol and Maggie would have to be idiots to trust any of you would let any of them go after that, which made Carol and Maggie’s situation that much more precarious. And, unfortunately, idiots these Saviors were not.
“I’ll get back to you,” the woman on the other end replied when Rick asked if they had a deal, and then you didn’t hear back. Not for a few seconds. Not for a minute. When it got beyond that, Glenn started getting even antsier. He knew what you had known about your predicament.
“They’ve gotta be taking them somewhere,” he reasoned worriedly. Then, turning angrily on their hostages, he demanded, “Where are they going?!”
“I ain’t tellin’ you dick,” the driver seethed, smiling with bloodied teeth and a fattening lip.
“Where are they?!” Glenn roared.
“Glenn!” Rick chastised forcefully.
He and the driver stared each other down another moment before Glenn turned away, pacing with evident agitation. Rick clipped the walkie to his belt and looked around.
“Search the woods,” he instructed. “They have to be close by to know what I’m carrying.”
“On it,” Daryl growled. “Ya got ‘im?”
“Yeah,” Rick answered, training his Colt Python back on the driver. “Rosita.”
She came over, hastily binding first the driver’s then the passenger’s arms behind their backs. You, Rick, Rosita, Gabriel and Michonne all hung back to guard them and keep an eye out while the others broke off into teams and searched the area. After dragging them to a more secure location just inside the compound, Rick did his damnedest to get information from both hostages, but neither budged more than a sardonic smile or snide remark. He was getting frustrated, and when Glenn and Abraham returned, you could tell the former was getting desperate.
“Anything?” Glenn asked Rick worriedly, insistently.
“Nothing useful,” Rick sighed bitterly, sneering at the bound hostages.
Glenn’s expression mirrored Rick’s, before he stepped around Alexandria’s leader and grabbed the driver hostage by the collar, shaking him forcefully. “Where are your people taking them?! Tell me! Where are they?!”
“Why bother saying?” the man under Glenn’s clenched fists purred goadingly through the group’s protests for Glenn to calm down. “You’re just gonna kill us anyway, and your people will be dead long before you even get there.”
“You son of a—!”
“Glenn!”
“Enough!”
“Tell me where Maggie is!” Glenn screamed as Rick and Michonne pushed him back, away from the hostages. “Tell me!”
The bound Saviors just smiled. You turned from them to Glenn. He was losing it. Pacing back and forth, eyes wild, hands unable to keep still as they incessantly shifted from knotting in his hair to clenching at his sides to holding his rifle. You’d seen him worried about Maggie before, but not like this. Then again, Maggie hadn’t been pregnant before. This was a whole other level for Glenn. This was a whole other level for all of you. Maggie and Carol, your family, held hostage, and these assholes knew where their people – their angry, vengeful yet cautious people – were taking them. These assholes had information and… you knew how to get it.
It was a whole other level, all right. It was a whole other level, because you were about to cross a line you’d promised yourself – you’d promised your dead husband – you would never cross again. But you hadn’t anticipated a hostage situation close to home when you’d made that promise. So, as Maggie’s words about the deal Daryl proposed the other day at Hilltop popped back into your brain, you resigned yourself to be the one to pay the price. No matter what it cost you, your humanity and sanity, you’d get your family back. You’d keep them safe.
The micro pen and pocket notepad whipped out of your vest quickly though surreptitiously. Wasn’t very hard to go under the radar; everyone’s attention was either on the hostages, Glenn, or Rick. Once you’d finished, you strode over to the latter man. He stopped, looking to you first before glancing down at the notepad you were proffering him.
Give me twenty minutes behind a closed door with them and you’ll have a location
Rick’s eyes widened marginally, but it was the hasty way he lifted his head, the dead silence and almost sad look he gave you, that drew in the others’ attentions.
First it was Michonne. When she read your words, her eyes widened much wider than Rick’s, her expression appalled. “No,” she whispered insistently. “No, we’ll find another way.”
“What other choice do we have?” Rick whispered back. “It’s hers to make.”
“We should wait for the others. Maybe they found something,” Michonne reasoned.
But right as she finished her counteroffer, she’d realized what that’d entail. Her plan meant waiting, and Carol and Maggie couldn’t afford to wait. Glenn couldn’t afford to wait. Michonne’s expression of self-awareness became one of concern as she looked from Rick back to you. It may have been your choice, but that didn’t mean Michonne, or anyone else, Hell, even you, had to condone it.
“Are you sure?”
No, but like Rick said, what choice did you have? So, you nodded mechanically, already beginning to sink back into your training, your mental fortitude to once more endure the nightmares you’d once thought dead and buried. You briefly registered Rick going to Glenn, then Glenn hurrying to your side. He tried to get your attention, tried to ask questions, maybe even talk you out of it, but you weren’t listening. Hell, you weren’t even there. You were back there, years ago, a different place. You were becoming that woman again, sinking into the pits where all hope had to be abandoned in order to survive with even a shred of who you once were.
Eventually Glenn gave up, sighing with heavy, bitter yet grateful resolution as he moved to get one of the hostages on their feet. Rick got the other, and waited. They were waiting for you. Before you were too far gone, you lifted your gaze and nodded.
Rick nodded in return. “Rosita, Abraham, Gabriel, stay here. Wait for the others.”
Suddenly, you snapped at Rick and shook your head. When his attention turned to you, you then gestured to Abraham. This time around, you’d need someone to be your voice, and a second set of hands, and you’d rather have it be someone who was in some semblance familiar with what you were about to do.
Rick nodded again, turning to the man in question. “Abraham, you’re with (Y/N),” he instructed. “Rosita, Gabriel, you’re here. When the others get back, set up a perimeter.”
“You got it,” Rosita replied, shifting the rifle in her hands, as Gabriel too acknowledged the request with a nod.
With another look from Rick, you led the way back into the compound. The room behind door number three would suffice. Two sturdy chairs. A couple of crates to serve as countertops. Enough space to throw yourself or the hostages around. You had Rick and Glenn one by one seat their respective hostage in a chair, and you tied them down with the foolproof knots you’d learned from your superiors that had yet to prove them wrong. You had Michonne go back to the supply closet behind door number two to bring whatever kind of chemicals were stored there, and, much to her concerned revulsion, fetch a special request item that’d been discarded by the front door at the start of the group’s incursion.
As you and the others awaited her return, you jotted across your notepad and snapped at Abraham. He glanced your way before moving to stand beside you.
These chairs are too short, so your job will be to hold their heads still while I do my job. It’s gonna get ugly, but you cannot show emotion. Do not speak. Do not engage. Do exactly as I say. Understood?
“Copy that,” Abraham huffed. “But you don’t gotta worry; I can handle ugly.”
No, you can’t, not like this, you thought bitterly, pocketing your notepad once more.
Michonne returned a moment later with a milk crate of chemicals and a small, bloodstained burlap bag carrying the special item you’d requested. You spread everything, including your weapons and whatever else except for your notepad that had been in your pockets, out across the top of the crates, appraising all the tools of the trade you now had at your disposal. If there was one other thing you’d been taught from your superiors, it was how to get creative.
“Found some tracks in the woods but they’re lost on the road about half-mile away.”
The sudden sound of Daryl’s voice momentarily cut through your process. It sounded like he was still in the hallway, just outside the open doorway. Probably talking with Rick, and ignoring the perimeter order Rick had given Rosita to give to the others upon their return.
“Branches off from there, don’t know which way they went,” he continued. Then he paused, before his voice grew skeptical and critical, coming closer, into the room. “The Hell ya doin’?”
It was a general question, one nobody decided to answer. You all let Daryl do it himself, piecing together the details of the scene in front of him.
“Naw. You can’t.”
“It’s (Y/N)’s choice,” Rick declared evenly.
“Like at the barn?” Daryl accused, only knowing what happened because you’d told him all those weeks ago. He crossed the room to you, where you stood at the makeshift countertop, still descending into madness as you conjured ways to use the items aligned neatly atop the crates.
“I had a trail,” he whispered insistently, practically pleading. “I’ll go back and look harder. I’ll find ‘em. You don’t gotta do this.”
You ignored him.
“(Y/N)!” he hissed, gripping your arm.
There was no pain. Only mechanical response. The look in his eyes when you lifted your gaze to him made you weep inside, made you mourn for the part of yourself you were sacrificing, possibly for good. Made you mourn for the part of Daryl that might be dying alongside it too. You could stop this. There was still time. But Carol and Maggie didn’t have that luxury. You were convincing, deluding yourself back into that nightmare again, with the legitimate excuse that it was for people you cared about, rather than orders you had to follow. That made the pill less difficult to swallow, but nowhere near easy.
Slowly, mechanically, you placed your hand over Daryl’s and removed it from your arm. With that hand you turned him around and tried guiding him and the others to the door.
Daryl barely budged. “No!” he snapped. “You don’t gotta do this, but if you’re gonna I ain’t leavin’.”
“Trust me, amigo,” Abraham’s voice drawled steadily as he shifted the rifle in his hands. “Not leavin’s gonna be more important after all this is said and done.”
Daryl looked to you, but you didn’t look to him. You hadn’t moved. Your gaze held forward, unseeing of those around you as you hyper-focused on the shadowy prison of your mind where you kept the horror of your past. Where you kept… her.
Slowly, you began pushing Daryl forward again, and this time, reluctantly, he yielded. One step, then another, until he, Glenn, Michonne and Rick exited the room. Daryl, of course, was the last. He lingered in the doorway, turning around to face you with a wary and sad expression. With one hand on the frame and the other on the door itself, you lifted your face to him. Something in Daryl cracked, seeing you like that. You could tell by the way his nostrils flared and teeth clenched behind closed lips. The cracking would’ve broken you, if you weren’t already gone. Lowering your gaze once more, you closed the door between you, standing there a moment in contemplation.
“This is your last chance,” Abraham declared to the unsurprisingly speechless hostages. “Best to start singing like canaries before she makes you sing like choir boys.”
At his words, you moved back to the crates, gripping the wooden edges as you stared at the tools assembled there. Once more, you stood silently, lost in thought and navigating through the darkness of your mind to that shadowy prison.
The driver of the hostages scoffed. “I ain’t afraid of no bitch.”
Abraham’s mouth turned upward. “You should be.”
You closed your eyes and tightened your grip around the crate. The hostages, your victims, would not save themselves. They never did, so why did you ever hope against hope that they’d start now? Thus, all hope abandoned, you placed the key to your mental prison in the lock.
“They’re all yours, L.T.”
No. You hadn’t earned that title until after. That wasn’t who you were. Not anymore. Not… for this. The key turned, the locking mechanism tumbled, and the click of the deadbolt sliding open echoed loudly in your mind.
“The name.”
Abraham’s brow furrowed and he turned to look at you with peculiarity, amusement, and prideful incredulity. “I’ll be damned.”
“The name, Sergeant,” you croaked, the sound matching the anticipatory growl emanating from the shadows yet beyond the open prison door. “Say my name.”
Abraham inhaled deeply. “Cassy.”
Your eyes snapped open. The monster was freed, and you consumed.
Chapter 9: Chapter IX
Chapter Text
Abraham had given the hostages their last chance. Now it was up to you. The first thing you did was carefully though efficiently dissect the blades from the men’s razor found in the room with one of the knives procured from the hostages. No sense dulling your own weapon. Once freed of the plastic, you snatched the razor blades, along with the tube of Super Glue Michonne had retrieved from the nearby supply closet, off the makeshift countertop and approached the hostages. They were seated next to each other, about five feet apart. Enough to have front row seats for the torture, but far enough to be out of your way.
“I ain’t telling you nothing, bitch.”
You regarded the mouthy driver disinterestedly because, in fact, you hadn’t planned on starting with him. Your eyes turned to the other man, a slight thing in no more than his mid-twenties. He’d hardly spoken since the group knocked him and the driver from the bike. Either he was too scared to speak or too well-trained. Figuring the former, he’d be easier to break. If the latter, well, your mentors hadn’t given you the hard nuts to crack without a reason.
As your eyes met the second man’s, his gaze clearly growing more petrified, you extended your hand with the blades towards Abraham. He stepped closer, opening his palm upward, and without looking you deposited the razors in his hand. Abraham held them as you swiftly opened the young hostage’s hand, squirting the Super Glue onto his palm as though you were decorating a hamburger patty with ketchup. He persistently tried closing his fingers but you held them open with an iron grip. Then, dropping the tube of glue, you used your free hand to one by one take the razors from Abraham’s palm and place them horizontally in the hostage’s.
The glue and blades set in seconds. Your hostage looked to you confusedly and fearfully. To prove the reasoning for your actions, you then swiftly moved both of your hands to his opposite one. Gripping the base of his pinky and ring fingers where they met the palm, you wrenched the digits down, towards the back of his hand. The fingers broke instantly and the man screamed in pain. Instinctively, he tried closing both hands from the agony, and cried out even louder for his troubles. His fingers and palm that’d closed around the razor blades were sliced open and bleeding heavily. He raised his wide eyes to yours. There would be no outlet or escape from pain. You would not allow it.
“You bitch!” the driver cursed.
And you would not be deterred by pretty praise.
Next phase, you returned to your collection of tools. Placing the empty beer bottle – the one that’d been on the side table next to the cot of the dead Savior that still lay in it – under an empty corner of the burlap sack, you smashed the glass against the surface with the butt of your knife. You repeated the motion until enough pieces half the size of peas were created. They were then briefly abandoned as you took up a pair of pliers and your knife and returned to the hostage. Standing silently before him, you watched disinterestedly as he continued to pant heavily from the pain you’d only begun to inflict. Only after he again lifted his eyes to you, and waiting another few seconds, did you turn to Abraham, tapping the side of your head.
Understanding, with a nod, Abraham moved behind the hostage and gripped the man’s head between his meaty hands. The hostage struggled, attempting to squirm and kick out in his chair.
“What’re you doing?” he demanded panickily. “What’re you doing?!”
The pliers came forward, gripping close to but not quite at the lateral canthus of the upper eyelid of the man’s left eye. You pulled the eyelid towards you, tenting it over the man’s cheek as far as it would go whilst Abraham held him steady. With swift, practiced, precise motions, you made your first slice from the outside in. The man screamed as the eyelid peeled partially away from his face in the pliers. Blood poured from the site, down his face and neck, even over his lips and into his mouth. You let the pain intensify before continuing the slice, bit by bit, until the entirety of his upper eyelid was removed. Then, you repeated the process with the other side.
As the hostage sat, screaming and panting, blood running down his face, reminding you of those who’d died from the flu outbreak at the prison, you deposited the pliers back with the other tools. Patiently and carefully, you scraped several glass fragments into one palm with the blade of your knife and returned to the man. Abraham had kept his head still between his hands. Now, you gripped the hair at the top, wrenching the man’s head back just enough that the blood ran towards the rami of his jaw rather than straight down over his cheeks. As one would expect, the hostage was trying to close his eyes from the pain. Fine, but he’d do it your way. With pointer finger and thumb of one hand, you pulled one bottom eyelid out, enough to make a small pocket, and deposited some of the glass shards within, repeating the action with the other eye. Every movement of the orbs, every blink, would now be in agony.
The hostage started to feel it too, right away, and you indicated for Abraham to let go of his head. Tears diluted the thick red blood running down his face, cutting tracks in their wake as you started cutting tracks into him. Effortlessly twirling the knife in your hand until you gripped it properly, you started making little cuts in quick succession. Cheeks. Forehead. Biceps. You even sliced cleanly through his shirt, without so much as a scratch underneath, before painting his pectorals and abs with fresh cuts. Wounds just deep enough to be painful, bleed and scar, if you allowed him to live long enough for that to happen.
“Please, stop! Please!”
“You’re loca, lady!”
You’d reached a crucial point: begging. But begging didn’t mean respite or cessation. Not even close. Begging meant only that the target’s will could be broken, and you wouldn’t let up until it did. And then some.
Next phase, you sunk your knife into the meat at the top of the young man’s thigh, as though it were an axe in a block of wood, wordlessly telling him to ‘hold this’. He screamed once more as you began unspooling a bale of malleable wire, tying it off as a tourniquet around the bicep of his arm with the broken fingers. The man panted heavily, desperate to know what you were doing next, anticipating you were about to amputate his arm. Not quite. Wrenching the knife from his thigh, the man once more shouting loudly, you swiftly spun it down against the fleshy skin just below the tourniquet arm’s inner elbow. Blood bubbled up from the two-inch laceration, running alongside the forearm and dripping steadily onto the floor.
You then twisted the knife in hand as the other gripped the man’s bicep below the tourniquet. Staring him in the eye, you worked the tip of your knife down into the cut you’d made in his forearm, working it back and forth, up and down, loosening the skin from the meat below in order to make a pocket. His screams and pleas to stop, pleas for mercy, were desperate and unyielding from that moment on, but you had yet to hear the magic words. His muscles trembled beneath your hands, quivering with the strain of agony coursing through his body. Once you were satisfied with the gap, you returned to the makeshift countertop. One item you jimmied into your waistband along your back. Another you poured out into a small, partially filled ashtray, not bothering to remove the cigarette remnants. The final item was your pen, disassembled, because all you needed was the hollow barrel, which would do in place of a syringe or pipette.
After submerging half of the pen’s barrel into the bath of ash and bleach you’d poured, you capped the other end with your thumb and returned to the hostage. You signaled for Abraham to take hold of his head again, and once secure, you used your other hand to tilt it up to your liking. It was a slow, deliberate gesture. One could even argue it was executed with tender affection. But nothing was affectionate about the way you then positioned the loaded tube over the man’s face and emptied it of its contents, releasing several drops of bleach into each eye.
The hostage shrilled instantly, eyes and eyelids burning. Under normal circumstances, bleach to an eye was bad enough. The glass you’d introduced under his yet-intact lower eyelids had been making little cuts with every movement and blink, breaking the barrier and providing entry for the liquid bleach into deeper parts of the eye. You figured he would only have a few more minutes of vision left. Best make them count.
Thus, without further preamble, after gesturing for Abraham to release the man once more, you pocketed the barrel of the pen with the other pieces in your vest, swiftly removed the rebar from your waistband, and drove it sharpened-end first lengthwise down into the pocket you’d made in the hostage’s forearm. Further and further you pushed, working the steel back and forth under the skin which tented up but never broke again. The area bled profusely despite the tourniquet. The man screamed in agony. His puffy, severely swollen eyes, bulging with conjunctivitis and scleral injection, half-hidden under blood and tears.
“I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you!”
You stopped and stood to full height, the sharpened end of the rebar mere inches from the radial artery visibly throbbing just below the skin of the man’s wrist. Only about four inches of the rebar remained outside of the arm, poking through blood and tissue like some steampunk compound fracture.
“They’re North, about four miles, at our rendezvous point,” the tortured hostage breathed heavily, head hanging backwards. “A big country club right off the highway. Can’t miss it.”
He lied. You learned well-enough from what you’d been taught to know a lie when you saw one, even when not in situations like this. Now that you were back, it was easier. Much easier. The telltale signs came back to you, like riding a bike and T-boning into a barreling train. And like a bike versus a train, you showed no mercy. He would first pay for his lie, and then he’d just simply continue to pay, until you got what you wanted. Slowly, you walked between him and the driver, eyeing the latter in disinterested curiosity. He too had an expression of believability, of trying to convince you of his companion’s lie, but you equally saw through it, and so you’d make him see too, that lying doesn’t go unpunished.
Expertly swinging your knife back in hand, you spun towards the young man, grabbed his ear in one hand, and sliced down at the base with the other. He screamed pitifully as the driver cursed panickily.
“We told you, you crazy bitch!”
But it was a lie. Maybe you should’ve had Abraham specify earlier. Not just any location would do. You wanted the right location. You wanted your friends. And you wanted them all right fucking now. To further stress this point, you swiftly pivoted to face the driver. Without pause, you brought yourself forward and down, pinning the young man’s amputated pinna into the driver’s thigh with your knife like a pushpin tacking a post-it to a corkboard. The driver roared deeply, screaming frightenedly at the ear against his leg before panting heavily and raising a murderous expression at you.
“You’re a dead puta, you hear me?!”
Sure, tough guy, whatever you say.
Turning back to the young man, you appraised him dully. His fleshy skin was more red than pink from all the blood. One could even argue it was more pale than red. Time was growing short for him. Short for Maggie and Carol. Enough child’s play.
Next phase… Final phase… It was always the final phase…
You slowly strolled back to stand directly in front of the young man. After a moment of simply standing, you just as slowly dropped to a squat in front of him. Your eyes shifted from his broken fingers and rebar arm, to the cuts on his chest, to the razored palm, to his bloodied face, before finally settling on his waist. With deft fingers, and despite his verbal and physical protests, you undid the man’s belt and worked his pants and boxers down to just below the knees. Terror, rather than sexual arousal, you were sure, had brought him to erection. Good. That made things easier.
As you stood up, you looked to Abraham. The man tried to make himself taller, squared his shoulders and swallowed thickly, anticipating what was about to happen. But even he couldn’t have known exactly what you were preparing. Hell, before you relinquished all control to the beast inside, you hadn’t even known yourself that you, the real you, could even conjure up such a diabolical twist to an already diabolical act.
Yet, there you were, having retrieved the burlap bag from your arsenal of tools, once more standing in front of your victim, and slowly pulling out the fake-Gregory Walker head by its hair.
“The fuck?” the primarily tortured hostage gasped panickily, writhing and pulling with revived vigor against his bindings. “The fuck?!”
Final death or not, a Walker was still a Walker. A bite was still a bite. And this freshly-rotten, not rotten-rotten Walker, would do just fine.
With one hand still holding on by the Walker’s hair, you opened its mouth with the other. The young man in the chair in front of you squirmed even more desperately as you stepped forward, lowering the head closer to his genitalia. You let it hover there, barely an inch or two away, before you glanced at Abraham and tapped your head. Though the Sergeant had started looking a little green around the gills himself, he promptly stepped forward and clamped the young hostage’s head between his hands. The man struggled, red and bugging wild eyes shooting every which way. This was when they really panicked. This was when they lost all sense of reality, knowing there’d been no escape yet trying so desperately to find one at the last second.
This was when you leaned forward, sliding the Walker’s mouth around the hostage’s erection. Though the man continued to struggle, you gently though purposely brought the Walker head down to rest on the open seat of the chair between his legs. You kept it in place with your hands before bringing one foot up to the top of the skull. The entire time your eyes remained locked with your victim, head turning quizzically as though you were an owl or other raptor objectively studying its prey. His eyes continued to bolt for a few seconds longer, Abraham’s hold and the knots you’d tied still preventing him from going elsewhere. The orbs were cloudy; his vision must’ve been failing quickly, but enough to still see shapes. Eventually the eyes grew either tired or too frightened to move anymore, the man’s gaze finally meeting yours. One of your slow, steady, even breaths, then two. You held the gaze without moving more than that. Then, at the third breath, you leaned all your weight forward onto your upright foot, driving the Walker’s mouth shut.
The scream from the man was as shrill as any you’d remembered. It wasn’t a clean cut. Hell, it wasn’t even a cut. Freshly-rotten or not, teeth on flesh still took a while to tear all the way through. Blood spurted up onto the man’s lower abdomen, stained his already blood-soaked shirt. The Walker’s skull under your boot surprisingly had yet to give, and so you pushed further forward. Its teeth squelched deeper into the man’s erection, and he screamed even louder. Lean further. Scream louder. Lean further. Scream louder. The sound of teeth clacking signaled the completion of phase one, so you efficiently reached down and readjusted the Walker head further forward, repeating the process for phase two (and technically three) of your namesake.
“You’re sick.”
You slowly turned your head to look smugly, even graciously, at the driver staring in sheer horror at the sight before him.
“You’re sick!”
Leaning just a little further onto the skull as you made to stand with both feet on the ground, you finally felt the second click of teeth on teeth. The job was done, for one of them. Onto the next. You turned towards the driver and took a step in his direction.
“Stay the fuck away from me!” he shouted. “They’re at the slaughterhouse! Down on 66!”
Now that was the truth, and your job was officially done.
Turning your upper half sideways, you tapped your head once more. Abraham immediately let go and stepped back. The instant he did, you unsheathed your machete and whirled around, driving the large blade down atop the yet-screaming young man’s head. The resulting silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged, terrified panting of the driver and your first target’s blood steadily dripping onto the floor. A third sound added to this mix a moment later. That of gagging, from Abraham. You looked to him, and he to you. The man was struggling, choking down whatever it was churning in his stomach. He kept it in, for his own pride or because he was still under your direct orders, you didn’t know nor did you care.
By the time you wrenched your machete free, dropping it onto the makeshift countertop with a metallic clatter and began reassembling the pen in your pocket, Abraham had made purposely yet surprisingly controlled haste for the door. He wrenched it open and swiftly stepped outside. The next sound you heard was bodily retching and liquid contents hitting the floor.
“Get me the fuck outta here!” the driver abruptly called out to those on the other side of the open doorway. “I told her where your people are at, now get me outta here!”
A pair of footsteps entered the room, then another.
“Jesus.”
You were sure Glenn wasn’t talking about the man from Hilltop.
“I said get me outta here!”
“Shut up,” Rick snapped, his voice curt and demanding as his footsteps drew nearer to you.
The pen had been assembled before he and Glenn had walked into the room. The words written by the time they took it all in. Without looking at Rick, you turned the pad to him.
Slaughterhouse on 66
He exhaled heavily, looking up from the notepad to you. “You alright?”
No, far from it.
“(Y/N)?”
No, that wasn’t your name. Not yet. Cassy was still in control. You were trying to lock her away again. You were trying to resurrect yourself once more, but this time, you didn’t know how long that’d take, or if it’d even work.
“Thirteen minutes,” Michonne declared as-a-matter-of-factly, having walked into the room sometime while Rick had spoken to you. “It only took thirteen minutes, to do all this?”
It must’ve been a sight for them to walk in on. Your knife pinning the dead Savior’s ear to the remaining Savior’s thigh. The dead Savior’s head, face and eyes. His hands. His arm. His body. His (lack of) genitalia and the Walker head set on the chair before him. All of it. What did they think? And more importantly, what did they think of you? They now saw for themselves the part of your past you’d hidden from them when you first met and every moment thereafter. What would they think, say, and do now that they knew you? Knew all of you?
You didn’t stick around to find out. Snatching up your machete and then wrenching your knife out of the remaining Savior’s thigh, the man at first attempting to retreat from your advance and then groaning painfully when the weapon was freed, you wordlessly trudged out the door. You stopped but a foot into the hallway, finding Abraham leaning away from the wall and wiping his face, his puke puddle hidden behind a crate. He regarded you stoically, but in his gaze, beneath that stoney exterior, you saw what’d been in every other person’s eyes who’d known who you were and what you did: hesitancy, and fearful respect.
“(Y/N/N)?”
The name made you freeze. The voice’s origin made your breath tremble. You’d worried what they’d think of you now. But that wasn’t the whole truth. You worried most what Daryl would think. Afraid of what that’d be, you ran from knowing. You ran from him. Hurrying down the hall. Hurrying past the others. Hurrying into the garage bay, where just outside the rain continued to drizzle on Daryl’s motorcycle the Saviors had attempted to escape on. You stared out into that open field, out at that bike, your breaths coming faster and faster, shallower and shallower, as your weaponry clattered to the concrete floor. That bike had carried two, and in thirteen minutes you’d chiseled it – chiseled him – down to one. As you lowered yourself against the wall and to the floor, head in your bloody hands, his screams and those of all the others echoed in your mind, the beast’s cold, empty laughter adding to the cacophony even as it locked itself away back in its prison. And it did so happily, for it’d gotten what it wanted. One last hurrah, a reminder to the you still clinging desperately to the life you once knew, that the beast did not and likely never would go gentle into that good night.
Chapter 10: Chapter X
Chapter Text
Daryl was back sleeping in his own bed and (Y/N) had taken her first steps to recovery, thanks to Denise. They’d scored big with medication at the apothecary, and were able to save Eugene, thanks to Denise. But now Denise was dead, all thanks to Daryl. He wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger, but he might as well have been. Daryl had let Dwight live in that burnt forest, and Dwight had come back and killed Denise. He’ll never get his hands clean of that blood. He’ll never scrub his mind clean of that guilt.
(Y/N) breathed deeply against him. Daryl shifted slightly, pulling (Y/N) closer and bringing the hand of the arm not trapped under her up to the side and back of her neck. He knew by the way she was breathing that (Y/N) wasn’t asleep yet, and he couldn’t blame her. After what she’d been through, after today and worrying about him, Daryl knew sleep wouldn’t come easy to either of them. But he’d try, to help her at least. Slowly, he began stroking the skin behind her ear with his thumb, a tender gesture that’d yet to fail sending (Y/N) into slumber. This time, however, the foolproof tactic seemed to finally lose its touch. In fact, it took so long that Daryl was just about to take an ‘L’, when (Y/N)’s breathing leveled off into full subconscious control.
Daryl kept stroking behind her ear long after that happened. It soothed (Y/N) as much as it soothed him, even with his mind focused elsewhere. Denise, who’d helped save so many people, so many of the group’s people, was dead. She’d told Daryl before it happened that he reminded her of her dead brother. As time ticked by, Daryl thought about how (Y/N) had saved so many people, and how he reminded (Y/N) of her dead husband. But unlike Denise, (Y/N) wasn’t dead. Holding her tighter against his chest, Daryl wordlessly promised he’d keep it that way. Tomorrow. No more second chances. No more mistakes. He’d hunt down and kill Dwight before he did the same to anyone else. Daryl, tilting his face downward to peer at the top of (Y/N)’s head, couldn’t afford to let him live. Not again.
After your tours, when shit had hit the fan within your gourd, your husband and a therapist had come to your rescue. You weren’t foolish enough not to know the stages of grief, or where you took up residency for months on end, but you’d been too traumatized to do anything about it. Back then, if there’d been a town called Denial, you’d be the mayor for sure. Population 1. With time, patience, and a Hell of a lot of emotions, you worked your way through the five stages of grief. Or seven stages. Jury was still out on which model you subscribed to. Bottom line was that the foundational five existed in both, and were now your foundation for getting through your current mental shitshow.
Denial. You didn’t spend much time there this time around. It happened. You knew it. Everyone else knew it. And you were not ok. That was the big step the first time. Admitting you weren’t ok. You’d just trucked through day by day, trying to fit your square peg into the round hole of society, despite having been warped and twisted into some fucked up pentagon. This time you weren’t ok, and you didn’t deny it from the jump.
Bargaining. A bit out of order, but who gave a shit. Surely not you, once the group had rescued Maggie and Carol. Hell, they’d rescued themselves. By the time the group got to the slaughterhouse, Maggie and Carol had killed their captors, their captors’ backup, and had lit the place on fire. And it got you thinking. Did you even have to do what you’d done? Did it matter? Would Maggie and Carol have been fine if you hadn’t? The slaughterhouse Saviors weren’t the wiser to what you’d done to their comrades, but did they know you’d closed in on their location by the time Rick had picked up the walkie talkie the second time around? If they knew, was that enough to make them slip, and give Maggie and Carol their chance to escape? If you’d given Daryl a second chance to pick up the trail, then maybe things would’ve still ended up the way they did for Maggie and Carol, but not for you.
Anger. Damn straight you were angry. At yourself. At your military superiors for giving you the nightmarish experience of your past and skillset to repeat it in the present. At everyone else, whether they deserved it or not. This anger kept you fueled and on-edge for days. Kept Daryl from making any progress with his attempts to comfort you. Kept Glenn, Maggie, and Carol from reaching out to express their gratitude for your sacrifice. Kept Abraham’s crass but well-intended peptalks short, but more often than not completely at bay.
Depression. When you weren’t living in Anger Annex, you bunkered in Depression Depot. These were your stages of residency this time around. One minute you’d get frustrated or snap at the smallest inconvenience or gentlest inquiry to your wellbeing, and the next you’d be holing yourself up in your bedroom behind a locked door, sitting on the floor with back against your bed, crying and secretly craving to be held and comforted. The whiplash was bad enough for you, and arguably worse for the group and other Alexandrians, which made you even guiltier and more depressed. Nothing more so than your actions and emotions unintentionally banishing Daryl to the living room couch like a spurned lover. One night, late at night, you’d gone downstairs for water after getting a headache from crying for so long. You’d met Daryl’s gaze from that couch in the dimly lit room, and the expression on his face, that of sad compassion, concern and understanding, unnerved you. Because you didn’t deserve it. Not after what you’d done. So, with fresh tears in your eyes, you’d fled back upstairs, and hadn’t seen him since.
Acceptance. While nowhere near this stage, you did accept one crucial fact, and that was the reason for your grief itself. On the surface, it was easy to assume it was all because you picked up your torturing mantle once more, because you’d broken your promise. In reality, it went one step further. Yes, you’d broken your promise. The promise to your dead husband. The last thing of him that existed in this world. And with the breaking of that promise, he too was now well and truly dead. You’d mourned him earlier. Now it was time to grieve. You broke the promise, the last surviving piece of your dead husband, forsaking the redeeming goodness he somehow still saw in you after what you’d done and gone through, and for what? Maggie and Carol were physically unharmed. They’d saved themselves. So what the Hell was it all for?
Knock-knock-knock. “(Y/N)?”
No surprise, you’d been up in your bedroom again when someone came knocking on the door. You picked your head up from your arms hugging around your knees.
“It’s Denise,” Alexandria’s doctor announced. “I just… wanted to check on you. Everyone’s worried. Can I come in?”
She couldn’t if she tried. You’d locked the door. You shifted against the footboard at your back but didn’t move beyond that as you stared at the wooden panel in front of you.
“Full disclosure, Daryl asked me to come see you. He… told me what happened.”
But he didn’t know the half of it, at least not the half still torturing your mind after you’d physically left that blood-strewn room behind.
“I’d like to hear it from you. Being a psychiatrist, what you’re going through is more in my wheelhouse than anything else I’ve had to deal with lately, and if I can’t help you, then what the Hell am I even doing being Alexandria’s doctor, right?” she jested uneasily. “So let me be useful for what I already know instead of muddling through something for a change.”
Oh, right. Denise’s specialty wasn’t aligned with Pete’s. In this instance, maybe that’d be a good thing, but you didn’t get your hopes up. Your grief wouldn’t let you. Instead, it focused on the end of Denise’s plea, comparing her muddling through doctoring like you’d been muddling through life the past few years. Ignoring that awful part of you, acknowledging its existence yet denying it all the same. Believing just a few words had been keeping your dead husband alive.
Denise sighed heavily on the other side of the door. “You don’t even have to talk. Or, write. We can just sit in silence together. Misery loves company and all that.”
Misery would be better company than you for the foreseeable future, that was for sure.
“Could you at least knock or something? Let me know I didn’t just talk to an empty room?”
Your hand slid across your bent knee down along the side of your thigh, knuckles gently rapping against the hardwood floor beside your buttocks.
Denise didn’t say anything for a moment, but you could imagine the small smile on her face from your reply. You saw her shadow under the door shifting slightly.
“Ok, well… Just… know that you’re not alone, alright?” she finally replied, almost sadly. “Even if you feel that everyone thinks differently of you, which is true, it’s not in the way you think. Everyone’s worried for you, not scared of you. After everything you’ve done, for them, for us, we don’t want you, any of you, even the part of you that you hate the most, to disappear. That part helped save Carol and Maggie. It helped save Carl, Eric, Judith, Abraham. Hate how you got that way all you want, but know that I only see all the good it’s done for us, and I’m sure that’s all anyone else sees too.”
Did they? Because it was hard for you to see anything but the proud beast once more locked away in its shadowy prison, and the disappointed expression on your dead husband’s face.
“Deanna said who we were before matters, but it doesn’t mean who we were is still who we are, or who we will ever be,” Denise carried on more softly. “I mean, after med school, I never thought I’d be an actual surgeon, yet here I am. I may suck at it, I may have people like you who know more about things step in when I don’t know shit, but I’m trying, because people need me to try. Because Tara believes in me and convinced me to get off my ass and try. So just… try.”
Try, huh? She made it sound so simple.
“That’s… That’s all I’ve gotta say.”
Denise’s tone, a moment ago impassioned and emboldened, was now practically defeated, or, at the very least, exacerbated. She might have been talking to you through a door, but for all intents and purposes it must’ve felt to her like talking to a brick wall.
“Listen, I’m going on a run for some medicine today, with Rosita and Daryl. They’re gonna take me. Come, if you’d like, but I understand if you don’t.”
Silence. More silence.
“I’ll be back later to check on you again,” she carried on. “Or stop by the infirmary, whenever you like. Seriously, anytime, alright? We… we still need you.”
I need you. The words, the memory, popped into your head. Daryl’s words, from the night of Deanna’s welcoming party for the group, when you and Daryl confessed your feelings to one another. I’m scared too, (Y/N/N). Scared of losing ya, because I don’t know if I can do this without ya either. I need you. Just, never thought you’d need me too. Scared you didn’t. Scared-er you did. Ya know? Yeah, you were scared-er than Hell. Now more than ever.
“Ok, that’s— that’s, yeah. Later,” Denise stammered before you heard her footsteps retreating from the room and down the stairs.
You stared at the door for a while thereafter, thinking. Even if the others worried about you, forgave you, could you forgive yourself? Would your husband and sister forgive you if they were still alive, knowing you’d broken your promise? Would they forgive you if you hadn’t broken it, but Maggie and Carol had died? Did the others – did Daryl – really need you as much as he and Denise claimed? What made you so special? An uncanny ability to survive in a harsh and hostile world, because you’d been trained to inflict insurmountable pain and subject your victims to said harsh and hostile world? You were a perpetuator of the violence you sought so desperately to suppress, to survive, to break the cycle of, both internal and external.
But no matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, you could not escape that past, and you were foolish to believe you could indefinitely maintain such an important yet fragile promise. Not here. Not in this world. Such luxuries were beyond your reach, and beyond your control. This was the new world, some sick mix of the Hell you’d perpetuated and the garden your husband’s compassion, patience and support had built for you to delude yourself away in. This world was merciless and savage like your past, and it’d strung you along, holding onto that promise like a kite on a windy day. It’d been a beacon of hope you constantly chased after and clung to, no matter where it took you. Even if that meant running to the ends of the earth in an Apocalypse, following it over the edge like a lemming because it’d kept you alive this long; why would it lead you astray now? It hadn’t. You were the one who chose to let go of the string without a backup parachute, and as that kite drifted higher and higher on warm thermals, you continued your terrifying descent into frigid darkness once more.
Simon and Garfunkel hadn’t lied when they called darkness an old friend. That’s indeed how it felt for you in the near week since you and the group had taken out the Saviors. But not every friend was kind. Sometimes they were a manipulative gaslighting sonofabitch who wanted nothing more than to control your every breath, and thanking them when they let up on the pillow they were suffocating you with. This darkness was that friend, and you thought you’d cut that toxic bastard out of your life when you went through this shit years ago.
And that got you thinking: how did you get through that shit? How did you learn to breathe freely again? Back then, you’d let yourself fall for a long while, deeper into the abyss, until the abyss looked into you. But from that darkness, guiding hands reached out blindly, having ventured down to you and bring you back up with them, rather than lure you out, and it’d been exactly what you needed. Eventually the abyss became steely gray, then lighter and lighter, until you saw the hands guiding you up towards the light had been attached to your husband and your sister. There’d be no you without them, and for a while, after their deaths, there wasn’t. Just a shell of that reanimated you. A walking dead, somewhere between past and present, never moving into the future despite surviving day to day.
Until the prison. Until the group. Until Daryl. They’d brought you back to life, like your husband and sister brought you back to life. Maybe they could do it again. Maybe, just maybe, they needed you as much as you needed them. Maybe wasn’t perfect. Maybe wasn’t a promise. But it was hope, a new kite with patchwork throughout, but one that could still catch the wind and begin lifting you slowly by its string from the darkness.
You got to your feet and crossed the room to the window. Downstairs, outside, Daryl and Rosita stood talking in front of the porch. Beside them was Daryl’s bike, thought lost after he’d tried saving those people in the burnt forest after the quarry. He’d been tuning it up since that day with the Saviors, the amount of time he spent with it no doubt in part due to the distance you’d been forcing between you both since that same day. For a moment you envied that bike. Machinery was easy. No emotion. No feeling. It worked or it didn’t. Decayed with neglect and misuse, ran smoothly with upkeep. Required no commitment on its part, relying solely on another to keep in working order. No choice, just existence, until weathering and time broke it down to nothing more than a pile of scraps and rust. What kind of life that would be.
The muted sound of the front door shutting was heard before you saw Denise appear on the sidewalk with Rosita and Daryl. They talked briefly, Rosita breaking away with a look of exasperation first, then Denise, but Daryl lingered behind. He stayed on the sidewalk, watching after them, wiping his hands on the rag from his back pocket and turning his gaze up to you in the window. It was clear by the slowing of his hands, the deep breath and resettling of his shoulders that Daryl hadn’t expected to see you standing there. What was more surprising was that, unlike all the other times over the past few days when you’d felt his or someone else’s gaze on you, you didn’t immediately shy away.
Instead, you smiled gently, and gave him the sign for ‘stay’ with both hands before turning from the window. You snatched the notepad off the nightstand and headed downstairs. Only once you reached the porch did you slow down, hesitant. You’d been distancing from everyone, especially Daryl, for days. How would he react? Daryl picked up on your footsteps’ pace and lifted his gaze to you. Slowly, you crossed the porch, descended the steps, and spanned the walkway over to him beside the bike. He didn’t say anything at first, and you kept your eyes down on his hands still wiping through the rag. After the last few days, maybe Daryl learned, had known better, not to say something.
But that’s not what you wanted. You didn’t want any of this. You didn’t want this tension or awkwardness coming between you. Not again. Your grief and self-loathing, your fear. You didn’t want it, because you needed him to get through it. You needed Daryl, and you hung tightly to the string of that new kite flying higher into the atmosphere, hoping Daryl still meant what he told you that first night.
Reaching up, you stilled Daryl’s hands with one of yours. You then worked your fingers through his until you gently took the rag from his grasp. In doing so, you stepped forward into his chest, wrapping your arms around him, surreptitiously sliding the rag into his back pocket once more before tightening your hug around his lumbar. One of Daryl’s hands found its way to the side of your face, cupping it gently as he brought his forehead tenderly to your head. His callused thumb stroked your cheek soothingly, the gentle rise and fall of his chest with the breaths he took reminding you of how much you wanted to live again, not just survive.
“Denise talk to ya?” Daryl asked after several seconds had passed.
You nodded against him, his clothes a bit scratchy on your forehead.
“You a’ight?”
Slowly, you leaned away and looked up at Daryl, shaking your head side to side. You quickly took a step back and lifted your notepad, jotting across the paper. Not ok, but better
Daryl nodded, but didn’t have a chance to reply before you started writing once more.
Come to bed tonight. Please. Despite how I’ve been acting, I promise you’re still welcome there. I’m sorry, for everything. I never meant to hurt you
“You didn’t,” Daryl assured. “At least not in any way that counts.”
That hurt more than if he said you did. Either Daryl was lying for your sake, or, if it ‘didn’t’ hurt him as he claimed, that meant he believed his feelings didn’t matter. With an ache in your heart, you wrote slowly across the notepad, and just as slowly turned it to him.
I need you, Daryl. … Do you still need me?
His expression when he lifted his face back to you was pained, confused, saddened and reverent. “Never stopped.”
You blinked rapidly and breathed deeply, as a smile cut across your face and a relieved sigh escaped your lips. Daryl cut it off the next second with a kiss. His hand, having returned to your cheek, adjusted your face upward, allowing his lips to press deeper. It was by no means a long or pillaging kiss, as you knew Daryl’s take on PDA, but it was pleasantly surprising, and, more importantly, emotionally validating. When it was over, the two of you kept your foreheads together, just breathing in the same pocket of air between your chests.
“You lovebirds done yet?”
Rosita’s snippy remark came out of nowhere, but you had enough composure to not let your startlement show as you turned around to face her. She’d since returned and now stood just down the sidewalk with Denise, who looked even more embarrassed than any of the rest of you.
“We’re burning daylight,” Rosita pressed irritably.
You knew she didn’t mean anything personal by it, and you weren’t one to judge. After the way you acted the past several days, Rosita seemed almost tame in comparison. Besides, with how things ended between her and Abraham, Rosita’s response to you and Daryl’s PDA was to be expected. So, not wanting to make matters worse, especially since she, Daryl and Denise were about to go on a run together, you stepped to the side, smiling sheepishly. Rosita merely scoffed. Your eyes scanned to Denise, who smiled in shy kindness. You returned the gesture, signing your thanks to her.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Daryl declared, adding after you turned to face him, “And I expect that invitation to still be on the table.”
You chuckled softly and nodded slightly in affirmation. Thereafter, he returned his own characteristic grin, before heading down the sidewalk towards Rosita and Denise. The latter waved as the three then deviated towards the gates and the long row of vehicles parked there. You waved in return and watched them go a moment before finding yourself momentarily at a loss. What now? Well, first things first, you decided to pay visits to the Rhees, Carol, Abraham and Aaron. You’d been rather awful to them the past few days, spurning their concerns for you, not addressing or inquiring of their own troubles and wellbeing after the incident with the Saviors. Making amends was the first draft in keeping your kite flying high.
The Rhees had been grateful, understanding of the impact your actions had on you by bringing back the past you’d tried so desperately to suppress. You stayed with them awhile before trying to track down Abraham. Learning he’d gone out on his own mission with Eugene that morning, you moved on to Aaron. He and Eric were at their house, and the conversation went similarly to the Rhees’, minus their knowledge of your past. You provided that information for them. An abridged version, of course, but enough that they got the picture, and still accepted you into their photo album.
The amends were going well, until Carol. She was… like you. Distant. In shock. Grieving. But unlike you, she was firmly in the denial phase. Whatever happened in that slaughterhouse brought her there, and Carol refused to leave. She refused to talk, even to you. There’d been one meaningful exchange, one informative question as to what she was going through, and then, with her question answered, she’d simply smiled and walked away.
“Before the world went to Hell, when the Wolves attacked, the other day with the Saviors… How do you do it? Kill people, so… impersonally?”
It’s always personal, Carol. When it stops being personal, that’s when I know I’m a dead woman walking. I want to live, and the pain of carrying their deaths for the rest of my life lets me know I’m alive
Right after, that’s when you heard commotion at the gate, the old stick-shift truck the trio had left in that morning barreling up the road to the infirmary. As you hurried to building 74, you saw Abraham and Daryl hop out of the cab and run around to the back of the bed. Rosita jumped up and then down, and the three of them hastily carried Eugene – his blue shirt stained red with blood – into the infirmary. Denise was nowhere to be found.
By the time you entered the building, Abraham had already run out, appearing to be heading for your group’s houses. Eugene had his shirts open and Rosita was exploring an abdominal wound, calling out orders to Daryl as he hurriedly retrieved her requested items. You moved closer. Through their bodies, you saw Eugene’s wound was a gunshot to his lower left side. It appeared non-life-threatening, a graze at best, but its presence meant something had happened. Eugene was unconscious as Rosita began to clean and dress the wound.
Only after a fresh bandage was applied and Rosita, with labored, adrenaline-driven breaths, collapsed tiredly and upright on the bed beside Eugene, did Daryl peel his eyes away and found you standing close by. You looked from him back outside and to him again, a concerned and questioning expression on your face. He understood, and, briefly averting his gaze, shook his head before moving to stand by and stare out the window. Denise was dead.
“That asshole I let live in the forest did this,” Daryl muttered, practically seethed, after you’d taken measured steps to stand at the window opposite him. “Wasn’t even aiming for ‘er.”
That’s when you looked away, and noticed Daryl’s crossbow on the floor behind him. It’d been gone for over a month, stolen by those people in the forest Daryl had tried to help, along with his recently recovered motorcycle. The Saviors had had his bike. Stood to reason they’d also had Daryl’s bow, and the guy who’d originally stolen them both, which meant you and your group hadn’t taken care of the entire Saviors infestation as thoroughly as you’d thought. That fact, along with their request to be let into Alexandria and plunder whatever and whoever they wanted, revealed after Eugene had awakened and Abraham had returned, Rick joining you all soon after, was scary. Not as scary, however, as the implication. Their request meant they knew where you were. It possibly meant they could storm in at any time. You’d all just survived the first firefight relatively unscathed. It was doubtful you’d be lucky enough to do it again.
Several hours later, Daryl, Abraham and Rosita were returning once again in that old truck. They’d gone to bring back Denise’s body for burial, successful and unharmed in their mission. Abraham and Rosita appeared from behind the row of evergreens shortly after bringing Denise’s white-sheeted body around the building to the small cemetery there, but not Daryl. He’d been quiet in the infirmary; you knew he was taking her death hard. You made to walk off the porch, to go assist with the burial, when a hand appeared on your arm. It was Carol, her expression understanding and insistent. She didn’t want to go for you, but for herself, and you let her.
Nothing changed by that evening. Not that you’d expected it to. Well, at least interpersonally. Once word got out about what happened, more guard towers were erected, more shifts were scheduled, and guns from the armory were to be stationed around Alexandria for easier access. But Daryl, he was still withdrawn. If Carol had said anything to him while they buried Denise, and that was a big if, then it didn’t have nearly as profound an effect on him as Denise’s words had on you earlier in the day. And you let it be. You’d been an emotional loose cannon for several days; you could show the same courtesy to Daryl.
But one thing you wouldn’t let go without at least a reminder was the aforementioned invitation. At bedtime, Daryl had begun to get settled on the couch, out of habit or thinking he’d better sleep alone after the day’s events, you couldn’t be sure. Regardless, you went over to him, gently taking his wrist to get his attention. Once you had it, you lifted your gaze and jutted your chin upwards and backwards, in the direction of the stairs and your shared bedroom, your expression soft and inviting.
“I shouldn’t.”
Your eyebrows furrowed confusedly, and you shook a Shaka sign at him. Why?
For a moment Daryl was speechless, frozen with an expression of resignation and defeat. “Nevermind, a’ight?” he eventually replied, tossing the blanket haphazardly back onto the couch. “C’mon. You got an early shift tomorrow, right?”
You nodded affirmatively.
“Let’s get you some shuteye, then.”
You smirked, and he returned it with a smile. As he followed you upstairs, it was easy to hide your unease from his first answer. What had he meant? The question repeated in your mind even as you both lay down to sleep together for the first time in nearly a week. The cuddly type Daryl was not, at least not often outside of aftercare, but tonight he pulled you against his chest and held you in his arms. Usually this would send you right off to sleep, but that question nagged at you, kept you awake, and you wondered if Daryl stayed awake because he sensed it too, or if it was because his mind was plagued by his own troubled thoughts. You’d ask later, try to get to the bottom of things and get him to talk it out, because that’s how Daryl best needed to heal. Later. Tomorrow, after your shift. For now, Daryl was right, and though it took much longer than usual, eventually, with Daryl’s thumb running smooth, languid circles over the skin behind your ear, you slowly drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 11: Chapter XI
Chapter Text
“So, you think it’s your fault?”
“Yeah, I know it is. I’m gonna go do what I should’ve done before.”
“What, for her? She’s gone, man. You’re doing this for you.”
“Man, I don’t give a shit.”
“Well, you should, because saying you don’t give a shit is like saying you don’t give a shit about us. About (Y/N).”
That very notion offended Daryl. He was doing this for them. For her. “She’ll understand.”
“Like Hell. (Y/N) ran from her post to the gates to stop you. You think she’ll understand if you die out here for the sake of revenge? After everything she just went through for us, for Maggie and Carol, you think she’ll understand you leaving her like that?”
Daryl remained silent, contemplative, angrily stoic at Glenn’s logic.
“Abraham was right; it’s more important to be there for her now, and now more than ever after what we learned about the Saviors. What if they attack Alexandria while you’re gone? While we’re out here trying to bring you back? Think she’ll understand then? Or maybe (Y/N) and everyone else we care about won’t even be alive to understand when we get back.”
Glenn’s guilt-tripping tactic only fueled Daryl’s anger even more. A new anger, at the possibility of that reality, at Glenn proposing such an awful scenario, but anger nonetheless. Still speechless, the silence between them thick and prickly, and the conversation leading them nowhere, Daryl then turned his back and began walking away.
“Daryl…” Glenn rushed after him, cutting the archer off. “We need to get back there and figure this out from home. Our home. We need you, and everyone back there needs us right now. It’s-it’s gonna go wrong out here.”
Damn straight it’d gone wrong. Glenn’s words played over and over in Daryl’s head as they rode along in the back of a van, then parked in darkness for what had to have been several hours. Daryl’s arm hurt; the gunshot wound Dwight had given him throbbed like a sonofabitch. It was a cold night, the Saviors had cut the engine, and they’d taken away Daryl’s jacket. Dehydration and blood loss weren’t helping either, rendering Daryl’s mental state and vision in a hazy fog. He was, however, coherent enough to hear the Saviors’ telltale whistle begin to echo loudly, and notice lights kicking on outside, the bright yellow beams barely cutting through the van’s rear windows caked with dirt. Still, it was enough for Daryl to look around at the others, at Glenn, Michonne and Rosita, stuck in the same boat, and for the millionth time in two days, he repeated a bitter admission of guilt to himself.
“Dwight!”
“Yeah.”
“Chop-chop.”
The voices had come from outside. Clearer, in part due to the Saviors’ whistles having somewhat sharpened Daryl’s senses. A moment later, the backdoors of the van swung open, and Daryl was momentarily blinded by the intensity of the lights.
“Come on,” Dwight ordered. “You got people to meet.”
A different Savior reached forward and swept Daryl’s legs towards the edge of the van before grabbing him by the bum arm and dragging him out. The archer grunted in pain and protest as he was forced to his knees. Daryl glared back and up at the Savior who’d manhandled him, as well as at Dwight. The blonde eyed him just as disdainfully, before he dragged Glenn out of the van himself. Daryl turned away, looking down the assembled line of others on their knees. Though he recognized and subconsciously, worriedly, acknowledged them all, Daryl couldn’t help but lock eyes on and with (Y/N).
What was she doing there?! Why wasn’t she in Alexandria where he left her, safe from Dwight while Daryl was out hunting him down?! Guilt and fear gripped his chest tightly as his heart started beating wildly, how he felt inside somehow reflected in the look (Y/N) was giving him on the outside. Daryl must’ve been a sight: covered in blood, his characteristic vest now on the man he’d failed to kill twice, and draped in some ratty blanket instead. By the look on (Y/N)’s face, the way her breathing and body reacted, he knew she was taking it all in as well. Seeing her, and seeing her like that, Daryl knew he had to rein himself in, if not for his sake, then for hers. For the others. So, with a short breath and heavy swallow, Daryl did just that.
“All right, we got a full boat!” the Savior in front of the group crowed eagerly.
Grinning, the Savior continued to step back into the shadows, towards the RV. Daryl stole another glance at (Y/N). If she’d looked away from him as he had her, he wouldn’t’ve known, and that hurt almost as much as the panic of wondering what was about to come next. The panic of wondering if this would be Daryl’s last day on Earth with (Y/N), because his promise from the previous night still stood, and he’d be damned if he broke the last promise he ever made her.
“Let’s meet the man.”
It was shaping up to be a dreary day. The sky was slate gray in the dawning hours and hadn’t changed thereafter. A drizzle had begun shortly before your shift, and hadn’t let up either. You were stationed on one of the side towers, the same one where you’d taken over Michonne’s shift after she spotted Spencer venture out into the woods to dispatch his Walkerfied mother not two weeks ago. Had that much happened in such a short period of time? Meeting Jesus and the Hilltop. Taking out – or believing you took out – the Saviors. … Cassy. … Losing Denise. The Musical Chairs of relationships between your group and the Alexandrians. The emotional fallout and turmoil in you and Daryl’s—
A revving motorcycle engine suddenly cut through your thoughts and brought your scanning eyes into the community. Daryl was on his bike and gunning for the gates, his crossbow secured behind him. Where was he going? Everyone was on high-alert now, preparing for an attack. After yesterday— Yesterday. Daryl had taken everything that happened yesterday outside the walls very, very personally. It wasn’t just grief he was feeling, but guilt. You knew he was. You knew his guilt was always profound. Like with Carol’s daughter Sophia, and Hershel, Beth, and now Denise. It took him – like it took you – to dark places sometimes. You just didn’t think it’d take him to go off and do something reckless about it at a time like this!
He was already slowing at the gates by the time you slung the lookout rifle over your shoulder and began descending the ladder. Once grounded, you started to run, ignoring the aching pull of the muscles in your back. Daryl had already gotten the gates open and was returning to his bike. There wasn’t much time. When he grasped one handle, his eyes elevated, somehow knowing you were running after him. Your gazes met, his fiercely determined and one-track minded, yours pleadingly insistent and somewhat desperate that he just wait a goddamned minute to think about what he was doing!
But a minute never passed. In fact, there hadn’t even been a pause between his hand on the first handle and your gazes meeting, before Daryl swung one leg over and straddled the bike once more. He had the kickstand up and bike in gear, barreling down the road by the time you blew by Sasha at the RV. You watched with worried defeat as Daryl disappeared into the distance and you came up short at the gates behind Rosita.
“Whoa!”
Glenn pumped the brakes of the van he and Michonne had gotten into, stopping just before hitting Abraham with his upright hands landing on the hood.
“Make room for my freckled ass!” Abraham declared.
“No,” Rosita barked, circumventing you and walking towards the van. She turned her directive at Abraham. “Cover my watch. You stay.”
“Hey, we should keep numbers here,” Glenn insisted.
“I know where Daryl’s going,” Rosita countered, knowing she’d get her way by that one little sentence. And sure enough, Glenn and Michonne let her climb into the back.
You hurried to the driver’s side door, and when the duo turned to you, you lightly though insistently patted your chest with a flat palm.
Glenn shook his head. “Stay here. Keep this place safe,” he replied just as assertively as the first order. But seeing the look in your eye, his own expression and voice softened. “We’ll get him back, (Y/N/N). Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry, huh? Yeah right, you thought sardonically as Glenn put the van in gear and pulled away. Maggie came to stand beside you as Abraham moved forward to shut the gates once more. As much as you hated to admit it, Glenn was right; you were better off here defending this place so there would be a home to bring Daryl back to. But that didn’t mean you had to like it. So, after exchanging mirrored worried expressions with Maggie, you begrudgingly returned to your post. Not long after, Tobin and Rick hurried by, heading for the gates. A small group gathered there and spoke in harsh and insistent tones. Something else was going on, made especially evident when you saw Morgan and Rick hop into the next car in the line of vehicles and speed off down the road.
Tobin told you on the way back to his house. Carol had disappeared sometime last night. Said she couldn’t stay, not if it meant killing people in order to defend the group and your home. Not that you blamed her, not after what she’d asked you yesterday. You just didn’t think it’d turn out like this. First Daryl. Now Carol. With Glenn, Michonne, Morgan and Rick all out looking for them. You didn’t want to tempt Murphy’s Law, but goddamn, what else could go wrong?
“Ah!”
You opened your eyes. After your shift and a few walks around the inside perimeter, you’d returned home and went upstairs to take a short nap, passing Enid and Maggie along the way. The others weren’t back yet, or if they were you hadn’t known. It sufficed you to lie down and try to rest, but all you did was ponder, and worry, showing Glenn how poorly you were executing his earlier recommendation. Then, just as you were feeling the slightest pull towards unconsciousness, a sharp cry broke through your haze. Then another.
“Ahhh, ahhh!”
“Maggie?!” Enid cried out. “(Y/N)! (Y/N), get down here! We need help!”
You were already on your feet by the second shout, and halfway down the stairs by the time Enid called for you. Hastily rounding the bottom of the steps, you found Enid and Maggie still in the kitchen, only now Maggie was on the floor, curled forward in fetal position, whimpering with punctuated cries of agony.
Enid looked up as you approached. “Something’s wrong!”
No shit. You stooped beside Maggie, Enid hovering behind you. Though both of you were likely useless at present, you both could at least try to be useful. Turning to Enid, you repeatedly and hastily waved her away and signed for ‘help’.
She shook her head, eyes wide and panicked. “I-I don’t understand,” she stammered.
You huffed in exasperation. As Maggie let out another scream, you took out your pocket notepad and pen and scrawled near illegibly across the page. Go get help!
Enid nodded hurriedly and quickly turned on her heels, rushing out the front door. You turned your attention back to Maggie, doubled-over and clutching her abdomen. Memories from your own pregnancy pain flashed behind your eyes. It’d been nothing like this, and you couldn’t remember if this degree of agony was something potentially expected, or something gone terribly wrong. Hastily, you jumped up and retrieved a pillow from the couch and water from the fridge. You then helped lay Maggie down on the floor, head against the pillow. Sweat began to bead along her forehead, which you dabbed away with the bottom of your shirt.
In what world would this be a normal experience for an uncomplicated pregnancy? Something had to be wrong. Even before the world went to shit, loss of life was still a considerable risk when pregnancies went wrong. What were Maggie’s odds now, in this world? What were the baby’s? The Hilltop! The Hilltop had a doctor. He’d know what was going on. He’d have the best chance of helping Maggie and the baby. You had to get her there, no matter what. She and Glenn were trying to build something, something you’d tried building yourself only to have it come crumbling down around you. Like Hell you’d sit by and let that happen to them too. They fought too hard, deserved goodness too much, for this world to take it away.
“Breathe, Maggie,” you croaked, running your hand soothingly through her freshly cut hair. “Just breathe.”
Her pained eyes slowly opened and lifted to meet your gaze, curiosity and confusion breaking through the agonized expression on her face. “(Y/N)? You—?”
“Don’t tell anyone,” you replied hastily, then abruptly shifted your hand under Maggie’s shoulders to lean her up, offering the water bottle to her lips. “Drink.”
She did, then looked upon you with fear in her eyes. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she fretted. “You-you were pregnant before, right? This… this isn’t normal.”
Swallowing the lump in your throat, you shook your head with dismal confirmation. Maggie stifled another cry, the shout fading into a muted whimper as you lowered her flat onto the floor once more and dabbed at her forehead again. Moments later, the front door burst open. Looking up, you saw first Rick then Abraham rushing in, followed thereafter by Enid.
“Maggie,” Rick exhaled in breathless concern, dropping to one knee beside you.
“Rick,” she whimpered. “Something’s wrong. I-I’m scared. The baby—”
“You’re gonna be alright. You both are,” he assured, then turned to the others. “Abraham, help me get her to the couch.”
The men carefully balanced Maggie between them into the living room and deposited her gently on the furniture. Enid refused to stray more than three feet from them in transport, then sat immediately beside Maggie on the cushions. As Rick and Abraham stepped back, assessing Maggie and the situation, you scrawled one word, double-underlined, across your notepad and proffered it to Rick.
Hilltop
He looked from the word up to you. Your expression was serious. You knew the risks going out there, to those who did and those left behind, but the risks to Maggie and the baby were greater if you didn’t try. Rick seemed to understand that, nodding agreeably with you.
“Get the RV,” he instructed. “If this doesn’t pass, we’ll go.”
You sighed heavily, and wrote again. This won’t pass
Rick eyed you, and you him, this time with a combination of dismayed concern and pessimistic pragmatism. As much as you wanted to believe Maggie and the baby would be alright without a doctor, you knew such wasn’t the case. This was serious, and none of you could afford to waste much time. So, without another word in speech or writing, you went down to the gate and fetched the RV, pulling it up between the houses. By the time you got back, Abraham had gone. Rick and Enid were still with Maggie, Carl now having joined them. Ten minutes went by. Twenty. Maggie was getting worse. You looked to Rick, and he made the call.
“Pack your things,” he declared, looking to you and Carl. “We’re going.”
You nodded and went into motion immediately. As Carl marched out of the house, heading for the armory with Enid on his heels, you marched upstairs. With practiced, habitual movements, you strapped on your machete, knife, and sidearm. You and Rick then carried Maggie into the RV, placing her on the bed in the back. You waited at the foot, watching over her while Rick went out and got things together himself. Eventually, your three-man team became a squad, a full-blown escort Hell-bent on getting Maggie to Hilltop and ready to take down whoever and whatever got in your way. You, Rick, Carl, Abraham, Sasha, Eugene, and Aaron. A pretty formidable group. But, as you passed Alexandria’s gates, you crossed into the Saviors’ unofficial territory, and knew they too weren’t to be taken lightly.
They made that perfectly clear the first time you ran into one of their roadblocks, and the second. First eight of them, with an unfortunate soul at their feet, then 16. All different people. Their numbers had quickly outnumbered your own, both in the RV and back at Alexandria combined, at least in fighters. The satellite station and slaughterhouse had merely been the tip of the iceberg. What the Hell had you all gotten yourselves into?
Suddenly, Abraham pumped the brakes on the RV again. Looking over from your seat on the bench, you couldn’t see around Rick standing between Abraham and Sasha. Getting to your feet, you stepped forward, placing one hand on the headrest of Sasha’s chair as the other leaned one of the rifles Carl had retrieved from the armory over your opposite shoulder. You stared ahead warily and angrily. A third roadblock. But this time, the numbers wouldn’t count. As Abraham came to a complete stop, you appraised what lay just beyond the hood of the RV. Walkers, chained together, spanning the width of the road and chained on either side to nearby trees to ensure they did their job.
“We can’t go through it. Can’t risk the RV,” Rick decided, before addressing Abraham. “You stay behind the wheel, just in case. We’ll clear it.”
Slowly, the rest of you, minus Maggie, exited the RV one by one, weapons up and trained into the surrounding woods as you approached the line of Walkers. The undead growled and pulled towards the group, wanting to tear into flesh like the chains binding them tore into their own. Eugene remarked on it, reiterating in his own way that the Saviors had numbers to put together such a precarious show of force.
“Come on, let’s do this,” Rick then insisted, shouldering his rifle and reaching for his blade.
Carl hesitated behind him, lowering his own weapon. “Dad.”
“That’s Michonne’s,” Aaron declared.
You kept your gun up at the woods but looked away, towards the Walkers, over Sasha’s shoulder. Everyone else looked too, at one of the Walkers in the middle of the line. Over its long-sleeved shirt, the Walker sported a familiar leather vest, and an even more familiar, and terrifying, hairdo. Two locks of Michonne’s dreads were embedded in the side of the Walker’s snarling, decomposing cranium, fresh blood at the attachment points. Your heartbeat immediately hastened. Michonne had gone out with Glenn and Rosita. What happened to them? Just as importantly, they’d gone out to—
“That’s Daryl’s,” Sasha pointed out a moment later.
You immediately looked at her before scanning your eyes back to the Walkers, following Sasha and Rick’s gazes. At the far side of the line was a Walker with two bolts in its chest. They’d come from Daryl’s crossbow, which he’d only just recovered the day before, during their confrontation with Dwight and his group of Saviors, where Denise had died. You’d seen that crossbow earlier that morning, strapped behind Daryl on the bike as he determinedly yet foolheartedly rode-off to avenge her death. So, where was it now? Where was Daryl now? Where were they all now? And, most importantly, were they still alive?
As Rick stepped forward to rip Michonne’s dreads out of the Walker’s skull, and even though panicked thoughts tried to dominate your focus, you returned your gaze to the surrounding woods. Just in time too, for not a moment later gunshots from the opposite side of the road’s forest sounded off. A hasty glance in that direction found puffs of dust kicking up at the men’s feet, as Eugene and Aaron began retreating.
“Get back to the RV!” Rick ordered. “Go!”
Meanwhile, you, Sasha, Carl, and Abraham, jumping out while the other men rushed in, began laying down cover fire as Rick hacked through a Walker’s arm with his hatchet, breaking the roadblock. The freed halves of the line of Walkers advanced. Rick took down two on his side, weighing his half down in the dirt off the road. Sasha led your side of the road’s line closer to her before doing the same with a rapid-fire of her rifle. You, then Sasha, then Rick, were the last into the RV, and to your surprise, at least in the moment, the Saviors hadn’t continued their gunfire as you drove by.
“They were firing at our feet,” Rick announced shortly after getting on the road again.
You’d taken up the passenger seat this time, and turned perpendicularly before swiveling your head to face him. The weary leader still held Michonne’s hair between his fingers, and though he kept it together for the most part, at least on the outside, you knew from experience that the look on his face was hiding terror on the inside.
“L.T.”
You swiveled your head around and faced Abraham directly. Beside you, as you waited for Abraham to continue, you could hear the others talk about the next steps, what next roads to take… what next roadblock to hit.
“Just so you know,” he finally began. “As tickled pink I am that you allowed me to be a part of our little soirée with those two Saviors the other day, and see firsthand that all the rumors were true, I’d like to point out the most important detail, and I’m happier than a pig in shit, that you didn’t go Full Metal Jacket thereafter.”
The silence between you lingered. You stared at him peculiarly, brows furrowing. He mostly kept his eyes forward, but after enough silence, Abraham saw it to grin and glance your way once more. In that moment, behind his former statement’s crass delight, you saw in his eyes the genuine yet reserved relief for your wellbeing and newly reinvigorated respect for you, not only as a C.O. and fellow soldier, but as a person. As a friend.
“You’re a certified force of nature, Lieutenant,” Abraham declared. “Knew it from the start. Even before that day at the firetruck, when you snapped my punk-ass back to reality. Never would’ve gotten this far, found out what I really want and where I fit in this new world. What my new mission is. So thank you.”
The admission, the sincere gratitude behind it, made you smile, and nod kindly in reply. Abraham’s grin deepened as he turned to face the windshield once more. But almost immediately, his expression faltered, growing serious and guarded. Facing forward yourself, you dejectedly found out why.
“Rick.”
The man appeared between you and Abraham, just as you came within a stone’s throw of your third human roadblock. This time, about three dozen Saviors blocked the road with their vehicles, some standing up on the machinery, making their barrier look even more formidable.
“Go back,” Rick whispered gravely the instant Abraham pulled to a complete stop.
“Where?” the Sergeant asked almost defeatedly.
Rick didn’t answer, even as the two men glanced at each other. But Abraham did as instructed, putting the RV in gear and promptly turning your asses around. As you drove on, led by Eugene and Sasha’s suggestion for yet another alternate route, Rick went back to see Maggie. Everyone in the cabin exchanged glances with one another. Wary, concerned, afraid. Your final exchange was with Sasha, and you gestured her forward with a cock of your head. She moved and you stood up, allowing her to sit in the passenger seat beside Abraham once more. You went to the bench again, sitting beside Aaron.
“You ok?” he wondered. “How’re you holding up? You know, with… Daryl?”
You didn’t want to think about the ‘what if’s. Not now. You couldn’t afford that. Couldn’t afford to distract yourself from the current mission, the current perilous situation the present company all found themselves in. That was the truth, but the other part of it was that, in order to stay focused, you had to shut down. Not all the way, not enough to let the beast back out again, but just so that your military operatives training kicked in. You focused… like Abraham, becoming how he had before that day with the firetruck. There’d be time later to deal with your emotions. Hopefully. Right now, the group needed you focused. You needed you focused.
So, you simply took in a deep breath, and nodded.
Aaron appraised you wordlessly, figuring you were lying but understanding why and not wanting to pry. You were grateful for that, and the conversation ended there. The ride carried on in wordlessness, the RV still periodically squealing. Eventually, the sound of asphalt under the tires changed to crunching gravel as Abraham turned the RV off onto the aforementioned alternate route. Only a few miles in, you felt the RV decelerate again.
Another roadblock, this one a mountain of timber piled fifteen feet high. The Saviors outdid themselves with this display of power, and topped it off by dropping the poor soul they’d beaten at the first roadblock off the side of the overpass behind the RV. He hung there, strangling to death from a metal chain, and you all let him. There was sorrow. There was guilt. But more importantly there was logic. Like Rick and Abraham said, the chain wouldn’t break, and you needed the bullets. The barricade behind you suddenly went up in flames, and the asshole leader from that first group of Saviors began taunting Rick yet again. The elder Grimes had everyone hurriedly pile up into the RV, and Abraham reversed from the blaze.
Several clicks away, Abraham pulled over so a better game plan could be devised. You were getting nowhere fast, and Maggie was getting worse. She might not have had much time left. Eugene proposed a better, but by no means ideal nor genius plan, which everyone knew was more akin to a suicide run. He’d distract the Saviors with the RV, alone, while the rest of you carried Maggie on a litter to Hilltop by foot after dark. Again, it wasn’t the best plan, but it was the only one left short of insanity, or an outright firefight.
So, you all waited in the RV on the side of the road until nightfall. A long wooden panel from the RV served as the platform on which you’d gotten Maggie as comfortable and secured as possible with blankets and pillows. You, Rick, Sasha and Aaron helped carry her out. As you exited the RV, you spotted Abraham and Eugene hugging. It appeared cathartic, meaningful. Abraham sure had come a long way since that day with the firetruck. He and Eugene both had. After the tumultuous rift Eugene’s confession had made in their relationship, the monkey-wrench it’d thrown into Abraham’s life and view of the world, even in the current overwhelming sense of desperation and dread, their interaction provided a glimmer of warmth and hope on which your kite floated ever so slightly higher.
Before long, the group ventured into the woods, leaving Eugene behind. It hurt, but it was his choice, and you were proud of him for suggesting and having the constitution to go through with it. Rick and Abraham did the heavy lifting for Maggie on the litter. Sasha and Aaron flanked her for stability. You and Carl were out front, dispatching Walkers and leading the way. Carl fell back a few feet to speak with his father. Barely a half-dozen sentences in total, mostly from Carl, were exchanged before whistling echoed around you. First the right, then the left. Behind and offshoots in front. Two-pitched, deep. Men began appearing from behind trees in the near distance, mere shadows in the darkness. But these shadows did more than just go bump in the night, and the situation you all now found yourselves in made your heart beat faster.
“Go! Go!” Rick ordered, beginning to rush forward with Maggie and Abraham in tow.
You led the way with the others right behind you, listening to the sound of the whistles, their origin. They were everywhere, all around, but you did your damnedest to avoid running headlong into any of them. You knew what this was, what their surrounding you without attacking meant. It was a game. A maze. They were leading you into a trap. The grip on your machete tightened in both anger and fear, then in surprise when headlights suddenly blazed to life, momentarily blinding you as a cacophony of the whistling assaulted your ears.
The group had been led into a clearing, surrounded on all sides – men on foot slowly closing in even behind you – by Saviors, their vehicles, and their guns. The whistling continued as you all looked around at the new situation you found yourselves in, hoping that maybe things would be different by the third or fourth rotation. The RV was parked just to the side of the row of cars with their headlights on, Eugene kneeling in the dirt in front of it, with fear, guilt and sorrow on his bloodied and bruised face. Aaron kept his pistol up, likely out of frozen fear, but Sasha knew well enough to lower hers partially towards the ground. As more of the same went on for what felt like an eternity, you backed up against the litter, holding one hand and arm against the makeshift stretcher while keeping your machete ready but low and nonthreatening in the opposite hand. Protect Maggie; get her to Hilltop. That was still the current mission. Even if it looked like you personally would not be around to see it through to the end.
The leader from the first squad of Saviors on the road appeared from the shadows, addressing Rick, who looked absolutely terrified. Under obvious threat of violence, you all were forced to surrender your weapons and get Maggie down from the litter. You sneered at the approaching men already reaching for the ailing woman, but fortunately it was Abraham’s protest and the resultant acquiescence of the head Savior that got them to back off. The group helped Maggie down, and assisted her forward to the spot indicated by the current man in charge. He made you all kneel in the dirt before him, relishing in the act, smiling as you all subjugated yourselves. You were near one end of the line, Abraham on your right, Maggie on your left.
“Dwight!”
“Yeah.”
“Chop-chop.”
A man with scraggly blonde hair and a wicked burn scar to the left side of his face appeared from behind a row of Saviors. You eyed him disdainfully through your wariness and fear. This was the man who killed Denise, the man who betrayed Daryl, the man who Daryl had gone off to kill earlier that morning. But Dwight was still alive. Hell, he was carrying Daryl’s crossbow, and wearing his vest. Two of his bolts and Michonne’s vest and hair were found at the Walker roadblock. What’d happened? What’d happened to them? … What would happen… to you?
Dwight continued moving forward, towards a nearby van that was riddled with what appeared to be bullet holes. He opened the back doors swiftly, the panels swinging all the way out, but from your position and the Saviors blocking the way you couldn’t see what was inside.
“Come on,” Dwight ordered. “You got people to meet.”
With those words, you realized the ‘what’ in the van was, or were, ‘who’. The Saviors around the back of the van began to shift, reaching in and yanking back. Daryl was the first person out, the blanket over his shoulders doing little to hide the copious amount of blood smeared across his arm, neck, chest, and hands. Your heart beat faster, your breath came more labored, your fingers clenched and toes in your boots curled tighter. Daryl’s eyes met yours shortly after his manhandling Savior forced him to his knees. He was more angry than afraid, but the moment he saw you, that spark of recognition hit, and fear along with guilt flittered across his face before he clammed up once more. Michonne and Rosita followed soon after. Then, lastly, Glenn was wrenched from the back of the van and thrown to the dirt by Dwight himself. Glenn pushed halfway up on hands and knees, terrified and shocked as he said his wife’s name when he realized she too was in this waking nightmare.
“All right, we got a full boat!” the lead Savior proclaimed happily. “Let’s meet the man.”
He knocked twice on the door of the RV, and everyone waited. Some of the group looked to one another. The rest looked down or forward. After Daryl had met your gaze for a second time, you briefly found yourself of the latter category, until the RV door jostling open caught your attention. It’d done so surprisingly gently, not even banging against the exterior of the RV at full swing. A man appeared in the shadowy doorway, and there was just enough light to notice a baseball bat slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face.
“Pissing our pants yet?”
One simple question was all it took for you to know that this was more than a game or show of force. This sadistic asshole got off on power, the fear he instilled in the people he victimized. Every word he said thereafter, even the way he introduced himself by name, the real Negan, only proved your point. You watched him like a hawk. A hawk scared shitless, but a hawk nonetheless. First, you took in the details. Black leather jacket and glove of the right hand. Red scarf. Pants buckled above a flat ass and tucked into black combat boots. Well-groomed hair, up top and facial. This guy was not only a sadist, but a peacock and a narcissist. He wanted to fuck people up and look perfect doing it. But what your eyes tracked the most was the bat over his shoulder, which, in the headlights, you saw had been adorned with surprisingly – yet unsurprisingly, given your assessment of the man – clean barbed wire around the barrel.
“Give me your shit, or I will kill you,” Negan demanded of Rick, shoving the aforementioned weapon into the latter man’s face threateningly.
That was the new world order, Negan said. Work for him. Provide for him. Or die. It was that simple, because the Saviors had the resources and conviction and lack of morality to do it. This was Negan’s world now, and you were only living in it on his good graces. And his good graces would only go so far, especially that evening. You were and were not surprised to know he was telling the truth when he said he didn’t want to kill any of your group. After all, how could you provide when you were dead? But an example had to be made, he said. One of you would get the Holy Hell beat out of them. One of you… would die.
The bastard even had the audacity to name his murder weapon of choice, Lucille, and he spun her around by the handle as he looked over each and every one of you. One by one, Negan appraised the group. Beside you, Maggie cowered more from pain than fear. To your other side, Abraham stood taller on his knees and stared Negan down. At the other end of the line, Negan tried goading Carl into crying. But the man quickly grew bored, and began pacing back towards your end of the line. He came up short just before you, once more glancing at Maggie.
“Je-sus. You. Look. Shitty,” he announced.
That wouldn’t have been the word you’d use or the way to present it, but Negan wasn’t wrong. Maggie was looking worse by the second, being forced to remain upright on her knees, all while battling the pain and fever still raging within her.
Negan swung up Lucille. “I should just put you out of your misery right now.”
“NO! NO!”
Glenn was suddenly on his feet and rushing forward, only to be quickly brought down by Dwight just before he got to Negan. Dwight began beating Glenn, and Maggie pleaded for him to stop. He did only once Dwight rounded Daryl’s crossbow overtop him, aiming for Glenn’s head. With a few curt words from Negan, Dwight dragged a yet-protesting Glenn back in line. All the while Negan smiled cunningly, threatening to end another life should any of you pull such a stunt again. There was silence as everyone let that sink in, as new fear sank in. Negan then returned to taunting Rick, and then he taunted all of you, by playing “Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Mo” in order to pick which of you would be kissed by Lucille until Negan’s bloodlust was satisfied.
One by one Negan pointed Lucille down the line, but not in order. His choices were sporadic, the next person a complete guess, and you knew that was exactly how he wanted it. Breath passed through your nose faster, your chest heaving slightly heavier. With Lucille pointed at Daryl, and he looking down the barrel up at her handler, your breath shuddered and tight jaw trembled slightly, until the bat swung downward and Negan stepped away. But when Negan pointed the weapon at you, you found yourself incapable of repeating such a reaction. You too looked down the barrel up at Negan, but from slightly under your lashes, and with steady breaths. The man grinned at you, before carrying on his way.
“My mother… told me… to pick… the very… best… one… and you… are… It.”
Negan’s feet were in front of you, but not directly. He had stopped… in front of Abraham.
“Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy’s other eye out and feed it to his father, and then we’ll start,” Negan declared.
Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Abraham’s left hand slowly turn at the wrist, his fingers slowly close until only the peace-sign remained. You knew it wasn’t for you, and more importantly, you knew who it was for. So, despite being as mentally numb as you were, you had the wherewithal to sit further back on your heels, ensuring that Sasha would see. Judging by the soft gasp from somewhere off to your left, you knew she had.
“You can breathe, you can blink, you can cry,” the madman continued. “Hell, you’re all gonna be doing that.”
Negan raised Lucille with both hands high above his head and brought her forward against the top of Abraham’s skull with a mighty crack. Several of the group around you screamed, and Abraham dropped like a sack of bricks, but all you heard was that echoing snap of flesh and bone ringing in your ear. Breath trembled through your nose. Your muscles tremored. A tear beaded in the corner of your eye. But you couldn’t look away. You wouldn’t. Abraham didn’t look away when you’d shown him Cassy. He might have hurled chunks after, but he never looked away. You’d honor him, his bravery and final moments now, by doing the same.
“Ho! Ho! Look at that! Taking it like a champ!” Negan crowed gleefully as Abraham slowly pushed back up onto his knees, his forehead already bleeding profusely.
“Suck,” Abraham whispered challengingly, haughtily, knowing these were his final words and making damn well sure they’d count. “My… nuts.”
Thwack. Thwack.
“Damn!”
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Overkill. Complete overkill. The very fucking definition of overkill, and Negan enjoyed it. The smile on his face, the way he repeated Abraham’s final words before continuing the beating when Abraham was already dead. Some of the group couldn’t bear to look. Others, like you, couldn’t look away, but they more so in shock. Everyone else fell somewhere in between, stealing glances, hoping the pause between one swing and the next was actually the end of it. Eventually it was, and you’d counted 18 blows.
But the torture wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. Once Negan was done with Abraham, he moved on to the rest of you, continuing the onslaught psychologically. He swung Lucille around by her handle, the bloody barrel spraying castoff onto Rick’s face. He goaded Rosita into looking at Abraham’s brain matter, skin and hair still stuck to the barbed wire, taunting the relationship she had with the group’s sacrificial ram. Then, to your surprise and, yes, even horror, Negan for some reason moved on directly to you.
He stooped to your level, squatting with Lucille upright between his legs, the endcap pressed into the dirt. “You haven’t taken your eyes off him yet, darlin’. The whole time, blow for blow. Even now. So, what were you to him, huh? His side piece? ‘Cause I’d say I pretty accurately determined little Miss Space Cadet over there was his main squeeze. So, what was he to you?”
You kept your eyes on Abraham. You kept breathing. You kept yourself from breaking.
“Hmm?”
Still you wouldn’t move, which might not have been the wisest decision in that moment, but it was the one you subconsciously made.
Negan stamped Lucille’s endcap into the ground. “Look at me.”
The sudden thud stole your attention away from Abraham. You did as instructed, your eyes quickly locking on Negan’s without any overshoot. Staring directly face-to-face with this madness, you wondered if this is what you, what Cassy, looked like to your own victims. You wondered if the faces they bore were now reflected in your own.
Negan smiled. Apparently, they were.
“Don’t make me ask again. I consider myself a patient man, darlin’, but every man has his limits, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”
You swallowed heavily, but only continued to breathe deeply.
The leather-clad psychopath thrummed Lucille’s grip several times. “All right, then.”
Negan abruptly got to his feet, bringing the bat up with him, and your heart suddenly raced.
“Lucille, honey, make room for seconds!”
“She can’t!”
Everyone froze, even Negan, having halfway lifted Lucille above his head. Though you were sure the others to your right did the same, all you saw was Negan, yourself, and those to your left turning towards the voice’s origin. None were more surprised than Rick and Negan to find that it’d been Carl.
The boy eyed Negan in wide desperation but made no indication of moving. “She can’t talk.”
A short silence, and then Negan turned back to you, and you to him, and smiled. “Now that’s some coincidental shit!” he crowed, laughing deeply. “Can’t talk, huh?”
You shook your head and swallowed thickly once more.
Negan’s grin widened. “Well, then.” He looked from you to Lucille, spinning her lazily around once until the barrel was upright. His left hand came up to grip the handle atop the right, and before Negan smiled deeper, or even said the words, you knew you were about to die.
“I’m just gonna have to make you scream.”
And as Negan raised Lucille once more, he was replaced in your mind with Adam from the prison, their words practically the same. Instead of fear, however, you felt rage. You didn’t react lethally to Adam then, because you were afraid what doing so would mean with the prison group. Now, months later, they’d become your family. There wasn’t much any of you could do that would make you turn your backs on each other. More importantly, there wasn’t much you wouldn’t do for them, including die. If your death meant saving one of them, with no other option, so be it. You just hoped Daryl would understand. After all, dying altruistically made a lot more sense than dying for revenge. So, seeing red, you shifted one of your legs under you, bringing the ball of your foot against the ground and preparing to launch forward.
Only to have been beaten to the punch, literally, by Daryl jumping up and taking his own swing at the batter. You positively froze, stunned into paralysis by the act, staring with panic at the men tackling Daryl to the ground in front of you as Negan staggered back from the blow. Rick shouted Daryl’s name worriedly, maybe even warningly, the only tangible reaction of the submissive group. But Negan sure as Hell reacted, barking at Rick for one little word and shoving Lucille in but not against his face. He then backed off, chuckling darkly before going on and squatting in front of Daryl, who’d finally stopped struggling under two Saviors.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rick look to either side, down the line of the group. A new wave of fear was upon his face. It barely registered, for your incredulous mind was still locked on the scene directly in front of you. Eventually, Negan’s words came back to you, like they apparently had for Rick. First one was free. Now you would pay. Now the group would pay. Now… Daryl would pay.
No. No no no no no no no. Your eyes widened further. Your breathing became labored again. Your hands tilled the ground as you lowered yourself fully back onto knees and calves. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who died. It was you. It was always supposed to be you! This couldn’t be happening again!
Your body trembled. Panicked sounds were strangled in your throat as Negan brought the bloody bat’s endcap closer to Daryl. The Savior with his knee over Daryl’s head and neck stood then, and you were able to see Daryl’s face, but only briefly, for Dwight stepped forward with Daryl’s crossbow aimed at its original owner. Daryl’s gaze had immediately locked with yours, his expression a valiant effort at not showing his own fear. You whimpered softly with pleading eyes, leaning forward slightly as the weight of your terror held you in place.
There was a pause between Dwight’s inquiry to put a bolt in Daryl’s head and Negan’s response when Daryl’s gaze, having shifted to look up at the scarred Savior, returned to yours. You could tell he was trying to be strong for you, for the others and maybe even himself, but the panic in your eyes seemed to momentarily crack Daryl’s resolve. He panted heavily, his grunts adding to the labored breaths when Negan grabbed a fistful of Daryl’s hair and pulled his head back to get a good look at his face. You shifted fearfully again, and as Daryl’s eyes widened, he infinitesimally shook his head once in Negan’s grasp. You understood: don’t move, stay there. You clawed deeper into the dirt on either side of your knees.
After several tense seconds, the immediate danger passed, as Dwight and the two Saviors dragged Daryl back in line under Negan’s indirect order. All the while Daryl grunted and groaned, protesting and trying to keep their attention on him, trying to keep Negan’s attention off you. To your horror, it worked. Negan popped back up to full height and began taking slow, measured steps after his men, towards Daryl and the right side of your group’s subjugating line. He reiterated what you and Rick had already remembered. First one’s free. Shut that shit down. No exceptions. And he’d said it with a smile.
“Now, I don’t know what kind of lying assholes you’ve been dealing with,” Negan continued before pausing once more. He then turned his gaze over to you from his spot in front of Daryl, Rosita and Glenn, speaking to you directly. “But I’m a man of my word.”
Your body continued to tremble; your eyelids would not soften. You believed him. Everyone believed him. A reminder wasn’t necessary! Please!
Negan’s eyes panned away from you, and likely to Rick. “First impressions are important.”
Your eyes panned away too, directly to Daryl. Passed Michonne. Passed Abraham’s near-headless body lying right beside you. That was about to be Daryl’s fate. The face, the one that currently looked up back at you, the one that’d phased between his own and your late husband’s, about to be nothing more than an unrecognizable pile of blood, bone and hair. Please. Don’t.
“I need you to know me,” Negan continued to address the group, but especially Rick. “So…”
Negan brought Lucille up to hip level, taking the grip in both hands with a sadistic grin. Your breathing hastened. Your jaw trembled. You would not look away from Daryl, and he would not look away from you. Maybe it was wishful thinking breaking through your overwhelming terror, but if he was about to die, Daryl wanted your face to be the last thing he saw.
Negan began turning into his swing. “Back to it.”
But something, a small part of you, screamed that something was wrong. Negan was pivoting in the wrong direction. What’s more, unless he stepped forward, he was out of reach from Daryl. So then—? Your mind short-circuited just as you came to the realization, just as your eyes caught up to what your subconscious had already figured out. Negan was pivoting all the way around, and when he faced forward once more, faced his target, it definitively wasn’t Daryl.
It was Glenn.
Lucille cracked down over the unsuspecting man’s head sharply. Once. Twice. Daryl had braced himself for the hit, but upon the first crack, he turned promptly towards Glenn. You all did. Even Michonne, never once letting up from her tall stance on her knees, finally collapsed back onto her calves, her gaze snapping from Daryl beside her to Glenn as well.
“No!!!” Maggie shrilled.
Inside, you said the same, only much, much more sadly. More guiltily. You wanted Negan not to kill. Not to simply not kill Daryl, but not to kill, period. You didn’t ask for Glenn or anyone else besides you to take Daryl’s place! And now that he had, now that Glenn’s head was so bloody and concave that his left eye protruded from its socket, and he groaned and gasped for breath, to speak one final time to his wife, you had to honor him too by not looking away.
“Maggie, I’ll find you,” Glenn managed to mumble through the brain trauma, somehow able to find his wife down the line and speak to her directly. He gurgled and gasped thereafter, Maggie’s sobs joining to form a sad and final marital duet.
Negan taunted the group’s pain and sorrow thereafter, before taking up Lucille once more and bringing her down over and over atop Glenn’s head. You watched every blow through tears pricking at your eyes. From the corner of your vision, you saw Daryl flinch with every strike, while Michonne and Rosita, so close to the beating, stared in horror. Though you didn’t know how the others appeared behind you, you knew at least Maggie continued to sob and wail, no longer trying to stimmy her grief. Hopefully, she wasn’t looking at the carnage anymore, like you were, for Glenn’s hands and fingers had reflexively begun to twitch, even in death.
When Negan was finished, crowing in delight and walking away, a long piece of Glenn’s tissue stuck in the barbed wire dragged along the ground. Negan walked right by you, likely heading for Rick. Only once he passed did you finally turn away from Glenn’s corpse yourself. When you did, you noticed that strip of tissue broke away from the bat and now lay a mere few feet directly in front of you. On up-close inspection, the tissue was a long piece of Glenn’s scalp, complete with black locks of hair now drenched in blood. You closed your eyes and lowered your face, forcing yourself to try forgetting – at least for the moment – the sound of tissue squelching under a wooden bat, by listening to Maggie’s cries.
In fact, you focused so well, even with your eyes returning open, that you didn’t acknowledge dawn had come and gone. That was, until Negan and Rick had gone and returned themselves. You’d been on autopilot, compliant and pliable, a different form of survival mode kicking in. By the time you realized this and shut it down, Carl was lying flat on his stomach, with arms outstretched, between you and the RV. Beside him was Rick, screaming, pleading, blubbering like a baby. Negan stood, prowling around them, roaring at Rick, counting down to some unknown thing. You hastily looked around. Saviors had guns trained on the heads of everyone still in line. Looking back to Rick and Carl, the father had grasped his son’s left hand and pulled it towards him, raising his hatchet above his head as he continued to wail.
But, just before Rick brought it down, Negan stooped beside him. Rick turned with a face of absolute terror and panic at the maniacal man. He began giving orders to Rick, demands. You knew this tactic. Breakdown the opponent, induce a fear-driven, suggestible and obedient state. Done well, you could get them to do anything. Or, in your experience, say anything. And that’s just what Negan did, getting Rick to proclaim his subservience and servitude to the leader of the Saviors. The man went on to tout the day’s success, to mockingly praise Glenn and Abraham for their sacrifices, but not by name. To say everything your group once knew, was over.
Negan partly angled himself towards the group of men nearest the right flank of your group’s line, raising Rick’s— his hatchet. “Ah, Dwight!” Negan lowered the hatchet and gestured with Lucille behind Rick. He gestured… to Daryl. “Load him up.”
Just as Rick turned to see, Dwight reached down and grabbed Daryl under the upper arm. The wounded archer scrambled to his feet, panting in protest as the other man dragged him towards the open back doors of the van the Saviors had carted him in with. As Dwight tossed Daryl inside, and a fellow Savior tossed Daryl’s blanket in after him, you shifted sorrowfully on your knees, and once more kneaded the dirt under your hands. The others watched just as helplessly, and beside you, Maggie cried out how you wanted to yourself. But your laments were simply whimpers trapped in your throat, little sobs choked through gritted teeth, especially seeing Daryl cower like a trapped animal when Dwight lifted his own crossbow at him. Daryl shifted deeper into the van, moving to the corner behind the driver’s seat. For a split second your eyes met, and then the doors closed, ringing in your ears like a tolling bell, and you wondered if that was the last time you’d ever get to see him, alive or dead.
“He’s got guts; not a little bitch like someone I know,” you heard Negan say but didn’t look to see, still keeping your eyes on the van. “I like him. He’s mine now.”
With that declaration, you dropped your chin to your chest and wept, bitterly yet silently.
“But you still want to try something?” Negan continued, you realizing now that he was still talking to and taunting Rick. “‘Not today, not tomorrow.’ ‘Not today, not tomorrow’? I will cut pieces off of… Hell’s his name?”
“Daryl,” Simon answered after a moment’s pondering.
“Wow!” Negan chuckled. “That actually sounds right! I will cut pieces off of Daryl and put ‘em on your doorstep. Or, better yet, I will bring him to you and have you do it for me.”
Your breathing grew more unsteady at that incredibly plausible scenario, images from your most recent Cassy experience briefly flashing in your mind. This time, however, the man you were cutting was Daryl, and you had to bite your tongue hard to choke down a sob.
Negan chuckled again, patting Rick on the back before getting to his feet and pacing for show in front of the group.
“Ahh! Welcome to a brand-new beginning, you sorry shits! I’m gonna leave you a truck. Keep it. Use it to cart all the crap you’re gonna find me. We’ll be back for our first offering in one week. Until then…” Negan tossed the hatchet over his shoulder, the weapon landing with a small clatter between the Grimes’ men. “Ta-ta.”
The Saviors left you all in that clearing. Many of the group stared off numbly. Some, yourself included, cried. But nobody… nobody moved, for a while. The first who did was Maggie, the sound of her feet scraping against the dirt as she got upright startling you considerably. Sasha, Michonne, and Rick were the ones to initially address the action. They begged Maggie to sit down, to rest, to let them help her get to the Hilltop. She insisted she’d do it alone, that everyone else had to return to Alexandria and prepare to fight the Saviors. To fight them? Look what they’d just done. To all of you. To—
“I’m taking him with me,” Maggie’s grievous voice announced, cutting through your shock and reverie, before she walked over and knelt beside her late husband’s body.
Nearby, to your right, you heard Sasha say she’d take him, take Abraham, too. It must’ve been to Rosita; she was the only one over there now. The only one alive, at least. She’d still been on the ground in shock. Eugene as well, all the way at the other end of the once-line. And you, you were the center star of this Orion’s Belt of those still so far in shock you hadn’t moved. Then you became the last. Rosita and Eugene had stood to help Sasha carry Abraham’s body, while Aaron, Rick, Michonne and Carl tended to Glenn’s.
That left you sitting in the dirt, Maggie staggering on her feet and weeping not five yards away. Get up, you told yourself. Get up, right now. But you couldn’t. You didn’t want to. It was like your sister and husband all over again, only this time, there wasn’t even a promise left to keep you going. Your patchwork kite, already hanging on by a thread, had been struck by lightning and caught fire. No longer able to catch the wind, it crashed and burned, plummeting you back down into that dark abyss.
But before it all became black, you blinked rapidly, and startled at the color before your eyes. The ground was monochromatic at your feet, but to your right… You turned, knowing what you’d find but doing it anyway. The dark red pool of Abraham’s blood and brain matter had already begun to seep into the Earth, nutrients to be reclaimed and recycled by the planet. That was all that was left for him to do now. All that was left to his name, Sergeant Abraham Ford.
So, are you gonna pull yourself together on your own, or am I gonna have to pull rank, Sergeant?
That memory came out of nowhere. Your first meaningful moment with the man.
No, ma’am, that won’t be necessary, his verbal reply echoed in your mind, the soft scoff and smile he’d also bade accompanying the words. But with your permission, Lieutenant, I need a few more minutes to get my shit together.
The memory was so vivid, even more so than the stark contrast of Abraham’s blood against the Earth. It made you lift your gaze even further, to the second blood pool, behind Maggie.
Look, I don’t know why you don’t, but you can trust (Y/N). She helped save my life back at the prison. She’s a good person.
Glenn… had always looked on the brighter side of things. Had always thought of and tried to see the good in people. Had always been so kind to you, as though you’d been with the group right from the start. Had always looked out for you. At the prison. On the road. The bookstore. Alexandria. The warehouse. Even the other day at Hilltop, on the stairs of Barrington House. Glenn had always been looking out for you as he did for all of the group, because despite what you’d done in your past life, what you showed them all you could do the other day, he had still believed you were a good person. It hurt, knowing now, as you stared tearfully at that second blood pool, that you’d never be able to tell him how much that meant to you.
The final time you moved your gaze was to the empty spot where the Saviors had parked the van that took Daryl away, the spot where you might have seen him for the last time. An onslaught of memories hit you then. None more powerful than from the night of Deanna’s welcoming party. But instead of Daryl having his own private moment in your mind, all three men’s voices began to ring out, one by one, telling you things they might say to you if they were still here, seeing you frozen on the ground in such a sorry state.
Screw rank, L.T. Get, your shit, together. I’ve seen you do worse than scramble brains and pancake skulls. This was nothin’. So get your ass up and show that smartass what you can do.
You’ve done your part, looking out for me too. The prison. The warehouse. The outpost. Thank you, for all of it. Now it’s time to look out for yourself. Just remember I still have your back, (Y/N/N); dying didn’t change that.
Haven’t broken a promise to ya yet, have I? So get up. Go home. See ya when I get back, ‘cause I will be back, ‘cause I still—
“(Y/N)?”
Your name sounded far away and murky, calling to you as though underwater or through a dense fog. Still, it caught your attention, and you slowly lifted your head from the empty spot where the van had been to find Carl standing over you.
“Come on, we gotta go,” he said defeatedly, offering a hand to help you up.
You looked from his face to his hand almost confusedly, like you didn’t know what it was or what to do with it. A black line in marker curved over the pale flesh of his left forearm, and the recent image of Rick wielding the hatchet over his head with Negan standing over him came to your mind. Memories played in reverse, back to where Carl spoke up for you after Abraham had been murdered. Carl stopped Negan from murdering you next, and then Daryl stopped him too. Seemed as though you were benefitting more from—
“We need you.”
Your eyes snapped back to Carl, then over at the sound of a vehicle door slamming. Sasha had climbed into the cab of the truck the Saviors had left you all and put it in gear. On the passenger side, the others were standing around Maggie. At some point, while you’d been lost in your own fog, they’d loaded up Glenn and Abraham’s bodies and she’d ventured over, readying to go. Maggie, pregnant for the first time, and having lost her husband, possibly now about to lose her child. You knew those feelings all too well, even if the circumstances weren’t the same. The premise was there. Your experience was there, and it was your experience, who you were and how it made you into who you were today, that allowed you to become part of this family. That allowed you to be needed and still be needed by those who remained.
“We’ll get him back,” Carl declared, receiving your attention once more. “I promise.”
Mighty lofty promise, especially when fighting against all odds, having every disadvantage. But Carl’s words, his conviction, provided validation and new hope, just enough to restore your kite to barely-working order and keep you in the realm of slate gray instead of pitch black.
Thinning your lips and nodding hastily, you took Carl’s extended hand and he helped pull you up. Once vertical, you pulled the boy into an embrace, pressing against the back of his head to hold him closer to you. Carl hugged you back, hands along your shoulder blades. Though he held himself together well, you could tell he needed the hug almost as much as you did.
“Thank you,” you whispered softly, tightening your embrace.
Carl froze, leaning back to look at you with shock across his face. “You… you—?”
You smiled kindly and nodded smally, but you brought your pointed index finger upright against your lips, signing for Carl to keep quiet about this revelation.
“They’ll never know,” he declared. “I promise. I’d rather die than tell the Saviors about you.”
Your gaze softened almost maternally. He’d grown so much, even in the short time you knew him. Still impulsive, and immature at times, but fiercely protective and loyal. Like Daryl. Your smile deepened as one hand came up to cup Carl’s cheek, bringing him in to kiss his forehead under the brim of his hat. Not a moment after, you stepped away and walked towards the truck. Maggie just climbed into the cab by the time you reached the door. Hastily, you began scrawling on your pocket pad, before ripping off the sheet and handing it to Maggie.
It's not the same, how it happened, but I’ve been where you are. You’re strong enough to survive it alone, but if you need a friend, I’m here
Maggie stared at the note for several seconds before looking up at you with tearful eyes, clutching one of your hands in both of hers. “Thank you.”
You nodded, gripping one of her hands tightly before stepping away from the truck. Sasha pulled out the next moment, and you joined the others back at the RV. You had to pass the blood pools again along the way, and you saw the ghosts of Glenn and Abraham’s bodies where they’d died. Closing your eyes to banish the specters, if only temporarily, a chill shot up your spine, and you forced it back down with a deep breath. After another few feet, you opened your eyes and found yourself just in front of the door, Rick the last person outside, waiting for you. Sharing a look, you nodded at him before climbing into the now exteriorly blood-spattered RV, and taking your spot on the bench behind the passenger’s seat.
Rick followed promptly, and before the minute was out, you were on the road. The ride back to Alexandria was made in silence. Everyone was locked in their own head with their own thoughts, their own trauma. You, however, were beating yours into submission, like you had when you first returned from overseas. Although unhealthy, it kept you functional, at least until you got home and could find a moment alone to let yourself feel all of the emotional baggage the last 24 hours had dumped on you. And piled at the top of that luggage was the carry-on of hope Carl had given you, and which you clung to so tightly. Daryl would come back. Because Carl promised. Because Daryl promised. Because you didn’t know what you’d do if he didn’t.
Chapter 12: Chapter XII
Chapter Text
Despite being tossed back into his cell, Daryl was careful not to step on his discarded food, the polaroid of Glenn’s mutilated corpse, or the rancid pile of his own vomit. He caught himself against the back wall before seating himself in the corner opposite the door.
“You’re gonna wind up in that room or hanging on the fence!” Dwight yelled threateningly.
But Daryl simply curled up like always, his gaze straight ahead, at about knee level. Also like always, he was speechless, until Dwight began closing the door.
“I get why you did it,” Daryl declared, his words stopping Dwight cold. “Why you took it.” Daryl lifted his gaze to his captor. “You were thinking about someone else.”
Dwight stared back wordlessly at his prisoner. He appeared almost angry that Daryl was analyzing him, humanizing him. What had he done to deserve it? After all, Dwight had long ago given up his humanity, all for the sake of an… easier life.
Daryl was unfazed and undeterred. “That’s why I can’t.”
The two men maintained their gazes for another moment before Dwight locked Daryl in near complete darkness once more. ‘Easy Street’ began playing the next second, and Daryl leaned his head back against the frigid cell wall. Although the repetitive song and its loud volume inducing sleep deprivation were driving him mad, at least now he was clothed. And, honestly, after the beating he took from that group of Saviors yesterday in his failed attempt to escape, the coolness felt good on his swollen skin. For a moment he imagined what it’d feel like to rest on the bed in the other room, the one that could’ve been all Daryl’s, if only he sacrificed everything he was, including his name, and kneeled to Negan.
But, like Daryl said, he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Because he was thinking about someone else too. Those back at Alexandria by now. (Y/N). Daryl shut his eyes tightly at the thought, the image of the expression on her face and way she appeared to practically grovel as he was thrown into that van, because he was afraid that was the last image he’d ever have of her. He was afraid that was the last image she’d have of him. But Daryl had long ago told (Y/N) he’d always keep his promises, and one in particular he planned to keep. Even if it’d initially been made in jest, Daryl promised (Y/N) he’d be careful and come back from the quarry run, lest she end up with Spencer. The bottom line was that he promised to come back, and that promise didn’t stop with the quarry. Though Daryl already tried once, and didn’t see any other means of escape, like Hell he’d give up. He’d try. He’d always try. Even if it boiled down to keeping not only himself in the physical sense, but his own identity, alive, Daryl would do so, or die trying.
Three days had passed since losing Glenn and Abraham. Since Daryl was taken. Since any of you had seen Sasha or Maggie, even Morgan and Carol. You hoped they were alright. You hoped Daryl was… well, at least alive, because you knew he wasn’t alright. Whatever they were doing to him, wherever they took him, you knew it wouldn’t be Club Fed. What you did know was what you could control, and that was yourself. So, in the last 72 hours, you’d walked a tightrope of maintaining the hope that Carl’s and the projected words of those past had given you, with the numbness you’d been accustomed to in the days between your husband’s death and the prison. You’d live again, maybe, someday. For now, it was just a matter of surviving, and you’d proven yourself an expert in that regard.
“Michonne went out this morning,” Rick informed you as you sat in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. He stuck his thumbs behind his belt as he approached. “I’m gonna make a quick sweep outside the walls; see if I can scavenge anything. Would you mind watching Judith and Carl while I’m gone?”
You shook your head with a small smile.
Rick nodded. “Thank you.”
As he headed out the front door, you spotted Rick’s hatchet strung through a belt loop, and sighed heavily. But you quickly squashed that memory, burning it away from your present mind, just as the tea you finished with three hasty chugs burned away your esophageal lining. The tingling sensation in your throat lingered, even when, minutes later, you heard approaching loud, grumbling engines, followed by yelling, coming from outside. Moving to the front of the house, you pulled back the curtain and peered through the window.
Saviors were at the open gate. A whole goddamned platoon of them. Negan prowled around out front, once more appearing to be taunting Rick. Several Alexandrians were also gathered there, people who didn’t know the Saviors or what they could do, firsthand. That much you could see from your distance and through the sparce trees. They were early. You were mad.
“Is that them?”
You whipped around. Enid was at the base of the stairs, a hand on the banister. You hadn’t even heard her come in, likely through the backdoor. With a small sigh, you nodded and looked back out the window. Enid joined you, and together you watched as the Saviors dispersed from the gate. They spread out to all points in the community. They brought their trucks in; one was even rolling up towards the house. The two of you watched until you spotted Saviors entering homes closest to the gate, at which point you dropped the curtain and pulled Enid away with you.
Avoid them, you hastily wrote on your big notepad. Let them take what they want. Don’t engage, don’t get provoked. Carl already told them I can’t talk. Stay safe
Enid looked up from your notepad, and you eyed her sternly with a firm, assertive nod. She swallowed and nodded hastily in return, before disappearing out the backdoor again. With a heavy sigh, you tore the paper from the pad, shredded it into pieces and popped them into your mouth. You hurriedly swashed them around in saliva before swallowing with a scrunched face. The paper felt like a mix of tickling and slicing, especially after the burning your tea had caused, and you cringed at the sensation. There might be time to worry about that later, but not now. Promptly, you placed the pad and pen on the foyer table, ensuring they were straightened out to appear as though they belonged there permanently, before heading for the stairs.
“Saviors?”
You looked up, finding Carl on the first landing. The both of you shared affirmative nods, but while your expression was of controlled anger and bitter resignation, his was that of determined contemplation. You didn’t know what he was thinking, but based on Carl promptly turning towards Judith’s room, you had an idea. No sooner had you turned away from the stairs did you hear brakes squealing outside. Seconds later, heavy footsteps stomped up the porch, and then Saviors were entering your home. They hardly acknowledged your presence before they began looting. More came thereafter, these ones attempting to goad you into some sort of response, but you wouldn’t give them the pleasure beyond a steely, predatory gaze. Especially not with Judith and Carl upstairs, when you told their father you’d look after them while he and Michonne were gone, even if Rick was still within the walls.
So, you kept silent, and out of the way, stepping just outside onto the porch to keep an eye on the rest of the action. Alexandrians were less inconspicuous, lining the road to gawk at the goings on, but, like you, they stayed out of the way, knowing what was good for them. Then you saw Rick appear down the road, followed closely by Negan, and to your surprise, Rick was carrying Negan’s bat. Lucille. Your blood instantly boiled. You wanted to burn that block of wood and wrap the red-hot barbed wire around Negan’s throat until it seared straight through the bone. But the fire in your veins quickly turned to ice when, several paces behind Negan, you saw Dwight and, more importantly, Daryl.
Your chest tightened in relief, knowing certainly he was alive, but that feeling was quickly replaced with a painfully empty, nauseating and spreading hole. The man in the dirty sweatsuit with an orange ‘A’ spray-painted on the front of the sweater was Daryl, and yet you hardly recognized him. He was hesitant and careful in his movements, trailing Negan like a scared animal that’d been beaten into submission. Judging by the shiner and fat lip you could make out through Daryl’s greasy bangs, even at your distance, he was, he had been, and you physically choked on a devastatingly pathetic noise that squeaked up your throat. You watched the group as they walked further away, unaware of your presence. You watched as Father Gabriel approached and escorted them towards Alexandria’s cemetery. Daryl never looked around, not even once, his eyes remaining either at his feet or nonthreateningly on Negan. You watched the empty shell of the man follow Negan down the road, and got lost in your overactive imagination at just what had made Daryl so broken. Had made him… no longer yours.
Suddenly, a gunshot far too close for comfort rang out, followed by shattering glass and the subtle clatter of falling wood shards and plaster. You turned and rushed back into the house, finding Carl holding a gun up to two Saviors. You stood between them, off to the side, just enough to not be in the line of fire, but still be in Carl’s peripheral vision. Sticking your hand out, palm flat and down, you pleaded wordlessly with wide eyes and slightly parted lips.
“I’m not gonna put it down,” Carl told you bitterly, not taking his eyes off the Saviors.
You took a step closer and repeated the gesture.
Carl’s brow furrowed angrily. “No! They’re taking too much stuff. I’m gonna defend our home; I’m not gonna let them take everything.”
“You should listen to you mom, kid,” one of the Saviors practically purred.
“She’s not my mom,” Carl snapped combatively. “She’s a friend.”
“Then you should listen to your friend, smartass.” The Savior started to turn, picking up a crate of goods he’d thrown together with the other man.
“Put some back.” Carl cocked the gun. “Or the next one goes in you.”
The Savior out front chuckled. “Kid, what do you think happens next?”
Without skipping a beat, and not sounding at all afraid, he replied, “You die.”
That’s when Rick arrived, and with him a plea as prompt, insistent and desperate as yours had been. Then, to your mixed bag of fear and rage, Negan strolled casually in behind him, appearing to be incredulous, impressed, and amused by Carl’s defiance and threat to leave before the Saviors found out how dangerous you all really were. That’s when Negan’s air of jovial arrogance grew assertive, counteroffering Carl with a threat of his own to use Lucille again, and the air itself grew thick with tension. Rick had his eyes between Carl and Negan. Yours were on the entire room. Eventually, reluctantly, Carl sighed and lowered his gun, before handing it over to Rick. The weapon was in the elder Grimes’ hand for not even three seconds before Negan turned to him and took it away.
“You know, Rick, this whole thing reminds me that you have a lot of guns. There’s all the guns you took from my outpost when you wasted all my people with a shit-ton of your own guns, and I’m bettin’ there’s even more, which adds up to an absolute ass-load of guns, and as this little emotional outburst has made crystal clear, I can’t allow that.”
The leather-clad psychopath paused, staring at Rick before smiling brightly. “They’re all mine now. So tell me, Rick, where are my guns?”
Negan took Lucille out of Rick’s hand and swung her up over one shoulder, turning for the door. He stopped after two measured steps and pivoted to you, his gaze feigning intrigue and contemplation.
“I remember you,” he purred, swinging Lucille down off his shoulder aimlessly, twirling her around by the wrist repeatedly. “The mute.”
You watched the arcs of his bat carefully, wondering if and when Negan would take it up in both hands for another death blow. Such did not happen as the man moved closer and leaned closer to you with a self-satisfied grin.
“Why don’t you join us on our little field trip?” he instructed in the form of a question. “You can help load my guns into my trucks. You’re good for that at least, right?”
You narrowed your eyes marginally, and Negan chuckled, picking up on the little gesture before swinging Lucille back over his shoulder and strolling outside. You then shared a look with Rick. Though he hid it well, given the circumstances, he was afraid, and just as submissive as you’d seen from Daryl walking down the road earlier. That wasn’t to say you weren’t, simply that they were in the same boat and they both knew it. Eventually, the two of you averted your gazes. Rick stepped out first, and you followed after.
Your head was on a swivel the entire way to the armory, taking in everything, your military training kicking in. Though you were home, you were now in enemy territory. You noted the locations of their trucks. You counted their forces, their weaponry. You acknowledged Alexandrians like Aaron and Eric out on their porch, or Tobin and Francine out on the road, as they too took in the scene before them. You… took note of Daryl, standing at the back of a nearby truck with Dwight, as the latter supervised Saviors loading your mattresses into the vehicle. Once again, Daryl kept his eyes averted, his posture subservient. You looked away.
At the armory, you waited at the garage door as Olivia led a small squad of Saviors inside. Negan and Rick had a chat nearby, in the pantry. You bit your tongue and ground your teeth overhearing Negan insult Olivia, and expecting gratitude for taking whatever else he wanted but letting you keep all of your food. Things heated up a moment, and you had to stop yourself from habitually reaching for your knife. Eventually, Negan backed off, walking away further into the building. Rick, and then you, promptly gave bitter chase so as not to continue poking the bear.
Not long after, your weapons were being loaded into one of the trucks. It was a group effort, but mostly by you and Daryl. Maybe Negan knew, maybe he didn’t, maybe he just suspected by the way Daryl defended you the other night, that there was something between you two, and that having you work together to put Alexandria’s things on his truck would add more insult to injury. Regardless of what Negan did or did not know, he was right, and it was made all the worse by Daryl still not once looking any higher than your waist. When Negan grew bored of the little dance you and Daryl put on, he had you stop and wait out by the truck with him and Rick.
Negan continued his little games, his bombastically prickish behavior, even firing off a round into a nearby window to test the gun’s condition, after he’d originally pointed it at Daryl. Then Olivia had been dragged out of the armory by some Savior named Arat. The inventory didn’t match. Two handguns were missing, and Negan was not about that life.
“This was your job, and you screwed up,” Negan growled at Olivia with a threatening expression as she whimpered in fear. “Keeping track of guns? That shit is life and death.”
Suddenly, Negan smiled ear to ear. “So, Rick, you are going to find me those guns in an hour, or Olivia here is gonna die! And, you know what else, I think I’m gonna have little Miss Chatty Cathy keep us company while we wait. Ain’t much of a conversationalist, but it beats sitting alone with Olivia being a blubbering crybaby the whole time!”
You were outwardly unfazed by the declaration. Rick, on the other hand, had to take a moment to process what just happened, and what was said.
Negan smirked at the other man’s hesitation, and leaned towards him to whisper, “You know Rick, if I were you, I would get a move on, as if someone’s life depended on it.”
With a quick nod, he did, abruptly turning and giving you a look of warning, concern and sympathy, before hurrying off. You heard Rick tell Tobin and Francine to start gathering everyone at the church, and just like that, you were left alone with Negan, Olivia, and Arat. Looking back from where Rick had walked off, you found the man staring expectantly at you. He grinned deeper, swinging Lucille in a lazy circle before pointing her down the road. Seemed as though Negan wanted to go for a stroll.
“Shall we?” he asked in faux politeness. “Arat, don’t wait up.”
The Savior in question stayed behind while you and Olivia followed Negan as he casually carried on down the road. He seemed practically jolly on the walk, and damn near giddy when he spotted the small outdoor patio set nestled in a nook at the Monroe house. Instructing you both to sit, you did so in silence, before Negan attempted conversation with Olivia. Eventually, Negan grew tired of messing with her, and set his sights on you.
“How long’ve you been like that?” he asked, aimlessly waving his gloved hand at your face and neck. “Was it before the world went to shit?”
You turned to him and Negan widened his eyes marginally, expecting a prompt response. Briefly weighing the pros and cons of not answering at all, you decided the latter far outweighed the former, and you gave a curt nod.
“What did you in? Some kind of injury?”
Another nod.
Negan smiled. “Must’ve had a good doctor to patch you up, working so close to all those precious vessels.” He leaned back in his chair. “Not as good as our doctor at the Sanctuary I bet, though. He’s so good he doesn’t even leave scars.” Negan paused then, and leaned forward curiously. “I’d really love to see yours. Come on, darlin’—”
Before you had a chance to react, Negan spun Lucille around and brought the butt of the handle against the underside of your chin.
“—lift your head just a little, would ya?”
Your nostrils flared with a deep inhale, but refusing to tempt fate, you slowly tilted your head back. Negan kept Lucille against you the whole time, until your neck was well and truly exposed. Everything about this situation screamed danger. One of your most vulnerable body parts was on full display to this psychopath, and you fought every instinct and piece of training you’d ever received to not reach for your knife and drive it into Negan’s own neck. It became harder, when you not only had to fight the impulse to kill, but the impulse to back away, the impulse to break every bone in Negan’s hand which came up to touch you. His fingers explored your neck slowly, tracing, almost caressing every fine and not-so-fine line of scar tissue from your surgeries. Only two men, apart from your doctor, had been allowed to touch you there. Had been allowed to touch you like that. It sickened you that Negan was the third.
He chuckled wickedly and pulled back his hand. “Thank you, darlin’.”
Only once Negan leaned back in his chair did you again lower your chin to protect yourself and stare more squarely at him.
“It’s a shame, really,” he went on. “You’d be hot if not for those, but instead they give you this kind of savage beauty that makes me want and not want to touch again.” Negan tilted his head slightly. “You ever feel that way? Wanting and not wanting something at the same time?”
Sure. For example, you wanted to kill him slowly right that very minute, but you didn’t want anyone else in your group to die. So, you simply nodded.
Negan abruptly scoffed and barked out a short laugh. “This is how you’ve communicated all this time?! Really?! Yes-no questions and nods? You’ve gotta be shittin’ me!”
Your eyes narrowed curiously, and Olivia glanced between you and Negan fearfully as the man held his belly from mirth. His chortling continued for some time, but you weren’t much interested in watching. Instead, you looked back down the road to where Daryl was still being forced to load Alexandria’s supplies into the truck parked in front of the armory. It pained you to see him like that, to think of what they did to him in just the few days he’d been their prisoner. You watched his mannerisms carefully, paying even closer attention when a blonde female Savior approached Daryl from around the front of the truck. She engaged him, her words inaudible from your distance, but you didn’t need to hear in order to understand the blonde’s intention when she suddenly stepped closer and ran her hand back and forth along Daryl’s jaw.
It wasn’t until Negan’s voice broke your concentration that you realized you’d been staring at the scene for some time.
“Well, well, well. Does someone like to watch?”
You shot your eyes over at him in acknowledgement, neither confirmation nor denial, before quickly averting them once more, flashing between Negan and the table you all sat around.
Negan grinned widely, chuckling deeply. “You do. You kinky little minx.”
You’d be lying if you said that was the first time someone had ever called you that, and it once more got your stomach twisting in knots.
“Well then,” Negan continued, purring delightedly. “Why didn’t you say so?” He then slowly got to his feet. “Ladies, if you wouldn’t mind coming with me.”
Olivia exchanged a glance with you before you both did as told, trailing Negan back down the road to the truck and armory. As you neared, the group of Saviors out front and Daryl dropped to one knee, much to your absolute internal agony.
Negan practically bounced to a stop, swaying his hips and keeping his mouth in a tight, amused line before smiling widely and jabbing Lucille towards the blonde female. “Laura.”
She got to her feet; they all did. The grin on Negan’s face hardened.
“I saw that, you flirting with our boy Daryl here, and after what I told you.” He grinned slyly, leaning in. “What did I tell you?”
“Don’t flirt with the help,” Laura answered obediently.
“That’s right!” Negan crowed, before turning to address you and Olivia. “You see, ladies, Laura here is probably the closest thing to a nymphomaniac as you can get these days, and it really got in the way of production for the longest time! But she’s such a good soldier, and I’m such an understanding guy, I couldn’t punish her by forbidding all future bangings. So, I made her a deal: don’t get involved with the help, and she could have whoever the fuck else she wanted! Minus myself, of course; I don’t cheat on my wives. Marriage, that shit’s sacred to me.”
Wives, huh? Why didn’t that surprise you?
Negan chuckled proudly, pivoting back to Laura. “When I caught you just now, I was fully prepared to deduct your meals for a week because I don’t fuck around with anybody getting away with shit I’ve already laid down, but today is your lucky day!”
Suddenly, Negan spun and jabbed Lucille at you, the unexpected abruptness of it causing you to flinch slightly at the action.
“This little darlin’ just so happens to be a voyeur, and, to the best of my understanding, Daryl’s wife.”
Your eyes widened marginally at the man, in surprise, anger, or both you weren’t exactly sure. What you were sure of was that Negan had known about your and Daryl’s relationship, and you were scared as all Hell wondering where he would go with that information.
Negan, apparently satisfied by your reaction, stepped closer to you, keeping his voice thick and intimidating. “What? You think I didn’t know? The way Daryl ran out of line and sucker-punched me right in the jaw like #2 tried to do that night? How could you not be his?”
The man paused, the cogs of his mind turning with an alternate theory.
“Or, Daryl fell in love with one Hell of a piece of ass, who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him. I’m just dying to know: which is it?”
Your breathing had deepened with concentration of not losing your cool or letting anything slip. Negan stared you down, inches away from your face.
A moment later, his lips cracked a smile and he purred, “Fine, guess we’ll all find out together. Laura!”
You jumped slightly at the shouted last word, surprised that Negan was still staring at you while now addressing his Savior.
“I’ll make you another deal, a flash sale! For the cost of one day’s rations, you can make-out with the help, for today and only today, right now. Daryl, you will kiss Laura back like you mean it, or so help me Lucille will serve up the mother of all Bloody Maries with your lady’s head. And you…”
Negan’s gaze and posture had remained fixed on you, despite yours being trained on Daryl. But at the last word, your eyes panned to his. Negan stepped even closer to you, his tone somehow growing even more menacing.
“You. Will. Watch.”
A tense moment went by before Negan grinned widely, addressing his Savior without his eyes once leaving yours.
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
With a lustful smile, Laura reached out, pulling Daryl in by the back of the neck and slamming their lips together. You’d only known this because of your peripheral vision, the act taking place just over Negan’s shoulder. In truth, you forced your eyes to remain on Negan himself. The Saviors’ leader didn’t like that, and with an angry frown, he took your chin, your whole jaw, firmly in hand.
“I said, watch.”
For a few seconds longer, you kept your eyes directed up at Negan. Quickly, however, you remembered the consequences of disobedience, and it likely wouldn’t be your death either. So, swallowing that tough, bitter pill, you had no choice but to turn your gaze on Laura and Daryl.
She was in control, fingers kneading Daryl’s hair at the base of his head and her mouth slanting tactlessly over his. It was obvious Laura was doing all the work, at least for the moment. Despite not knowing exactly how Daryl felt, what he was thinking, you could tell the very instant he seemed to ‘wake up’. Daryl leaned in slightly, his mouth starting slow before out of nowhere jumping to seemingly full force. You only knew it wasn’t because you’d seen it before, you’d felt it firsthand, and this wasn’t it. Tentatively, Daryl lifted one hand, hesitating at Laura’s elbow, as though asking permission, or afraid it’d be seen as a threat. The moment she felt his touch, Laura grabbed his hand with hers that’d been on Daryl’s hip and promptly brought it around her back. She moved closer, and Daryl got the hint, pressing her to him with his arm, hand splayed at the small of her back.
This carried on for another handful of seconds. You involuntarily squirmed a few times, to which Negan’s hand tightened around your jaw. Once, he even stroked your cheek with an index finger and gentle hushes, as if trying to soothe you. It made your skin crawl, but it’d be over soon. If Daryl could endure being under Negan’s thumb, you could endure this. You would. You did, for after what felt like ages, Laura broke away from Daryl’s mouth. It was just a few inches at first, before the Savior licked her lips in satisfaction and stepped completely out of reach. Daryl merely moved back a single step, and immediately lowered his chin towards the ground.
Negan’s dark chuckle suddenly cut through the air as he released your jaw and paced the small area within the group. “Well, sorry, darlin’, but it looks like you and I are the only ones around here who believe in the sanctity of marriage.”
Through Daryl’s unkempt mane, you could see his throat bob with a swallow of spit or disgust or guilt. Likely all of the above. You wanted to go to him, comfort him, tell him you understood, but fear and rage anchored you in place.
And still Negan paced, crowing, “I may not take kindly to cheaters like Daryl, but I’ve gotta say I respect the set of balls he’s got to do it right in front of you like that. It’s exactly the thing I would do, but, as I already said, I value the bond between a husband and wife.”
Suddenly, he stopped, and after a brief pause, Negan moved closer to you, whispering in your ear, “So what do you say about coming back with me and being one of mine?”
You startled at the proposal, adjusting your footing as you appraised the man hovering over you. He smiled ruefully, and you needed to avert your gaze from the proximity of his garishly, unfairly perfect teeth. Your eyes landed back on Daryl, just in time to see him almost surreptitiously wipe his mouth with the cuff of his ratty sweatshirt.
“What the—?”
Laura’s voice abruptly cut cold and crisp through the air, as she too noticed Daryl’s gesture from where she’d moved off to. It’d been angrier, offended rather than insulting as initially anticipated, which put your nerves even more on end. The blonde turned to Daryl more squarely.
“I leave a bad taste in your mouth, motherfucker?” Laura stepped forward, heading purposely for him. “Gave up a full day of meals for that, so be grateful you son of a—!”
Before you knew what was happening, you too had moved forward. You’d been so careful this whole time to avoid making mistakes that could set the Saviors off. But, without thinking, you’d suddenly thrown all caution to the wind, and made three in an instant. Mistake #1: Stepping away from Negan without an answer. Mistake #2: Moving towards Daryl, and without permission that you probably needed, given the way this psychopath worked. Mistake #3: Swiftly inserting yourself in front of Daryl, and taking the hit from Laura she’d meant for him.
Negan guffawed incredulously. “Ho-ho-ho-ly shit!”
Laura was not so easily amused. “You little bitch!”
Though a bit uneven on your feet, you landed steadily after the blow, locking up and breathing deeply through the ache in your jaw. The telltale metallic tang of blood slowly spread back from the tip of your tongue. All this took place in a span of seconds that, in the moment when you thought you felt Daryl’s fingers brush your wrist, there came the sound of a scuffle. Turning, you found Dwight had grabbed Daryl by the sweatshirt and was dragging him back another foot or two, just out of reach. Dwight held him there, in case Daryl had any inclination of trying something like that again. Briefly catching the broken yet frightened look on Daryl’s face, you knew he hadn’t.
“I guess we finally have an answer to the wife question,” Negan chuckled, eyeing you studiously.
You knew he’d meant the question of being Daryl’s wife, at least for the group. For you, you wondered if he’d actually meant the one he’d whispered in your ear. Either way, you could tell Negan was manipulating your act of altruism into another game of psychological torment.
“Now,” Negan began, slowly pacing and spinning Lucille in his hand. “While not explicitly a no-no, because you didn’t go after one of us, that shit, no matter how well-intended, doesn’t go unpunished. Normally I’d have Laura here beat you, and then, with that last inch of your life, make you watch as Lucille scrambles Daryl’s brains, but you’ve put me in quite the predicament! Even after seeing up close and personal what Lucille did to Red and #2, you still have the biggest set of lady balls I’ve ever seen to step in the way of our business!”
A tense silence hung in the air, deafening after Negan’s impressed crows of unambiguous threats and backhand praise. Everyone watched him move, every little twitch of his fingers and, under your watchful eye, the curve of his lip giving subtle hints on his change in mood. Right now, Negan was mischievous, which might have made him even more dangerous.
“So now I’m gonna make you a deal…”
From several feet away, Negan squared off with you and leaned far forward, pointing Lucille purposely. When he trailed off, the man seemed perplexed, which in turn confused you.
Negan straightened up. “You know what? I just realized I never got your name. Can’t keep calling the gal with the biggest set of lady balls I’ve ever seen some ridiculous name like Chatty Cathy. That’d just ruin my whole image of you. Dwight!”
The scarred man tightened his grip around Daryl’s sweatshirt as he looked to his leader.
Negan smiled almost warmly. “In the time you’ve gotten to know our boy Daryl here, he ever mention his lady friend’s name? ‘Cause we know she won’t be giving it up any time soon.”
Dwight looked at Daryl, then to you, then back to Negan. “Naw. Hasn’t said a damn word in front of me other than what he said to you this mornin’.”
“Is that so?” Negan purred. “Well then…” He strolled around, then suddenly stopped, whipping Lucille straight out as he pivoted. “Olivia!”
The woman in question jumped in her skin, an audible whimper escaping her lips, to which Negan grinned. “Olivia, my dear, you must know her name, right?”
“(Y/N),” Olivia said shakily and without hesitation, her shoulders marginally relaxing as she took a deep breath. “Her name’s (Y/N).”
Negan made a pursed expression, turning to face you. “Really? Unlike Daryl, that doesn’t sound right. But, we’re all just products of our parents’ mistakes, aren’t we?”
He laughed, bouncing lightly on his feet a handful of times, before strolling through the group while still addressing you. “Anyway! Like I mentioned before, it’s pretty clear looking at Laura that she’d like nothing more than to beat you within an inch of your life. But here’s the thing: I happen to like you, and more than that, I’d rather not have one of my capable producers down and out, especially so early in our new relationship between the Saviors and Rick’s little community. So, (Y/N), here’s that deal I know you’ve been dying to hear.”
Negan stopped pacing, and brought Lucille up onto one shoulder.
“Fight Laura, and I mean fight. One round of hand-to-hand no weapons no pulling punches no holds barred fighting—”
You’ll regret saying that, you thought scathingly. No holds barred, huh? Even with your healing injury, unless Laura was as equally trained as you, you could kill her almost instantly.
“—And, as incentive, if you win…”
You pulled your thoughts away from murder to listen to the rest of Negan’s deal. Pausing momentarily, his eyes moved from you to Daryl. He grinned widely before returning his gaze.
“If you win, your little stunt will receive no further punishment. No one’s skull has to be bashed in on your account, scout’s honor!” Negan crowed, flashing the three-fingered salute.
“So, do we have a deal? Speak up, don’t be shy,” he added, but after another moment’s pause, he leaned back with a small chuckle. “Sorry, darlin’, I keep forgetting. Nod or whatever it is you do for yes. Unless… it’s a no?”
You were careful to totter your expression on the brink between fear and rage. One wrong move and more people would die. Additional mistakes were not an option, and neither were second chances. You turned your eyes to Daryl quickly. Though his face was tilted downward, Daryl’s eyes peered upward through his greasy hair, and for the first time that day, they met yours. There was fear in them, but also an insistent resignation that you shouldn’t take the bait. Daryl would take the punishment no matter the cost, and he was alright doing it. His eyes said he’d be alright. His cuts and bruises said otherwise. Your brow furrowed slightly, before, rapidly blinking, you turned back to Negan. With a firm expression, you gave a stiff, affirmative nod.
“Excellent.” Negan’s lips slowly pulled back into a wide, satisfied grin. “Laura?”
The sound of a boot scuffing across asphalt was the only warning you had, and even then, it came too late. Not halfway through the turn, you were once more clocked in the jaw, and would’ve pitched headlong into Negan if he hadn’t seen it coming and casually stepped out of the way. Daryl made an involuntary grunt and motion forward, only to be wrenched back and have one of the limbs of his crossbow shoved into his back by Dwight.
“C’mon, bitch.” Laura bounced like a boxer as you briefly staggered to regain solid footing. “No wonder your trash husband married you; you’re good at taking it in the mouth.”
You huffed loudly and spit out a cheek-full of blood, feeling mildly undignified for being called out like that, even if Laura had only said it to get under your skin. Well, it worked. Now, the only question was just how ‘no holds barred’ you could— would— should actually go.
Pushing off your back foot, you shot forward, dodging Laura’s next throw and landing a few of your own in quick succession. Laura groaned in pain but was hardly deterred, readily returning the favor. Back and forth you went, throwing mainly punches with the occasional kick when one of you ended up on or nearer the ground. Curious Alexandrians had quickly begun gathering around, worried though simultaneously captivated by the spectacle before them. After about two minutes, your jaw throbbed, your abdomen was numb, and your healing back ached with pain. Laura seemed to fair better, as she’d sustained fewer hits, and she knew it too. The blonde smiled wickedly and reengaged with vigor.
“What’s going on?!”
You knew that tone, felt the familiar anger and authority yet newfound fear in it despite its absence for the past near hour. With you and Laura’s hands locked around the other’s shoulders or upper arms, you glanced past her to see Rick, Carl, Gabriel and Aaron approach purposely and hurriedly from down the street.
“Ah! Rick! You’re almost just in time!” Negan crowed, turning to face him. “Join us! I’m sure there’s still plenty of good show left!”
“(Y/N), stop this!” Rick insisted desperately, worriedly, when he came to a stop.
“No, Rick,” Negan announced, again turning from the fight to address the other man.
This time, Negan mostly stayed turned around. Periodically he’d pivot between Rick and where you and Laura were in the center of the loose circle of people that’d formed to watch the fight, but his attention was elsewhere, preoccupied. Finally. As Negan and Rick’s conversation unfolded, the questions you’d been pondering the past several minutes resumed more urgently in your mind. How would you continue this fight? How would you end it? How best to end it, when murder wasn’t an option but Negan had asked for no holds barred and no pulled punches?
“What’re you waiting for, bitch?” Laura purred goadingly. “Show me what you got.”
Oh, you’d show her alright. It’d just be her responsibility to keep up.
Laura stepped forward to land a blow, and you easily dodged. She narrowed her eyes and tried again with the other hand, meeting the same result. You grinned smugly. Laura glared bitterly. The Saviors around you continued egging her on to victory while the Alexandrians watched in silence. Laura grunted and tried landing a combination, which you once again deflected with ease. Your opponent growled with frustration, lashing out, and you took the opening she unwittingly gave you to end the fight, right then and there.
You snatched her arm aiming to punch you in the face right out of the air. At the same time, you kicked her in the closest knee, driving her downward with a shout. As she fell, you pulled her around in the opposite direction, spinning her onto her back as you slammed one leg across her chest and dropped to the ground. Before Laura had a chance to react, your other leg swung on top of her, crossing at the ankles in the space below the armpit. All the while you hadn’t let go of her thrown fist, gripping the wrist tightly as you locked Laura in an arm bar. Some of those around you let out exclamations of surprise, murmurs of how Laura had let that happen and how you took her down so swiftly rising up over Laura’s shouts of rage. As she struggled on the ground under you, and with each attempt Laura tried to escape, you tightened your grip, lifting your hips to press your legs deeper onto her chest and pull back farther on her arm. The limb looked like it was about to detach from its socket. It felt that way too, if Laura’s angry and painful groans and expletives were anything to go by.
“Enough,” Negan’s voice somewhere nearby suddenly declared dully. “Pull her off.”
Before you even had a chance to react, you felt hands on all four limbs as three Saviors dragged you several feet away from Laura. She remained on the asphalt, curling in on herself and coughing, desperate for air. Those manhandling you let go as soon as you were far enough away. Hastily, you pushed yourself up into a sitting position, looking at the men warily and expecting more of a fight, before your eyes scanned to Laura. You barely caught sight of the down Savior when slow clapping caused you to gaze toward its source.
“Bra. Vo.” Negan clapped a few seconds more before swinging Lucille up over one shoulder. “You definitely have the biggest set of lady balls I’ve ever seen. Fucking huge! Never thought we’d be here, but I’m a man of my word.” His grip on Lucille slackened. “Dwight, you can ease up on Daryl. He ain’t going anywhere.” Negan then gestured to you. “Get her up.”
The Saviors did as instructed, two of the original three men stepping forward to near effortlessly scoop you under your sore arms and hoist you to your feet. Grinning, Negan walked closer and stopped just in front of you. With a satisfied smile, his eyes appraised you, and a moment later he let out a forlorn sigh.
“Damn, I wish I’d seen that takedown. I blame you for that, Rick!” Negan added, pivoting to stab Lucille in Rick’s direction before striding back towards the man. “Guess we’ll just have to arrange a rematch for next time.”
Rick met Negan’s gaze before your own, holding both before nodding obediently to Negan.
Negan smiled. “Good answer, Rick. Now, about those guns?”
Those guns turned out to be in Spencer’s home, hidden away for who knew what reason and who knew how long. All that mattered was that they were found, and Olivia got to live. Not long after, Negan had called a wrap on the Saviors’ visit. Most loaded up into the trucks and bailed promptly. Others, including Negan, Arat and Dwight, hung back, walking down to the gate with Daryl, Rick, you, Aaron, and only a handful of other people in tow. Two trucks stopped just inside the walls as Rosita and Spencer pulled in with the car and van they’d abandoned the other day while chasing after Daryl. Dwight went to greet them, and Rick, for some reason, went outside the walls himself.
Despite the swelling to your face, your eyes continued to dart every which way, your senses still on high alert regardless of how few Saviors remained. Your gaze found its way back to Daryl when it wasn’t locked on the biggest threat in the immediate area. Other than after you’d taken the hit from Laura for him, when Negan proposed his deal to you, Daryl still hadn’t met your eye. Was he protecting you? Was he sorry? Was he trading you in to save his own skin? You wouldn’t blame him. Not at all. But it’d still hurt. No matter the answer, no matter the reason, it still hurt, almost more than you could bear.
“Look at this!” Negan turned and abruptly exclaimed.
You looked yourself, waiting due to you angle for whatever Negan was seeing to cross through the open gate. The next second, Michonne strode in with a dead deer draped over her shoulders. She slowed upon seeing Daryl, but kept walking.
Rick appeared a moment later, carrying a large rifle. “I thought she was scavenging,” he declared. “She was hunting.” Rick proffered the weapon to Negan, head hung and eyes averted in submission. “This one never came inside. We kept it near the line.”
You took a deep breath, silently damning the man. That rifle could’ve flown under the radar. It would’ve, if Rick had just kept his mouth shut. Why the Hell—? You stopped, answering the question for yourself. The Saviors were taking all the guns. They’d threatened to kill Olivia over two missing handpieces. What would they do if they found out Alexandria had a long-range weapon after today? Someone, at least someone, would be dead for sure. Hell, they just might’ve had Rick do it himself, like Negan told Rick that first morning he’d have him cut off pieces of Daryl if Rick didn’t fall in line. So, while you didn’t agree, you understood why he did it.
Negan smiled, seemingly impressed. “Look at this. This is something to build a relationship on. Good for you, Rick. This is readin’ the room and gettin’ the message. I’ve said it before, I’m gonna say it again. You, sir, are special.”
As Negan turned away from Rick, you exchanged a wary look with Aaron standing beside you, before your eyes scanned the rest of the group by the gate. You met Michonne’s concerned gaze, and Eric’s. Rosita’s impassive one. Even the gaze of one of the lower tiered Savior’s, and you quickly lowered your eyes upon doing so. Fortunately, it wasn’t enough to provoke him. Maybe it had something to do with how bruised and swollen your face was already becoming that the Savior couldn’t read the emotion behind your eyes. Regardless, you stopped, especially when you heard Rick’s tentative voice speak up again.
“Now that you know we can follow your rules—”
“Yes?”
Rick finally lifted his gaze to meet Negan’s. “I’d like to ask you if Daryl can stay.”
Without hesitation, Negan replied, “Not happenin’.”
Rick looked like he wanted to say something, but cut himself off before speaking. You weren’t sure how Negan reacted to this, but judging by the subsequent tone of his voice, it was somewhere between surprised and impressed.
“You know what? I don’t know. Maybe Daryl can plead his case.” Negan turned and took a few small steps in the indentured archer’s direction. “Maybe Daryl can sway me.”
You shifted uneasily on your feet, your anxiety building. You silently begged Daryl to speak, to say anything that’d get him home, but you knew better than to expect that of him. Despite all his bruises and his current mentality, it was clear Daryl was still resisting whatever it was Negan desired of him. Daryl would not give in now; he wouldn’t give in so easily. And yet… he was already so broken, maybe he’d already done so, and that frightened you practically the most.
“Daryl?” Negan prompted after several seconds of the man in question’s silence.
All eyes were expectantly trained on Daryl as he stood silently by the car Rosita had returned in. Though you guaranteed his eyes weren’t on them, Daryl’s head was slightly turned in Negan and Rick’s direction. Maybe they were for a second, but then they immediately shot downward, Daryl looking at his feet once more.
Negan chuckled delightedly, turning back to Rick with a satisfied grin and wheezy laugh. “Well, you tried.” He bounced on his feet as he slowly approached the other man. “But I’ll tell you what, Rick. Since you took that first step with this gun, and it is a great first step to building our relationship, I’m gonna let you keep something.”
Rick’s brows furrowed. “Keep something?”
“Yep.” Negan’s grin deepened. “Well, more like someone.”
Rick’s confusion wasn’t the least bit placated, and Negan smiled, starting to pace in front of the gate.
“You see, right before that little cat fight earlier, I offered our winner of said fight the chance to come back with me and be my wife.”
You inhaled sharply and stiffened immediately, more so at Negan’s revealing words rather than the glances Rick and the other Alexandrians shot your way.
“Now, obviously she turned me down with that stunt she pulled stepping between Daryl and Laura, and by taking the deal I made her and winning, she saved the rest of your community from getting a sweet, sweet kiss or two or three from Lucille. Here’s the thing, though, Rick, I never said anything about what’s her name not coming back with me if she won.”
Realization quickly dawned on you and the other Alexandrians as Negan continued pacing the area in front of the gate and the gathered groups.
“Who would’ve thought Daryl’s pretty little wife would be such a badass? And I…” Negan chuckled wistfully, huffing longingly. “…I just have to have her.” He then barked out a laugh. “Shit, I wasn’t even gonna tell any of you about it! I was just gonna whisk her away into my truck at the last second, just because I can! But, like I’ve been saying all along, Rick, I’m a reasonable guy. So now I’m gonna give you a choice.”
Negan pivoted and walked towards Rick. “Daryl, or his wife. You keep only one, and the other comes back with me.” He stopped, staring Rick down. “One answer only, no do-overs.”
Rick’s eyes were wide with surprise and even mild panic, as were most of the rest of the Alexandrians’. But not yours. Though you shifted anxiously on your feet, desperate to move closer but knowing the repercussions if you did without permission, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind what you wanted Rick’s answer to be. When Rick finally looked your way, and not caring that Negan did the same, you ensured you met the former’s gaze. You nodded jerkily, insistently and repeatedly tapping your chest and then gesturing to Daryl. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Negan’s flash of teeth, but your gaze stayed trained on Rick as he then looked to your proverbial husband. You breathed heavily, eyes picking up every detail of their exchange, from the subtle nodding of Daryl’s head to the resigned easing of tension in Rick’s shoulders.
“Well?” Negan dragged out the syllable in mock anticipation.
“(Y/N),” Rick muttered defeatedly. “I choose (Y/N).”
It was good that Rick repeated himself, because you were in shock, wondering if you heard right the first time. Realizing you had, you once more abandoned self-control and gave in to your frustrations. You made to move forward, acknowledging but not caring for the clacking of guns as the Saviors around you began lifting their barrels from the ground. Hands suddenly around your waist and pulling you back into a solid chest were all that stopped the barrels from reaching eye level. By the rapid response, you knew those arms had to be Aaron’s.
“Stop,” he whispered urgently in your ear, his embrace tightening around your midsection. “(Y/N), stop, they’ll kill you; they’ll kill someone. Please.”
You ground your teeth together, easing up on your struggling and resigning to just digging your blunted fingernails into Aaron’s arms around your waist. By the gate, Rick looked your way but wouldn’t meet your eyes. Nearby, Negan grinned slyly at you like a fox.
“Seems like I’m not the only one who disapproves of your choice, Rick.” He turned to face the man in question. “But I respect it, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. Daryl comes back with me. His wife stays… for now.”
After that, despite the several further verbal exchanges, you didn’t hear much of anything. You were caught up in your own inner monologue, your eyes once more trained on Daryl. Three days. It only took three days for him to become so unrecognizable. How much longer would it take before he was gone for good? You gripped Aaron’s arms and briefly averted your gaze downward at the thought. But you quickly forced it back upward. If you didn’t have much time left, then you’d spend what you did have taking in what was left of Daryl, committing him to memory like you’d committed your late husband.
The split second after you’d returned your gaze, Daryl glanced over at you from under his unkempt bangs. You’d have been surprised if you weren’t so stricken with anger, desperation and despair. Realizing this, and realizing he’d been caught, Daryl immediately looked away. A subtle pained sound passed your lips at the action, the sound swallowed by Dwight mounting and revving the engine of Daryl’s bike he had Rosita and Spencer retrieve for him. The scarred man took off through the gate, and not long after, Negan gave the order to move out.
Much like the other Saviors, Daryl obediently started shuffling towards the second truck in their short line of vehicles. Though several yards away, it’d still been the closest truck to you and Aaron. A Savior kept Daryl moving when he looked back towards Rick, and Daryl didn’t even attempt to give you a passing glance as he walked by. When he did so, Aaron had to hold you tighter when you attempted to pull forward again, desperate with guilt, apology, and comfort.
Daryl climbed into the covered cargo truck, dropping into its most exterior seat and staring forward as all of the Saviors loaded up. Once the truck started rolling, you pulled against Aaron after it. The man still held on but permitted your advance forward. In full view in front of the open gate, you saw Daryl had picked his head up and turned to peer out the back. His gaze was on Rick, but once you came into sight, his eyes shot over to you. You pulled harder against Aaron, fingers deftly grabbing at his arms, your brows furrowed and teeth slightly bared in anguish. Everything inside of you felt like it was breaking, but nothing more so than when Daryl shook his head and rubbed a closed fist in a circular motion over his chest, because that’s when the moment turned into a goodbye, and your world plunged back into darkness.
With a short, staccato sob, all strength left your body. You simultaneously leaned back against Aaron and fell forward overtop his arms, clutching them as your hands trembled uncontrollably.
Aaron kept you upright, holding tighter as he felt cool tears fall onto his skin. “He’ll be ok, (Y/N/N),” he tried reassuring you. “He’s gonna be ok.”
You shook your head, rejecting what little comfort Aaron was trying to proffer and disbelieving in the hope he tried to instill. You didn’t want to be there anymore. You couldn’t. Not at the gate. Not in Aaron’s arms. So, despite your grief and rage, you gently though forcefully pushed his arms down and took a few steps forward. He hesitantly reached after you as you shifted on your feet. You wanted so desperately to run, to leave, but found it impossible to move. As you stood there gripping your hair and as tears continued to fall, you felt Aaron’s fingers brush your elbow. Immediately you whipped your arm away and stepped out of reach, lifting your face to stare harshly at him.
“(Y/N).”
It wasn’t Aaron who’d spoken, so you turned to the man who did, bidding him an even harsher expression. Rick’s, however, was full of loss, remorse and apology, but also hope for your understanding. Not wanting to see, hear, or accept any of it, especially from him, you shook your head and marched off up the road. Michonne and the other Alexandrians gave you a wide berth as you passed, concerned and frightened to see you, someone normally hardened or at the very least put together, now so obviously completely and utterly destroyed.
Because that’s how you felt. So spent and drained, in fact, that by the time you reached the porch of your group’s first house, you didn’t have it in you to go inside and climb the steps to the second flood. You took those porch steps one by one, slowly, each level higher recalling additional details from the night of Deanna’s party before you went inside with Daryl. In truth, that’s what did you in. Not pain or exhaustion from your fight with that Savior, but all of your grief finally catching up to you. It was all you could do to stagger to the corner next to the side door, sliding down against the wall to sit on the porch.
No one saw you there, or, if they did, they knew well enough to leave you alone. That was, until you heard footsteps slowly approach from the sidewalk and climb the steps. They stopped on the porch, waiting, probably staring at you. It didn’t matter. Even if the immediate and hopefully peak intensity of your feelings was over, you still didn’t care to engage with the world around you. Whoever it was seemed to know that too, for you heard their footsteps recede into the house. Or, so you thought. They were back not ten seconds later, and crossing the porch to you. They stopped just close enough for you to see their feet, and nothing more. A man, based on the size, and he simply stood wordlessly beside you a moment. Then, just as silently, he lowered himself beside you, and in your periphery you recognized Aaron’s silhouette.
He didn’t talk at first. Not for a while. Eventually your tears subsided and your beathing leveled off, at which point Aaron spoke, “Can I ask you something?”
Though you didn’t respond, you turned your head slightly in his direction. Aaron took it as an invitation, and wordlessly slid the pen and notepad you’d left on the foyer table earlier across the porch to you.
“Why’d it take you so long to win that fight?” he wondered curiously. “That Savior couldn’t have been that good.”
The question had been so unexpected you turned at the shoulders to face Aaron directly with an expression of curious repugnance. He, however, provided a three-quarters profile of, what was that, disappointment?
“Seriously, when we first met, I saw you take down Walkers and Aiden like it was nothing. I think you’re losing your touch.”
For a moment you thought he was being serious, but then you noticed the little twitch in the corner of his mouth. That twitch became a grin, and that grin became a scoff, and, to your surprise, his scoff became yours. Aaron’s mirth deepened when he realized he’d gotten you to smile, but your expression didn’t go much further than that. Glancing down at the space between your bodies, you took up the pen and notepad, deciding to answer his question.
Didn’t want Negan to see me as a threat and take me away too. Guess it didn’t matter in the end
Aaron sighed. “You know, Rick’s decision, Daryl’s decision, they made it to protect you. And I know what you’re gonna write: you don’t need protection.”
Your little smirk told the man he was correct.
“That’s what we all think about ourselves, while we’d do anything to protect the people we care about. Daryl knows that, and he’s gonna do everything he can to make sure he comes back.”
You sighed heavily and wrote with a stiff hand. I’m scared he won’t, and what’ll happen to him before then scares me too
Aaron acknowledged your fears with a nod before speaking again. “Rick told me you had a husband once. That you lost him early on.” He waited for a reply, and when Aaron didn’t get one beyond a dead stare, he continued. “Is that why you reacted so strongly, when the Saviors took Daryl away again? I… never saw you act like that before. Neither had anyone else who was at the gate just now, even your own group.”
You’d looked away while he spoke, at a spot of the lawn in the distance between the vertical bars of the porch railing. Your closet full of skeletons was getting emptier and emptier since the prison. Even since Alexandria. The uncaring attitude for self-preservation in your grief permitted you to purge another skeleton with little hesitation.
We were scavenging a tourist welcome center, my husband, sister and I. Walkers closed in, couldn’t get us out safely in time. My sister was bit, died and reanimated later that night. We didn’t know then that’s what’d happen. We were about to bury her when it did. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. So deep in my own guilt for her death. She was heading for me. My husband pushed me out of the way, took the bite himself. I put my sister down. Bandaged my husband’s bite. Stayed with him as the virus and fever consumed him from the inside. It took hours. And when he died, I put a bullet in his head, just like he asked.
Aaron read your passage wordlessly, his face overall impassive until he read further.
My sister died because I couldn’t protect her. My husband died because I couldn’t protect myself. And now Daryl’s gone off and taken both of their places. The sequence may be out of order, but I know what happens next, and I couldn’t accept that at the gate. I can’t. Not again
“So don’t.”
You peered at Aaron in offended curiosity.
“Until it actually happens, you have to live like he’s not dead. Because he isn’t,” Aaron stated. “You were scared when you didn’t know what’d happened to him with the quarry, but you never gave up. You kept fighting, for yourself and all of us and so you would still be alive when Daryl came back. Believe that again now, (Y/N). I know this… this is different. It’s a whole lot scarier. But don’t give up on Daryl. I learned early on not to underestimate your group; Daryl especially. After being out on the road with him, if there’s one thing I know it’s that he doesn’t know when to quit.”
That might’ve been true, but so was what you were about to let Aaron read.
I won’t ever give up on him, but that man in the sweatsuit isn’t Daryl. He’s the empty shell of the man I know. They’ve already broken him so far in just three days. It’s only a matter of time before even that shell is gone
“And that’s why you can’t give up on him. From where I’m sitting, seeing how much he’s suffered, how hard he’s fought just to maintain that shell you’re talking about, it’s clear to me he hasn’t given up on coming back to you.”
Aaron waited until you looked up at him again.
“The world may be different now, but we still need you and everyone else still here who we care about to be a part of it.”
You held his gaze stoically. It was a nice speech, a rousing peptalk. You just wished you were motivated enough to accept it. Instead, you smiled kindly.
Thank you, for stopping me, for listening, for everything
By that response, Aaron knew he hadn’t won the battle, not by far, maybe not at all. “You’re welcome,” he replied, knowing at least you were sincere in your gratitude. Then, “If… if you’d rather not be alone tonight, and Rick and the group need their own space, you’re welcome over to our house. At least come for dinner. Please. I promise we’ll save the spaghetti for when Daryl gets back. Eric was still going on until the other day about that double date we talked about.”
The completely off-topic invitation once more brought laughter to your lips, even if only momentarily. Still, it got you smiling as you nodded in affirmation. Aaron returned the gesture before getting to his feet, leaving you alone on the porch once more to contemplate many things. Your feelings. His words. The concrete past, tumultuous present and uncertain future. And, perhaps most importantly, whether or not Daryl would well and truly follow in your late sister’s and husband’s footsteps, and what you’d do about it, one way or the other.
Chapter 13: Chapter XIII
Notes:
Don't forget about the ***, indicating that if you so desired, skip to Chapter XV for the alternate ending :)
Chapter Text
Protective Mode instantly kicked in when Daryl realized it was Carl who snuck into the Sanctuary and popped off two Saviors in an attempt to kill Negan. He tried to get involved, but both Walkers and Saviors alike kept him away. First it was on the fences, then Negan ordering Dwight to take Daryl to the kitchen to whip up some grub. Daryl begrudgingly though obediently did as told, but his mind was elsewhere. Why was Carl at the Sanctuary? Did something happen in Alexandria? Was he alone? Was this a botched escape plan for Daryl, or part of a distraction and the plan was right on schedule? Be damn risky if it were, and Rick couldn’t’ve known about it, or else it wouldn’t be Carl sneaking in and risking his neck.
Once the food was prepped and on the fanciest platter Daryl’d ever seen, not that he’d seen many, Dwight scruffed the back of Daryl’s sweater near the collar and dragged Daryl with him upstairs. They were in a part of the building Daryl had never been in before. All of his familiarity was with the first two floors and fences outside. When he entered the double-door entrance room, Daryl understood why. Dwight had brought Daryl and the food to Negan’s Harem Room, where all his wives resided, waiting on Negan’s beck and call. The room was even more ornately furnished than the one Negan and Dwight had attempted to bribe Daryl with the other day. Fancy lamps and couches, plants and paintings, curtains and rugs, a full bar even. But what drew Daryl’s eye the most, after walking in on the sight of Negan making-out with Sherry, was Carl standing to the side.
The boy’s eye widened in both surprise and concern upon seeing him. Daryl’s did the same, but more marginally. Carl stole a quick glance towards Negan, ensuring the man was still preoccupied before mouthing ‘You ok?’ Daryl took a small breath and nodded, before jutting his chin out questionably back at Carl. He nodded quickly, and stole another quick glance at Negan, who was slowly disengaging from Sherry. His gaze briefly returned to Daryl, then shot down to his side before returning to Negan. Daryl realized Carl wanted him to look at his hand rather than his mouth for whatever else he was trying to say before they got caught. Carl hastily flashed a sign, followed by ‘ok’.
Daryl paused, having to dig into the recesses of his mind to recall the sign. The group had picked up a lot of what little (Y/N) had managed to learn before the Apocalypse began, mainly through repetition, but Daryl struggled to remember this one. It was familiar, but unnatural. Like a proper word replaced by slang, lost with time and disuse. But Daryl had seen it before, a while ago. He knew he did, and he wondered why (Y/N) hadn’t used it herself ever since. Then, in an instant, Daryl realized why. He remembered the moment. It was early on, at the prison. It was dinnertime, most everyone outside enjoying the fresh air in the yard, when Carl wondered what his name looked like in sign language. (Y/N) had spelled it out for him, and then she spelled out her own. She’d then gone on, via notepad, to explain that some people shortened their spelled-out name into a specific sign while mouthing the name, and she’d gone on to demonstrate her own. Carl had laughed gently with amusement, repeating the gesture, and (Y/N) had smiled so warmly, as though she felt she’d finally been accepted into the group.
So, that’s what Carl had meant. (Y/N) was ok. Carl knew Daryl must’ve been worried about her, especially after the other day. And he was. Daryl couldn’t deny that. (Y/N) and the others were the only reasons why Daryl wasn’t completely breaking for Negan. Of course he’d worry about her. What Carl didn’t know was that Daryl knew Carl was lying. (Y/N) might have been physically ok, as much as one could be after a fight, but when Daryl saw her reaction at the gate, he knew she was far from those two little letters.
And as the day wore on, Daryl’s two concerns remained Carl and (Y/N). Staying alive, to get back to (Y/N), like he’d promised, and to get Carl back to Alexandria. If that meant getting berated, degraded and beaten. If that meant he had to temporarily subjugate himself to Negan on one knee. If that meant mopping up another man’s piss off the concrete floor. If that meant being caged up like an animal. So be it. Because after all that happened, but before the door to that windowless closet closed and plunged him into darkness once more, Daryl saw Jesus, and that gave him hope Carl and (Y/N) would be alright until he followed through on his promise.
Not long after daybreak two days later, you found yourself with Judith in Alexandria’s cemetery. Half of your attention was on the illegitimate Grimes child as you both played in the freshly tilled soil of the faux grave Gabriel had dug to fool Negan. The other half of your attention was on a nearby grave that was very much occupied, and recently at that. Tara had returned the previous day without Heath. She told of how they were separated on a bridge and how she’d found her way back. You and the others told her about Denise, Abraham and Glenn. You were in the infirmary when it happened, applying some topical salve to your facial wounds sustained in your fight with that Savior. You saw how Tara spoke with Rosita. You saw how Tara was hiding something. But more importantly, you saw yourself in her, a grieving person needing space to process.
Which brought you to the cemetery, with Judith. Rick had asked you and Olivia to watch her and Carl while he and Aaron were out on a days’-long run, and Michonne was off doing her own thing. But Carl had other plans. You’d caught him trying to sneak out of Alexandria. He told you he was going after Enid, who he’d caught sneaking out to go see Maggie at Hilltop, and he was worried about her. It was the truth, and so, with words of concern and admonishment, you’d let him drive away. That was yesterday. You hoped he and Enid were at Hilltop now. You hoped they’d come back with word that Sasha and Maggie were alright.
You could’ve gone with Carl. You should’ve gone with him. Olivia could watch Judith alone. But Tara’s return had brought on a fresh wave of emotions, and it’d brought you to the cemetery after your shift on-watch. While you physically interacted with Judith in restrained animation and delight, your mind wandered between Aaron’s and Denise’s words, as well as the memories of the past few days that’d be carved into your brain forever.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Daryl’s broken appearance after his capture.
Everyone’s reactions and coping (or lack thereof) to the others’ deaths.
Cassy’s voluntary return.
At that final memory, you turned to Denise’s grave marker, her name carved into the wood. You thought of the last conversation you had with her, from opposite sides of a closed door. You recalled her words, none more important than two of some of the last: “Just… try.” Screw what Yoda said. These days, in this world, it felt like it was all one could do just to try. But that was Denise’s whole point. Just try. Because there were still people alive who needed you, and the people you all had lost needed you to be there for them too. You honored Glenn and Abraham’s deaths by watching it happen. You’d honor their lives and memory by ensuring those who carried them continued to live on.
Judith squealed then. Turning to her, you found the young child had dug up a small worm in the dirt, the invertebrate writhing in her open palm. It fell harmlessly the next second, squirming away as Judith giggled delightedly rather than fearfully. She looked up at you with a beaming smile. Slowly, a grin pulled across your face, and you chuckled at her reaction. Another thought crossed your mind. You and Tyreese protected Judith after the prison fell. You continued to do so after the group reunited and journeyed to Alexandria. Glenn had been expecting; Maggie still was. And Abraham, you’d overheard his remarks with Sasha in the RV that afternoon trying to get Maggie to Hilltop. You’d honor their wishes they’d never get to see, that the group’s next generation grew up safe, grew up with stories of the family they’d never get to meet, but were alive because of. You’d do that for them, or die trying.
Sad coos from the infant and her reaching hand brought you back to the present with rapidly blinking eyes. You hadn’t realized you were crying, but quickly wiped away the tears before bringing Judith into your lap. Together you ran your hands through the soil for a few minutes more, until Judith started to fuss. It was getting on in the midday; she must’ve been hungry. Standing first then scooping Judith up, you bobbed her merrily in your arms for but a moment before stilling when you turned to Denise’s grave marker once more. With a deep breath, you smiled stiffly though graciously, nodding for emphasis and motivation, before you headed back for the house.
Along the way, you entertained Judith with tickling fingers and pretending to steal her nose, until the sight before you stole your breath away. Saviors were clustered around the front of your house. Looking quickly down to the gates, you saw three of their trucks lined up. Rosita, Eugene and Spencer were on the opposite side of the open gate, standing next to the vehicle Spencer had left in earlier that morning. But hadn’t Gabriel gone with him? Where was—? The Father appeared from behind the church, heading down to the gates himself. You, however, slowed considerably but continued towards the house. After all, Judith was hungry.
As you were just passing Aaron and Eric’s home, you noticed two people in rocking chairs in the shade of your home’s porch. The first person was easily recognizable, even without his hat presently on. The person sitting behind Carl, however, was obstructed until you got closer. But you didn’t need to see to know who it was. His entourage in front of the house said it all.
“That’s far enough,” one of the Saviors stepped forward, cutting you off.
You recognized the Savior as Arat, the woman who’d manhandled Olivia up the armory steps the other day. As Arat drew nearer, you pressed Judith closer, and protectively turned her away from the armed woman.
“It’s fine, Arat,” Negan’s voice announced coolly from the porch. “Let her through.”
Arat eyed you disdainfully before quickly glancing at Negan and falling back into place. You didn’t move until she’d done so, and then you were in motion once more. Your eyes went to Carl first, wary yet disciplinary. What the Hell was he doing with Negan? Why were the Saviors back already? What’d Carl do? And where was Enid? Your look was suddenly laced with shock and sympathy when you noticed that, in addition to his hat, Carl’s eye bandage was also missing. His long hair did little to hide the exposed, black socket of his empty orbit, and you could tell just how uncomfortable Carl was without the covering you’d all been forced to get used to.
“Well, look at this precious angel,” Negan chuckled as you climbed the steps. “And by that, I mean the little one. Not that you aren’t a busted up yet heavenly vision yourself, darlin’… Jeez, I forgot your name. The mute who I missed take out Laura the other day. What’s your name…”
“(Y/N),” Carl stated informatively.
“That’s right!” Negan crowed, snapping his fingers and getting to his feet, keeping his eyes on Carl. “Though, it doesn’t sound right. Unlike Daryl, who looks like his name,” Negan laughed before looking your way. “You, on the other hand, look more like a Cassandra, or Cassy.”
Every inch of your skin crawled as you locked your jaw and your spine went rigid. He couldn’t’ve known. It had to have been a pure guess. But that one in a million guess sure had your body reacting on instinct, especially as Negan slowly paced over to you. He stopped a foot away, his eyes scanning from you to Judith. The child whimpered in your embrace.
The Savior grinned. “What a sweetheart,” he murmured, lifting his eyes back to you, lowering his tone to something akin to predatory. “She yours?”
With a controlled expression, you slowly shook your head side to side.
“Didn’t think so,” Negan remarked. “Even if she took after you, ain’t no way Daryl could produce something as beautiful as she.”
Among other feelings, you resented the comment.
“So, then, who does she belong to?” he probed. “Can’t be #2’s. Maybe Red’s?” Negan lifted mischievous eyes to you. “Pulling diaper duty now that she’s a daddy down?”
“Her name’s Judith,” Carl answered curtly. “She’s my sister.”
“Another spawn of Rick?” Negan exclaimed, excitedly though carefully, as not to upset Judith. “Though, I can’t imagine this sweet little girl being another serial killer in the making.”
The hardened expression you’d been stonewalling Negan with, especially with his comment about Glenn and Abraham, gave way to confusion and mild fury at the latter statement.
“May I?”
You looked back from Carl to Negan. The Savior was expectantly gazing on you with hands partially outreached. He nodded when you met his gaze. He wanted to hold Judith. Everything in you told you to hold Judith tighter, but experience said not to try his patience. So, looking at the child in your arms, you gently passed her into Negan’s. He took her with surprising tenderness and care, smiling as he bobbed her a few times before seating himself into the rocking chair.
“She. Is. Adorable,” Negan beamed, even as Judith fussed slightly. The Savior began to rock back and forth, and, as sick as it made you, Judith quickly began to settle against his chest. The act deepened Negan’s delight and pride. “She likes me.”
Keep deluding yourself, asshole, you thought bitterly, eyes like a hawk and muscles primed to jump in and protect Judith like a mamma bear at the slightest sign of danger.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m back so soon,” Negan said after a few moments. “Well, it’s because Carl over here decided to stowaway on one of my trucks and try to kill me this morning. Valient effort, A+ even, but all he got to show for it is two of my men killed, and here I am again, still breathing.”
Your eyes had immediately gone to the elder Grimes child, your brow furrowing deeper the more Negan spoke. Carl could hardly maintain eye contact for more than a second, his gaze perpetually going back to Judith while maintaining a sheepish and worried expression.
“Actions have consequences, kid, and I’m still deciding on yours,” Negan continued. “What I made you do already is nowhere near payment enough, but I’m sure I’ll think of something while we wait for Rick to come back with more of my shit.”
You and Carl shared another look.
“Which could take hours. That’s what Olivia said.” Negan’s expression transitioned from faux crestfallenness to arrogantly mischievous. “I got an idea.” He lifted his gaze to you. “After all, it is next time.” Negan turned his head up and tilted sideways to peer around you. “Arat.”
The woman in question pivoted and marched over to the base of the porch steps.
“Fetch Laura for me,” Negan ordered, turning his gaze back on you. “We’re gonna have ourselves that little rematch I promised, and this time Rick’s not gonna ruin the ending for me.”
With only a curt nod, Arat hurried off as ordered. You breathed deeply and swallowed heavily, trading glances between Carl and Negan. Parts of you still ached from your fight the other day, dark and blotchy bruises along your jaw, face, and body blooming as of yesterday morning and deepening by the hour. Surely by nightfall tonight you’d be easily lost in shadows.
“Same rules, darlin’,” Negan purred, bringing your attention back to him. “One round. No weapons. No holds barred. I want a show—” He grinned. “Then I’ll stick around for dinner.”
He wanted a show? You’d give him a show.
“And because you seemed so motivated by an ultimatum last time,” Negan continued. “Even if it wasn’t your fault this time, win, and Carl won’t be made an example of for what he did.”
You didn’t need motivation. Not this time. You knew how the bastard operated. You knew Negan said and did what he did for kicks, for the pleasure of exercising his power and control. Well, this time, you’d only permit a taste. Carl’s life was on the line now, not Daryl’s, for Carl’s mistake instead of your own. You two shared a look, fear flashing behind the boy’s eye. But your gaze remained harsh, determined, and when you looked back to Negan, you nodded agreeably.
Negan grinned smugly. “Good choice.”
Like you even had one.
Arat and Laura returned moments later. With a final shared look with Carl, you descended the porch steps out onto the road in front of the house. The Saviors of Negan’s personal guard gathered round like they had the first time. Negan and Carl both stood, standing at or leaning against the porch banister to get nearer the action.
Laura stared you down, rolling her neck and shoulders, making a big show and attempt at a pre-fight ritual. She gently though purposely knocked a fist against one side of her jaw twice, smiling haughtily at you. “Ready for round two?”
You grinned back with equal smugness, signing the letter ‘R’ and pointing at your opponent with raised eyebrows. Whether or not she knew what you meant, it was clear Laura didn’t like it.
As though from the announcer’s box, Negan declared, “Ladies, when you’re ready.”
Laura stepped back and forth, attempting to circle you and size you up again, before rushing forward with a small grunt. It was over before it began.
With superior reflexes and hand-to-hand combat skills, you forwent your previous intention of not revealing said talents to Negan and went for the instant takedown. You allowed Laura to throw but not land four strikes before capitalizing on her frustration. At the fifth throw, you caught her arm and deflected it down and under. Simultaneously, you reached forward with your opposite hand, all the way behind Laura’s head bringing it forward and down as one of your knees came up to meet her face hard. She staggered slightly, dazedly, but you wouldn’t let her breathe, not for a second. As blood poured from her nose and she, blind with rage, lashed out again, you deflected the blow with your arms and kicked out at her forward leg. Effectively curb-stomping the inside of her knee, you drove Laura to the ground.
As she partially spun downward, you once more didn’t give an inch, striking out with the same foot, cracking your shin across her skull. Laura fell sideways to the opposite knee, and when she lifted her bloodied face, you once again landed a blow. This time, a hard right hook, driving her flat onto the asphalt. Laura struggled to push up but you kicked her savagely right in the solar plexus, driving all air from her chest and the woman back a few feet. She tumbled across the road, and you almost casually followed after her. Once she was stationary, facing skyward, you dropped to one knee behind her and forced Laura’s torso up against you. Though she struggled, and the blood from her face made for a slightly more difficult grip, you quickly and effectively put her in a rear naked chokehold.
Just as quickly as you got her in, Laura quickly began to fade, her struggles becoming weaker and weaker. You looked up, finding you’d ended up right where you wanted: in the road facing the porch. Negan was watching, his face impassive yet intrigued. He still held onto Judith, whose head lay across his shoulder, sleeping. Carl, meanwhile, had his eye wide and locked on you. But you, your eyes were on Negan. You would watch him as he watched you choke the life out of one of his Saviors, the third that day thanks to Carl, and you’d make Laura watch him watch you do it. Because if you had to kneel before him, you preferred to do it like this.
“Alright, darlin’,” Negan chuckled. “You made your point.”
Whether the point he got was the point you intended to make was the real question.
“Lighten up, before you break her neck,” Negan ordered.
With a final grimace, you released Laura. Pushing back forcefully, you quickly stood upright, whilst Laura fell forward, coughing and rasping for air. The Saviors remained in their places, leaving her to recover alone, as they surprisingly left you alone. It must’ve been at Negan’s wordless order. You looked up to find out, finding him already looking at you.
“Well, sweetheart, I say that little show earned you a spot at the table,” he announced proudly. “Why don’t you come inside and get cleaned up while Carl and I start? Can’t have you all gross and bloody when we break bread.”
Negan turned away and headed inside without your answer, because he knew, as you knew, what it would be. Carl’s gaze followed the man momentarily before he turned back to you, meeting your eye. Once he got a confirmatory nod from you, Carl followed Negan and his sister inside. You lingered in the road a moment longer, glaring bitterly down at your opponent still struggling to catch her breath. She was on hand and knees, the other hand against her throat and head bowed forward. When enough was enough, you stepped around Laura and strode for the porch, but kept your gaze trained on her at all times. As you walked by, she lifted her face, staring spitefully at you with slightly bared teeth and cheeks laboring with breath, her nose ring now hanging loosely from her left nostril. But all you did was smile smugly, jauntily, assertively, flicking your hair as you turned away, climbed the steps, and marched inside after the others.
You did as Negan instructed, heading upstairs and showering quickly, getting the grave dirt and Laura’s blood off of every inch of you within reach. By the time you were finished and on the second-floor landing, the smell of food was wafting up the stairs. Carl looked over at your approaching footsteps when you walked into the kitchen. Negan didn’t, not at first. He was too busy taste testing his saucy creation. You looked around the room, around their bodies, to the stovetop. Though you loved Italian food, to your dismay, Negan was preparing spaghetti.
“Won’t be much longer now,” Negan stated, before turning and noticing your presence with a wide grin. “Well look at you! If it weren’t for your busted face from the first brawl, and if I didn’t see it for myself just now, I’d think you were a proper lady!”
Your brows furrowed bitterly, confusedly, before glancing down at yourself. It’s not like you decided to don a dress. Jeans tucked into your boots, tank-top tucked into the belted waistband of your jeans with your preferred vest overtop, and wet hair tied up tightly at the back of your head. Where Negan was getting a proper lady from your present attire you couldn’t be sure. Then again, your vest was open, and your top was formfitting in all the typical right places.
Negan seemed to pick up on you picking up what he was putting down. He discarded the wooden spoon in the sauce pot and casually strode over to you with a sultry grin.
Stopping in front of you, he leaned in and whispered, “You don’t need to try so hard, darlin’. You’ve had my attention right from the start. And if you play your cards right, forget Daryl and come home with me, you’ll have my dick at attention later this evening.”
Adam. Negan reminded you so much of Adam. More homicidal, but definitely cut from the same cloth. As were most of the other men you were forced to interact with overseas, and you knew how to deal with them. However, the ones you did deal with to the fullest extent wouldn’t be talking anytime soon, and while you wished for nothing more than that with Negan, you couldn’t risk anybody’s safety. Negan had already demonstrated his tactic: step out of line, and it would be someone else who’d pay the price that you’d have to live with.
So, you simply turned your dead stare forward over his way, meeting his provocatively sexual gaze and lifted brows with a hardened expression. Judith in her high chair whined in that moment, and you took the opportunity to turn and walk away to tend to her. Behind you, Negan chuckled, before you heard his footsteps recede back to the stove. Olivia entered through the front door a moment later, carrying a small tub of powdered lemonade. You saw Tara out on the porch, staring in worriedly before Olivia closed the door.
Shortly after, Negan triumphantly declared the spaghetti and sauce about ready. So, as the Savior took his seat at the head of the dining table, Carl placed the handmade biscuits in a basket, Olivia made a fresh batch of lemonade, and you, carrying Judith in one arm, began to set the table. Negan sat there with a shit-eating grin all the while, waiting expectantly to be waited on by you and Olivia. Then, once the food was placed on the table, all of you simply waited, for who knew how long. Eventually, Negan grew tired waiting for Rick and began serving himself. Only then did the rest of you follow his lead.
The meal was had mostly in silence, with periodic commentary from the freshly shaven Savior. For the best, you reasoned, in ways more than one. The most important to you, though not to the current situation, being that this meal was supposed to be between you, Daryl, Aaron and Eric. It was supposed to be merry, lively, the four of you enjoying each other’s company and normalcy of a double date, and you supporting Daryl’s awkwardness through it all. Hell, maybe you would’ve even had the strength and courage to say something aloud, to join in on their mirth. But such wasn’t the case. Not now, and by the look of things, not anytime soon either.
“That. Was. Delicious. If I do say so myself,” Negan bragged with a smile, wiping his face on the white napkin tucked into his collar. He pulled it out and carelessly tossed it down onto the table in front of him. “As I made the meal, I think it’s only fair everyone else clean up. Right?”
He looked around at the rest of you, that smile still plastered across his face. Without glancing his way, you stood and began gathering the empty plates and silverware, carrying them into the kitchen.
“Why thank you, darlin’, you’re too kind,” Negan teased, lifting his drinking glass and bringing it closer to his face as he turned to Carl. “Man, Daryl’s got it made. A hot wife who kicks ass, follows orders, and doesn’t talk back? Some guys have all the luck, don’t they, kid?”
Carl was silent. Olivia, who you’d passed Judith to when you stood, was silent. You were silent. Negan, meanwhile, chuckled arrogantly and sipped his drink. Carl glanced sideways into the kitchen at you. The sound of running water from the sink as you rinsed the plates drowned out Negan’s chortles, but not the wariness and apology in Carl’s eye. Negan had said Carl intended to kill him that morning. That meant Carl had somehow gotten to wherever it was Negan called home, which meant Carl probably saw Daryl there too. What had Carl seen that he wasn’t telling— that he couldn’t tell you, at least not yet, not in front of present company?
“The Hell do you want, asshole?”
“I want to talk to Negan.”
“No.”
The voices had been loud enough from outside to hear in the house. Carl, you and Olivia shared looks, but Negan simply and casually got to his feet, taking his drink with him as he walked to the front door.
“I just want to talk to him.”
“I said ‘no’.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Arat,” Negan declared, strolling out onto the porch and leaving the front door wide open. “Let the man pass.”
You heard footsteps come up onto the porch, heard Negan get excited about something, and then Spencer introduced himself like the goddamned spineless brownnoser he was. After learning he’d been the one who possessed the missing guns that almost got Olivia killed, having hid them away in his house along with a cache of other stolen contraband from the pantry, your pity for the orphan turned to callousness. He was an Alexandrian, hardly worth your protection anymore, but an Alexandrian all the same.
A moment later, Negan closed the front door, remaining out on the porch with Spencer. As soon as the barrier was made, Olivia began to break down, stifling her crying and tears with one hand over her mouth. You finished rinsing the plates and loading the dishwasher before going to her, placing your hands on her shoulders.
Olivia nodded hurriedly. “I’m ok,” she lied hastily. “I’m ok.” Olivia then looked up to your awaiting gaze with sad though appreciative eyes. “Thank you.”
Nodding once, you then headed for the foyer, intending to bring back the blank notepad and pen you’d been leaving there ever since the Saviors first arrived. Your simple task was thwarted when you noticed movement in the distance through the translucent curtains and leaves of the trees outside. You diverted to the living room and pulled back the curtain. Saviors were gathering around a large, familiar moving-truck driving through the open gates. You released the curtain, took up the notepad and returned to the dining room where Olivia was still cleaning up.
Rick and Aaron are back. You ok if I go meet them at the gate?
Olivia read your note before looking up at you, nodding. “Yes,” she said, trying to reassure not only you but herself. “I’ll be alright here, with Carl and Judith. Go, I’ll be fine.”
You smiled halfheartedly, looking from her to Judith and giving the sleeping child a quick kiss on the brow before stepping into the kitchen where Carl had taken over for you. As he scrubbed the pots too big for the dishwasher, you flashed the same note his way.
He read it quickly and looked back to you. “We’ll be fine,” he said assuredly. “Go.”
You nodded, shoving the notepad in your waistband behind your back and heading for the door. You’d just closed it behind you and took two steps out onto the porch when an irritatingly spinechilling voice pulled you up short.
“And where are you going in such a hurry, darlin’?”
You were getting really tired really quickly being called “darlin’”, especially by the likes of Negan. Standing fully upright, you then turned to face him. Negan and Spencer were sitting in the rocking chairs, glasses of alcohol in hand and Lucille leaning against the table between them. Though Spencer’s gaze was a tamer version of the expectant one Negan was bidding, you peered suspiciously at the former man. Until your eyes turned to Negan, and you took a step in his direction, reaching behind your back.
“Ah, ah, ah.”
Negan’s tuts were accompanied by the sound of a gun cocking. You froze, slowly turning your gaze to see Arat training her weapon right at you.
“Slowly, now,” Negan went on. “You might wanna rethink whatever it is you’re gonna do.”
Nah, and besides, the man had asked you a question, right? Still, keeping your eyes on Arat, you slowly removed the notepad from your waistband and lifted it up for her to see. Once it’d been out in the open long enough to recognize its nonexistent threat, you just as slowly began turning it and your face towards Negan, proffering him the page to read.
He did, with a look of incredulity, before lifting his face to you with a scoff. “So this is how you’ve been communicating this whole time, huh?” Negan’s mirth deepened when you bid a single, curt nod, and he grinned widely. “Then sure, darlin’, by all means! Go get Rick! Tell him I’ve got an enlightening revelation about his one-eyed pride and joy planned for us. But first—” Negan took another swig of his drink and jumped to his feet. “Spencer and I are gonna play us some pool! Isn’t that right, Spencer?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“That’s the spirit!” Negan crowed, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair before turning back to you. He paced exceptionally close to you. Close enough to smell alcohol and spaghetti sauce on his breath, to see the hairs he missed while shaving.
“Now run along, sweetheart,” Negan purred threateningly though, dare you say, coquettishly. “I’ve waited for Rick long enough, don’t cha think?”
You’d been holding your breath since the first waft of his hit your olfactory sense. The moment Negan gave you an out, you took it, promptly turning from him and heading down the steps, taking in a deep breath as you went. Negan chuckled behind you, the sound quickly becoming an order for his men to move the pool table out onto the street, as you walked purposely towards the gates. Despite Negan’s insistence, you didn’t hurry. You didn’t run. You were controlled, observant, counting the Saviors and their weaponry. Maybe some part of you hoped Daryl would be among them again, and that’s why your eyes couldn’t remain fixed for more than three seconds at a time, but you knew he wouldn’t be. You knew this trip of Negan’s was spontaneous, and courtesy of Carl. Negan didn’t need to torture Rick with Daryl when he had the fate of his son to toy with.
“Where d’ya think you’re going?”
A Savior you’d been approaching was watching you since you rounded the bend in the road. He was standing several yards out front from where Aaron and Rick’s truck was currently parked. Now that you were within speaking distance, he addressed you callously. Lifting your pad and pen, you slowed your approach until finishing your writing and proffering it to him with equal tactlessness.
Negan sent me to fetch Rick. He’s getting tired of waiting. Wants Rick up there by the time he’s finished with a round of pool
The Savior read your words and eyed you, first skeptically, then judgmentally, then finally amusedly. “Fine, then,” he said with a scoff and jut of his chin. “Go get ‘im.”
You nodded curtly once, continuing your purposeful walk passed the armed man. No sooner had you taken your first step did you hear someone by the truck call out in pain. Looking, you saw two Saviors facing Rick, and at their feet was Aaron, curled up on himself. One said something to Rick, and then kicked Aaron in the stomach.
“Back up!” a third Savior yelled, rushing in front of Rick and pointing a pistol in his face.
You recognized the third Savior and her messy blonde up-do partially smeared with blood as Laura. But this recognition was a fleeting blip across your radar. What you recognized most was the other two Saviors beating Aaron mercilessly on the ground, your friend crying out and writhing in pain. Now you began to hurry. Not run. Running would be a threat. Threats would get you or someone else killed. But hurry you did. When you got close, just as the Saviors slammed their fists against Aaron’s face, you slammed the side of your fist against the side of the truck’s hood in order to get their attention. It worked.
Rick looked around Laura to you, his expression sad and pained. “(Y/N)…”
One of the Saviors beating up Aaron turned to you, asking, “The Hell you want, bitch?”
You recognized him as one of the men Carl had threatened the first day the Saviors arrived to take Alexandria’s things. Davey, Negan had called him. Dave, most likely, or whatever. Who the fuck cared? All you cared about was making him and his buddy stop assaulting Aaron. So, you sneered angrily, but not at the men. Your gaze was focused beyond them, at Laura. When you gestured to her then back at yourself, flashing three digits on one hand, and her eyes flashed almost panickily at you, the men seemed to understand too.
“(Y/N), stop,” Rick hissed insistently, shifting on his feet. “Enough.”
“Better listen to Rick, little lady,” Davey warned. “Unless you wanna end up like your friend, here.”
Your eyes moved from Laura to Davey. With a smile, you slammed the hood once more.
Davey grinned. “Alright. You asked for it.”
As the Savior advanced, the unnamed third man stooped and punched Aaron again, just as Rick shouted out, demanding, begging for everything to stop. The third Savior did, but apparently more so from exhaustion rather than compliance. Davey, on the other hand, continued his advance. Big, burly, insecure men like him always went for the face, regardless of the opponent’s sex, but especially against women. Something about being threatened by a woman, taking it personally, wanting to destroy the one thing society held in highest regard for a woman’s status. Fucking Hell, that society was dead and gone, but the mentality still remained. So, you egged him on for it by smiling cockily, and Davey took the bait hook, line and sinker.
When he made to haymaker your face, you dodged and landed a lightning-fast combo that surprised even you, what with your recent fights with Laura and your back still healing. Gut blow by fist, followed immediately by chin shot with the elbow of the same arm. You landed another gut blow with your opposite fist before driving a stiff knee up into his solar plexus. The man couldn’t have a chance to breathe if he tried, for then, as you landed your foot back on the ground, you rounded the point of your elbow against his temple, driving Davey’s head hard against the side of the truck. The metallic impact rang out along with his groan of pain as he fell to one knee. You stepped back, breathing controlled though heavily, and raising your gaze to the unnamed third Savior who’d instigated Aaron’s assault.
He scoffed at the irate look on your face. “All right, all right, all right. Point made.”
The man had said it with conviction and without fear, or at least it appeared. Regardless, you knew he was telling the truth.
His eyes glanced to Davey at your feet. “Get your ass up and help us finish unloading this shit.” The Savior’s gaze returned to you. “Negan’s been waiting for these pricks long enough.”
The unnamed Savior stepped backwards towards the rear of the truck. Before disappearing from your sight, he turned to Rick. The two eyed each other wordlessly before he and Laura, holstering her weapon again, retreated behind the truck. As soon as they were gone, you and Rick rushed forward to Aaron’s side.
“My heart’s still beating, right?” you heard Aaron ask Rick as the former sheriff got one arm around his shoulders and hoisted Aaron to his feet.
As all three of you returned upright, Davey passed by, using the truck to support himself as he held thumb and finger to his bloody nose and stared you down. You stared right back, until he too had disappeared around the rear of the truck whilst you, Rick and Aaron hobbled forward. After only a few feet, you shimmied under Aaron’s opposite shoulder, reaching across his body to forcefully pat Rick’s chest. Once you got his attention, you gestured between you and Aaron, then pointed at Rick and waved forcefully down the road.
Rick’s brows furrowed bitterly at you. “You shouldn’t’ve done that,” he chastised. “You could’ve died. You could’ve gotten someone killed.”
Your own brows furrowed tighter, angrily, insistently, and you repeated your gestures.
He sighed heavily but nodded, turning his gaze to Aaron. “You alright?”
The wounded man scoffed almost amusedly. “I’m fine. Go. Go.”
Rick then slowly passed all of Aaron’s weight onto your shoulders before staring at you once more. “We’ll deal with this later.” Then he was off, hurrying down the road.
When Rick was far enough away, and you’d managed to hobble Aaron along a few yards, the man over your shoulders suddenly began to chuckle. You turned your head towards him.
He was smiling. “Remember when I said I thought you were losing your touch?” Aaron glanced your way, and when his eyes met yours, his bloody smile widened. “I take it back.”
His mirth became your own, until the laughter pained Aaron’s chest. “That woman, at the truck,” he groaned. “She’s the one Negan made you fight the other day, right?”
You nodded.
“Did Negan make you fight again, like he said he would?”
Again, you nodded, but this time, you smiled and added a wink.
Aaron scoffed, smiling himself. “I’m glad you took my advice. Thanks for—”
BANG
Gunshot. That was a gunshot. You and Aaron shared a worried expression and quickened your hobbling pace. Ahead, Rick did the same, breaking into a run and disappearing around the corner at the same time you heard a woman scream.
“No! It was me! No!”
BANG
You and Aaron hobbled faster around the corner. A group of Alexandrians were gathered outside your group’s homes, with armed Saviors and their trained weapons surrounding them. Rick was working his way through the gathering, towards the center where you could see Negan by the pool table. At least three people were on the ground in the road. Carl was crouched behind your home’s porch railing. When your eyes scanned back to the main cluster of people, you began picking up the details. One of the people on the ground was Rosita. The Savior, Arat, was kneeling over her but facing the porch where Carl was, her gun leveled in his direction. Just as further panic threatened to overtake you, the Savior lowered her weapon and glared back at Rosita. Beyond the two women lay the third body, at the foot of the pool table, partially obscured by the numerous legs and feet of Alexandrians and Saviors in your way. But, despite the obstacles, you could’ve sworn the third body wasn’t moving, and laying in a pool of blood.
“We had an agreement!” you heard Rick declare angrily.
He and Negan were in the midst of the latter’s long-awaited conversation when you and Aaron finally managed to hobble into the gathering. Hearing your scuffling, several heads had turned. A few Saviors even raised their weapons threateningly as they backed up to let you both in. Most important to notice your arrival, however, was Eric, who hurriedly rushed to meet you.
“Aaron, Aaron,” he worried softly, taking him up under the other shoulder.
“It’s ok,” Aaron assured just as gently, trying to ease at least one level of burden and concern, given the present situation. “I’ll be alright.”
Eric looked Aaron up and down with wide eyes before lifting them to you, nodding hastily in appreciation. You curtly nodded back, continuing to help Aaron forward another few steps until the three of you found yourselves squarely amongst the outskirts of the gathering of people. With nervousness well-concealed by patient observance, you carefully continued to assess your surroundings while Negan began explaining things to Rick. About Carl, and Rick’s resultant reaction, the candid sheer incredulity of which would’ve been amusing if not for current circumstances. About Spencer, who you realized then was the dead body at the feet of both Negan and the pool table. About Rosita, who still remained on hands and knees with a bloody cheek and contemptuous expression at the orating man. About Olivia, Negan not needing to name any names for you to know who he meant by his persistently insulting vernacular.
Rick had listened silently in righteous fear and fury. Eventually, he turned squarely and addressed Negan directly. “Your shit’s waiting for you at the gate. Just go.”
Negan bade a sarcastically perturbed yet impressed expression for Rick’s assertiveness and diction. “Sure thing, Rick… right after I find the guy or gal that made this bullet.” Negan snatched the shell casing between his fingers closer to his chest. “Arat?”
The Savior in question took a moment, side-eyeing Negan, then abruptly stood and whirled her gun around. She aimed it right for Aaron and Eric, the couple gasping and reeling back in fear. Aaron held onto Eric tighter, trying to pull him away as Eric extended one hand nonthreateningly. Your shoulder and back brushed that hand as you instinctively stepped in front of them, staring down the barrel of Arat’s gun with defiance, fear, and protectiveness.
“No, (Y/N/N)—” you heard Aaron whisper frightfully behind you.
“It was me!”
Eyes, and Arat’s gun, all turned at Tara’s false proclamation. But that didn’t last long. Eugene tearfully and dreadfully came uncharacteristically clean the very next second. Negan sized the mullet man up as Eugene blubbered and babbled about the bullet chemistry and manufacture process. Arat’s gun had turned from you to Tara to Eugene, but a neighboring Savior’s weapon took its place. You glanced over at it now, then quickly up at the Savior wielding it before returning your eyes to Eugene. Negan had begun pacing away, and when he stopped, he raised his barbed wire bat in front of his face. He stood there a moment, talking to himself, to his precious Lucille, the tension building before at last it snapped.
“I’m gonna be relieving you of your bullet maker, Rick.” Negan turned to the man in question as Eugene’s terrified gaze did the same. “That, and whatever you left for me at the front gate. And however much you scavenged, it’s not good enough, because you’re still in a serious, serious hole after today.”
***Negan paused a moment, and then glanced your way. A small smile spread across his lips before he looked back to the former sheriff. “You’re lucky I’m not taking Daryl’s wife today too, Rick,” he murmured darkly. “If I weren’t a reasonable guy, I would, because she is just… wow. But, we just killed two more of your people and are taking a third. If you lose anyone else, then who the Hell’s gonna be left to bring me more shit? So, you still get to keep her, for now. But mark my words, Rick, if any of your people step outta line one more time, she’s gonna be the first to go.”
The men held gazes a moment longer before Negan turned to you again. His grin was arrogantly wolfish, alpha-male all the way. Sly and greedy. He couldn’t wait to take you away. The unimportant but curious question running through your mind being did he want to do it more because he actually wanted you, or because he didn’t want Rick and Daryl to have you? The short answer, was ‘yes’.
Not a second later, Negan loudly and abruptly gave the order to move out. Rosita protested and begged for them to take her instead as the Saviors led Eugene away, but she was ignored and left to grieve and wallow in guilt in the road. Negan taunted Rick one last time before he and the Saviors all departed for the gates. The group of Alexandrians remained in place, looking between one another with mixed emotions. Fear. Shock. Anger. Despair. Sadness.
“(Y/N).”
You turned. Aaron and Eric were looking incredulously at you.
“Why?” he croaked weakly, the pain finally kicking in full-force. “Why would you do that?”
Did Aaron mean by the truck? Did he mean just then, stepping in front of Arat? Did it even matter? Without question, the answer was ‘no’. Thus, with a sad smile, you stepped forward. Gently, you placed your forehead against both of theirs that’d already been against one another’s, closing your eyes and resting one hand atop their clasped pair over Aaron’s chest.
“Because,” you whispered softly and slowly. “Your heart’s still beating.”
You felt the men breathe heavily with surprise. You saw it in their faces when you leaned back and opened your eyes. Amazement, relief, pride and joy were mirrored in the couple’s expressions. Some was likely reflected in yours too. But you ended the moment quickly, not wanting to get into the whole ordeal of, yes, you could speak, when there was still so much to do. So much to process. Thus, with a gentle smile, you brought your pointed index finger against your lips as you slowly backed away before turning fully, heading for your house.
Once on the porch, you consciously acknowledged Olivia’s corpse and the single bullet hole in her right cheek, but promptly marched to Carl. Though he seemed rather well-together, you knew the boy was shaken. You knew he still felt vulnerable and exposed. You knew this for many reasons, one being that Carl permitted you to put your hands on his cheeks in motherly affection, gently brushing your thumb just below the scar tissue of his empty orbital socket, before leading him into the house to replace his bandage and tend to Judith.
It was hours later by the time you’d allowed your mind to stop acting and start thinking. Autopilot had taken over in the immediate aftermath of the Saviors. You rebandaged Carl’s eye, then ensured he and Judith would be ok before going back outside to help Rick, Gabriel and Tobin bury Olivia and Spencer. You went and checked on Aaron and Eric after that, showing them the explicatory entry you’d written for Carol at the grove all that time ago. They understood, were gracious and grateful and didn’t pry, and in return you took them up on the dinner Aaron had offered you the other day.
Now, finally, after nightfall, you found yourself at home, sitting in the living room. You’d recently put Judith to bed upstairs. Carl was in his room. Rick was doing some heavy solitary contemplation in the cell Morgan had built during the raid on the Saviors’ outpost. Michonne had recently returned and gone out to check on him. It was just you with your thoughts again. One would’ve thought that’d be the case in general, especially after the afternoon’s events, but one’d be wrong. Everything that’d happened that day, from after visiting Denise’s grave to the moment you sat on the couch, had felt so mechanical. So conditioned. So… reminiscent of how you were after your husband and sister died, and it unnerved, practically sickened you.
A precarious tightrope you walked, that. The mechanical distancing from your feelings in the name of sanity and self-preservation, and the simultaneous, conscious acceptance of them. Mechanics kept you alive. Feelings kept you living. And you’d wanted to live. You’d told yourself that before, and it still held true now. So, there you were, alone in the living room with your thoughts, trying to wrap your head around—
“(Y/N)?”
You looked up, finding Carl standing in the archway between living room and foyer. The fresh bandage you’d placed that afternoon was mostly concealed behind his long brown hair, but you could still see the empty socket in your own mind’s eye. You empathized with Carl. He was still only a child. An injury like that, a scar he’d have to bear for the rest of his life from such a young, impressionable age, even in this world where physical appeal fell low on the totem pole of survival necessity, must’ve been hard on him. You were an adult woman with a loving husband when you endured your own trauma and received your own scars, and look what it’d done to you. Carl was still so young; you forgot that at times. Today had been a stark reminder. You acknowledged the boy’s presence with a kind smile.
Carl slowly drew closer, out of the shadows and into the flickering candlelight. “I… don’t know if I should tell you this but—” He paused, stopping at the other end of the couch you sat on and glancing at his feet. Carl looked up a moment later and continued. “I— I saw Daryl, when I snuck into the Saviors’ compound today.”
Your chest tightened reflexively, and you were sure it also showed on your face.
Carl swallowed thickly before continuing, “They made him handle Walkers on the fences.”
You closed your eyes. You’d pictured a thousand times what the Saviors and Negan could be doing to Daryl over there. Now that you were hearing it from Carl, now that you were finding out, you second-guessed yourself about actually wanting to know.
“He— Daryl knelt for Negan and—”
Abruptly, you opened your eyes and rose to your feet. When your wild yet hardened gaze met Carl’s somewhat startled expression, you shook your head forcefully.
Carl didn’t need a written explanation to know what that meant, and he nodded guiltily, looking down a bit shamefully. “Sorry.”
You eased your severe expression and took a deep breath, the sound getting Carl to lift his gaze. When it met yours, you waved one hand smally and signed your own apology, before quickly running through the three-sign gesture for “Are you ok?”
He nodded. “I’m fine.” Carl waited a moment, then smiled softly. “Because of you. It could’ve been a lot worse without you here today. And Judith—”
The two of you paused. Neither of you wanted to think about what could’ve happened to Judith with Negan around if you and Olivia hadn’t been there to deflect his attention.
Carl shook his head of the intrusive thoughts, returning a gracious smile. “Anyway, thank you, for everything.”
A sudden urge overtook you, and you crossed the length of the couch to gently take Carl up in a warm hug. The two of you embraced a moment before you pulled away, hanging onto him at either shoulder briefly. You then moved your right hand quickly to his left cheek, placing it there affectionately for but a second before gently though playfully ruffling the roots of his bangs.
The boy scoffed bemusedly, pushing your hand away. “Stop.”
He’d said it with a smile, your own pulling wide across your lips. That’s when the front door opened and closed, and you heard two sets of approaching footsteps. Carl turned and you looked up to find Rick and Michonne having returned together, their expressions suddenly becoming more serious when they noticed your presence.
Carl’s brow furrowed, concerned. “What’s going on?”
Rick and Michonne looked to one another, then back to the two of you, the former stepping further into the light. “Enough’s enough,” he declared, firmly though tiredly. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the Hilltop. See if we can get them to join our fight against the Saviors.”
Your chest expanded with a deep breath.
It was Carl, however, to ask, “You’re serious?”
Rick nodded. “I am.”
“We do this together,” Michonne declared, looking between the three of you. “All of us. We do this for all of us.”
Carl inhaled quickly, smiling and nodding agreeably.
Rick smiled smally at his son, then turned his gaze on you. “About what I said earlier, that we’d talk about what you did at the truck…” His smile was then accompanied by a scoff. “I don’t suppose you’d forget I said it and accept this as my apology?”
Your own scoff passed your lips with an audible huff of incredulity, but you gave Rick a grin and a thumbs-up all the same.
He nodded appreciatively, looking between the three of you. “Get some sleep,” he declared. “Tomorrow, we go to war.”
Chapter 14: Chapter XIV
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Thanks for the clothes.”
“You’re welcome.”
Jesus, arms crossed and leaning against the small table of his Hilltop trailer, casually watched Daryl as he chowed down on the apple Jesus had brought him for breakfast.
“Sorry if they don’t fit well,” Jesus went on. “We’re close in size, but they’re probably not your style.”
“’s fine,” Daryl muttered, wiping his face of some juice running down his chin. “Better than that asshole’s shit I swiped before you broke me out. Thanks again for that.”
He’d thanked Jesus several times already. The Hilltop man grinned. “My pleasure.” Jesus paused momentarily, contemplating the violent event right before their escape on Daryl’s bike. “Though, did you have to kill that guy, Daryl? He was surrendering—”
“Yeah, I did,” Daryl snapped, looking up to meet Jesus’ gaze. “You would’ve too if you’d been there. Been through and saw the same shit I did. Every one of ‘em’s gotta pay.”
Jesus sighed. “It’s not that I don’t agree with you. The Saviors have to be stopped. But that guy—”
“—Fed me dog food on stale bread,” Daryl interrupted and finished the sentence for Jesus, staring begrudgingly over the rim of his partially eaten apple at the other man. They shared gazes for a moment, before Daryl looked down and took another crisp bite, chewing loudly as he stared at the floor in front of his feet.
“So what now?” Daryl asked around a mouthful of fruit, lifting his gaze once more.
Jesus sighed again, this time quickly and informatively. “Saviors must know by now you escaped. First place they’re gonna look is Alexandria. Can’t go back there. Not now. Not yet,” he reasoned. “Probably best you hang low here for a bit, and if Gregory’s got a problem with it…”
The Hilltop man laughed, his face twisting into a smirk. Daryl had already been informed how Maggie and Sasha were making names for themselves as new leaders of Hilltop, respected and welcomed, even if Gregory was still the figurehead in charge for all intents and purposes in dealing with the Saviors. However, it didn’t seem likely it’d remain that way for long, not if they, Jesus, and the rest of Hilltop had anything to say about it. Daryl mirrored the gesture before looking back down and taking another bite. Hang low, huh? The way Jesus said it reminded Daryl of his brother, how Merle had used that phrase. Daryl’s thoughts immediately went there, then promptly elsewhere, concerned more, as usual, for another’s wellbeing than his own needs.
“Enid and Carl, when they showed up here the other day,” Daryl began, aimlessly staring at what was left of the apple’s core between his thumb and middle finger. “Did they say anything about Alexandria? What’s goin’ on there?”
Jesus saw right through Daryl’s inquiry to the main answer he sought. “I didn’t have a chance to talk with Enid, and Carl didn’t mention (Y/N). Sorry.”
Daryl took a deep breath, continuing to stare at the apple, the remaining bits of meat quickly browning from exposure. He thought about when he last saw (Y/N), at the gate. How broken and devastated he’d left her there weeping in Aaron’s arms, how battered and bloodied from the beating she’d taken for him. (Y/N) must’ve known what Daryl did, what he made Rick decide with Negan’s proposal, was to protect her, but in that moment for (Y/N), to Daryl, it was like the end of the world. It was worse than the end of the world. The road to Hell was paved with good intentions, and however noble or altruistic Daryl had acted, this was no exception. He’d hurt (Y/N), caused her pain in more ways than one, far worse than anything else he'd said or done to her the past several months. This was what he thought about much of the time, locked up in his cold, dark cell. Daryl thought about getting out and keeping his promises, like he always had with (Y/N), but now that he was free again, he couldn’t go back to set things right, because doing so would put her and the rest of Alexandria in even greater danger. Would risk even more pain. Even more death. And this time, for his actions, it might’ve been (Y/N)’s.
“Sasha!” Maggie’s voice suddenly called from outside. “Enid!”
The two men looked towards the source, then at each other, before moving to the window to see for themselves what was going on. Maggie was atop one of the watchtowers, looking out beyond the walls. The next minute she descended the ladder and moved to stand in front of the gates. They opened moments later, and as Maggie approached, Daryl and Jesus saw Rick walk forward to meet and embrace her. Daryl’s expression softened with incredulity and relief as more of his group – Michonne, Carl, Rosita and Tara – walked through the gates after him.
Jesus, however, smiled at the other man’s reaction before looking back out the window of his trailer. “Guess now you can find out for yourself.”
Without another word, Daryl headed for the door, Jesus following close behind. They walked out onto the sunlit path, passing behind one of the sheds before visualizing the group once more. When they had, Rick turned from Maggie with shock before stepping away to hurry towards them. The others followed slowly, but Daryl’s eyes were on Rick, and when the former sheriff stopped in front of him, reality slapped Daryl right in the face. He broke with a nod and quivering of his lip before dropping his head, allowing Rick to pull him into a brotherly embrace of desperate relief and agonized sympathy.
They held on for a while, Daryl doing everything in his power to hold back the tears threatening to spill out. He was mostly successful, even when Tara took Rick’s place in Daryl’s arms, and Daryl had a sudden rush of guilt and other emotions from Denise’s death. Then it was Michonne, stepping forward to clasp Daryl’s head between her hands and kiss his cheek. Rosita hung back, Daryl giving her a nod before turning his gaze to Rick and wordlessly handing the former sheriff his rightful weapon. Rick inspected it almost incredulously, and as he did, Daryl found that he couldn’t wait any longer.
“How’s (Y/N)?”
Rick paused, his hands immediately freezing with thumbs around the open chamber of his gun. More terrifying than the action, however, was the brief expression of panic flitting across Rick’s face, before he somberly closed the chamber with a heavy sigh.
“Naw.” Daryl’s heartbeat quickened and he shifted on his feet, fearing the worst. “Rick?”
The former sheriff inhaled deeply, looking up to meet his gaze.
“Daryl…”
Getting sleep was easier said than done. After Rick’s declaration the night before, thoughts continued to plague your mind as you laid awake in the sleeping bag you called your new bed. Thoughts. Flashbacks. Projected scenarios of an overactive imagination. Abstract thoughts and trying to come to grips with your mind, your feelings, areas you’d only scratched the surface of the night before until Carl had interrupted you. Then, when you finally did sleep, the recurring nightmare of your dead husband’s and Daryl’s faces shifting between one another kept you from getting anywhere near restful. Compounded by the recent image you had of Daryl, beaten, bloody and broken, a shell as you referred him to Aaron, it was no wonder you’d returned to mechanic autopilot mode when a group of you loaded into the SUV early that morning and drove to Hilltop.
Along the way, you did everything in your power to try keeping your mind away from what little Carl had revealed about Daryl, and what was left to your imagination. Part of you wished you’d let Carl tell you more. Part of you wished he hadn’t spoken at all. After everything that’d happened in reality, from your time overseas as Cassy to just the previous day, and everything in between, you didn’t need fabricated scenarios dancing around up there. You already had enough violent images in the rated-R theater of your mind to last a lifetime. You didn’t need any more, real or imagined.
That was, unless you were in the director’s chair. Like Rosita, you wanted to cut down every last Savior for what they did. To Glenn. To Abraham. Daryl. Denise. Olivia. To everyone. Even Spencer, that fucking asshat. But, like Rick and most of the others, you needed time to find your courage. History had always been one of your favorite teachers, so when all of Alexandria got on board with Rick’s decision, and although the details differed, the fundamental principle of Frederick Douglass’ words rang true. Better to die free than live as slaves. Subjugating to keep yourself and those you cared about alive was no longer enough. No longer an option. You wanted to live. You all wanted to live. And in order to live, you had to fight.
And for you, to live also meant sorting out those goddamned feelings churning within. You weren’t stupid or oblivious enough to not know what they were, but rather you couldn’t fully accept them. You couldn’t accept what they meant, even if it was the only explanation for damn near everything that’d happened with you the last few days. Why you reacted so strongly after revisiting the area of expertise from your past life. Why, little by little, you were speaking more and more, to more and more people. Your brash actions in the face of Negan’s and the Saviors’ threats, and the answer to Aaron’s question the day before. And… why you kept seeing your late husband’s face in Daryl.
“(Y/N)?”
The SUV had space for all six of you, and you’d volunteered yourself to the third row with Tara. For the full duration of the trip to Hilltop, you hadn’t pulled your gaze once from out the window. You’d subconsciously acknowledged your arrival, but unlike your comrades, you, lost in thought, hadn’t moved when everyone else climbed out and headed for the gates. Everyone except Tara, who took a step back to the vehicle, leaning in through the open passenger door she’d gotten out from.
“You alright?”
You nodded but leaned back against the seat, dragging a hand through your hair and gripping a chunk at the base of your neck. Giving Tara a small smile, you flashed your index finger upright with all other fingers closed. Tara understood: gimme a minute. You watched Tara walk off, letting the rest of the group know before they collectively walked forward. The gates opened for them and the group strode in, Tara addressing one of the watchmen and pointing back to the SUV. The gates then partially closed, leaving only enough room for two bodies to walk through side by side. You briefly averted your gaze but lifted it in time to see through said gap in the gates as the group greeted Maggie. She looked well; you were glad for that. A moment later they disappeared, walking deeper into the camp. You looked down into your lap, running both hands through your hair and exhaling a heavy sigh.
Get your shit together, you told yourself, reinforced by Abraham’s own voice from beyond the grave. You can still help save who’s left; someone else saves the lost. Then, placing a hand on your machete handle, you slowly climbed out of the SUV and headed for the gates, still contemplating the things you’d been thinking before Tara’s well-intended interruption.
Just because your feelings explained your actions didn’t mean you had to like them. Those feelings had brought you nothing but pain in this new world, and while you were no stranger to pain, why would you willingly welcome it back with open arms? No, not why would you, why did you? For weeks, for months, little by little, you’d been letting it in. By staying at the prison, by staying with the group, despite your silence and the walls you’d built for your own defenses, you’d let that pain and those goddamned feelings in again. You’d… let Daryl in. It’d happened slowly, ever since that day on the highway. The ways in which it happened were numerous and varied, but one that stood out was because Daryl reminded you, right from the start, of your dead husband. His patience. His silent strength. His loyalty and protectiveness. Even his stubbornness and rash decisions that at times drove you crazy. Things you missed so much it hurt. Traits in another you thought you’d never find, let alone allow to get close to you, again. But you did, and then, just like your husband, Daryl and all that he was had been unwillingly taken from you.
This was the thought in your head as you strode through the partially-opened gates. You’d kept your eyes down in doing so, only casting them over your shoulder when the gates closed behind you. Well, at least something’s falling into place right. You shut your eyes and sighed heavily, remembering the last time those gates closed behind you, Abraham was there to share in your discomfort of being locked in. Of feeling trapped. That wasn’t even three weeks ago. How much things had changed since then, the faces of those who’d been lost flashing behind your closed eyelids as you turned around to face forward once more. Abraham. Glenn. Denise. Spencer. Olivia. Carol, left, her fate unknown. Eugene, not killed, just taken. You gripped your machete handle and squeezed your eyes shut tighter. Taken. You opened your eyes. Like—
Daryl. He… he was… there. With you. And not just in that whole ‘in spirit’ kind of way. Physically. There, up ahead, up the hill, with the others. At first, as your feet had slowed but still carried you forward, you couldn’t believe your eyes. Life wasn’t fair like that. Not in this world. Not to you. So you kept staring, afraid it was a dream, afraid it was another nightmare, that if you’d blink he’d be gone again. You waited for the inevitable flash, the phasing out of Daryl’s face and replacement with your late husband’s. But it never came. You stared, and, Hell, you succumbed and blinked so rapidly you were surprised you didn’t induce a seizure. But still Daryl remained, hugging each member of the group one by one before handing Rick’s gun to the former sheriff, and you saw Daryl’s face and his face alone the entire time.
Eventually your feet could carry you in shock no further, and when that happened, those goddamned emotions you’d been struggling to accept earlier barreled down on you like a freight train. In that moment, and with a broken sob-laugh of relief choked in your throat, you realized and could accept them and their truth. They’d made you vulnerable. They’d made you strong. They’d kept you living. They’d kept you alive. They would help keep you alive, but only so far, and only until the day came you weren’t. It was up to you to do the work between that day and now. Because he’d come back; Daryl had come back. One day he wouldn’t, just like your late husband. Just like the rest of the group. Just like you. But today wasn’t that day, and your feelings couldn’t have screamed at you any louder if they tried.
They were both a blessing and a curse. You’d been living the latter for so long, you’d forgotten that the former possibility also existed. The former possibility could be a reality. Life could be reality, even in this world, if only you’d work for it. If only you’d fight for it. For Daryl. For the group. For those who’d been lost but were still found in your heart. For yourself. Fight, because your hearts were still beating. Fight, because Daryl wasn’t your dead husband. He was and would no longer be him, and you’d found your reason to try again.
“Daryl…”
No one in the group, yourself included, had realized how closely you’d gotten before coming to a standstill. Not only that, no one realized it’d been you who’d spoken, until they either stepped back or away, and turned. Your voice was choppy, harsh and croaky from disuse despite words more frequently spoken over the past few weeks. But your eyes? They were as expressive as ever, and brimming with tears. Some of the group had shifted uneasily and confusedly on their feet when they’d turned. Daryl had done the same, though he appeared more incredulous and relieved than confused, as he smiled and let out a soft yet abrupt sigh.
You repeated the gesture, before breaking into a run. “Daryl!”
You barreled headlong into his chest, full force, wrapping your arms tightly around him. Daryl took the hit easily enough despite his shock, pain and tiredness. His arms wound their way just as tightly around you despite your own aches, his face burying in the crook of your neck.
“My name,” Daryl exhaled heavily, incredulously, fingers sinking into your hair at the back of your head. “You said my name.”
For a moment, your shuddering breath was the only reply. Then, slowly, and even more scratchily, “I’ll say it. All the time. As much as you want. I’ll say anything and everything. Just keep breathing, and always come back, as long as you can. You’ve always come back.”
“I will.” Daryl turned his face deeper against you. “I promise.”
You smiled widely, quickly breathing in and out audibly, shakily, with happiness. After all, how many times did Daryl have to tell you he always kept his promises? The next moment you hastily moved out of the embrace, just enough to press your foreheads together and put Daryl’s face between your hands on either cheek. You remained like that for several beats, eyes closed, breathing in the shared air between your chests, one of Daryl’s hands on your hip and the other along one side of your own face. Time seemed to have frozen, if not for your beating hearts serving as a reminder that there was a life to live outside of the private bubble of your reunion.
Still, even as you opened your eyes and stepped away, Daryl held on, arm extending to keep his hand on your cheek. Your gazes lingered, seeing beyond the bruises, cuts and swellings on your faces to take in each other’s very real and whole presence in the present reality. Taking Daryl’s hand in one of your own, you removed it from your cheek and held it between you, squeezing tightly. Daryl squeezed back, shoulders rising and falling, and his face slackening with heavy relief and, yes, even sadness. There was so much to unpack, there. So much guilt and pain to work through, for both of you. But you could read it in his eyes, and reflected it in your own; as long as your hearts were still beating, you would do it together.
What felt like too soon and yet not soon enough, for you’d forgotten where you were, you and Daryl dropped your hands and looked around. The group had been observing your joyous reunion with similar expressions. Now that your eyes were on them, they melded into looks of incredulity, pride and happiness. Several of them had heard you speak before, but not everyone. Hell, some of them didn’t even know you could. Well, that was about to change.
“Hi, everyone,” you said somewhat hoarsely, though with a contented smile and small, single wave of one hand, as you continued to officially introduce yourself, much to the other’s humor and delight. “I’m (Y/N). It’s very nice to meet you.”
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading through to the end(?) of the series! I hope you enjoyed it! :)
Chapter 15: Chapter XV - Alternate Ending
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
***Negan leaned in even closer. “And that’s why, to start making up for the unbelievable amount of debt you’re in—” He swung Lucille pointedly though almost lazily in your direction. “—I’ll also be relieving you of your little assassin over there.”
Breath caught in your chest and throat. Audible versions came from Aaron and Eric behind you. Rick looked your way and you caught his eye for a second before shooting your gaze back to Negan. He himself had briefly turned his gaze and a conniving smile on you, and then he looked back and stepped closer to Rick.
“You and your people don’t deserve a woman like her, and quite frankly neither does Daryl,” he whispered threateningly. “Especially after what I saw today, the little rematch between her and Laura that I wanted… how’s that saying go? Keep your friends close and enemies closer?” Negan’s tone got lighter, but more derisive. “Nothing closer than sharing my bed, and let’s face it, Rick, given the choice, my choice, I’d much rather have her over you. But don’t worry, any one of my people can tell you I treat all my wives right.” Negan grinned wolfishly. “She’ll be in very good hands; I promise you that.”
Rick turned to you. Gabriel and Tara too. Everyone in front of you, in fact, and likely everyone behind, all looked to you. They knew by Negan’s words what your fate would be, and they feared for you. Such knowledge didn’t escape you either. However, your fear was not theirs.
“Let’s move out!”
The Saviors promptly followed Negan’s order. Two men turned and began shoving Eugene away while two others turned for you. Aaron and Eric murmured soft protests, instinctively reaching out, and got guns pointed in their faces for the trouble. You immediately got between them and the weapon, staring down the barrel at the armed man. You eyed him challengingly. He didn’t seem as hardened as the other Saviors, rather simply following orders, keeping the peace. His peace. The standoff lasted a fraction of a second before Arat grabbed around your bicep and shoved you sideways. You glared at her, then eased your expression as you lifted your gaze to the others. To Aaron and Eric. To Carl. They were scared for you, and when you turned around, you found Eugene looking over his shoulder, looking scared for himself. You stonewalled your face and nodded encouragingly at him until he turned back around.
You did the same, still facing the group as you slowly began stepping backwards so as not to fully piss off the remaining Saviors. Not a moment later, Negan left Rick. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Negan smiling brighter when he noticed you still practically where he left you. But your gaze was on Rick. He looked scared too, and sorry. You, however, nodded stoically like you had for the others, before Negan saddled up beside you and threw an arm over your shoulders, making your skin crawl and jaw clench. Negan forced you to turn away from the Alexandrians and walk with him to the gates, and then ride with him in the cab of the big truck back to the Saviors’ homebase. Back to the Sanctuary.
It was a big, monstrous building, with a monstrous defense of Walkers chained, piked and skewered to the fences out front. Your head was on a swivel the moment you arrived. Although you’d been blindfolded, you were able to memorize the time, distance and route from Alexandria to the Sanctuary. You’d do the same for the building’s blueprints. You were in enemy territory, so it was best to learn all that you could, as fast as you could, and use that knowledge however you could. It was bound to come in handy eventually, one way or the other. But not only that, you were looking for Daryl. Carl had said he’d been out working the fences, but he wasn’t there when you pulled in, so where was Daryl now?
“Come on in, darlin’,” Negan purred after getting out of the truck’s cab and noticing you taking in your surroundings. “Don’t be shy. Mi casa es su casa and all that shit.”
You appraised him like you appraised the building. Cold, and calculated. Studious. You wanted information and to see Daryl. Nothing more.
Negan grinned at you before leaning back sharply, bending at the knees. “Laura!”
The Savior in question turned to the two of you as you turned towards her. She was beside Eugene, an empty cloth sack in one hand and the other over the zip tie lashing Eugene’s hands behind his back. The man still looked absolutely terrified.
“Take our new bullet maker inside,” Negan ordered, practically vibrating with authority. “Set him up somewhere nice.” He then turned to you, and you to him, a grin widening across his face. “I’ll give you the grand tour myself.”
Eugene whimpered and appeared even more terrified. At least he’d known you were with him. Now they were separating the two of you, and who knew what that meant. Would Negan keep Eugene alive as collateral, like with Daryl? Would Negan utilize Eugene’s skillset and knowledgebase, or punish him for having a hand in facilitating Rosita’s assassination attempt? It was hard to tell. One thing you did know for sure, though, was that Negan, as sick and twisted as he was, hadn’t been lying when he said he treated his wives right. But truth wasn’t fact. It was subjective. To Negan, his treatment was right, so to him, and your assessment of him, he hadn’t lied. You knew, if he had it his way, you’d find out for yourself how truthful he was.
“Shall we?”
He made a show to bow slightly your way, extending his arm towards the door. A quick glance away allowed you a final glimpse of Eugene being guided through a separate door by the Savior you’d repeatedly beat the shit out of, her glare back at you saying she despised your presence in her home almost as much as you did. Once they were out of sight, you returned your hardened eyes to Negan, and nodded once, small and curt.
Negan grinned, stood upright, and led the way. You followed close behind, with two other Saviors several steps back. He showed you the main floor and the workers living and providing for him down there, everyone kneeling upon his arrival. Though you didn’t enter, when you walked by the specific room, he lauded his power and peacocked at talk of his Harem, alluding your soon-to-be membership in his troupe of sister wives. The second to last room he made effort to point out to you was a small hole in the wall, a supply closet of sorts by the size of the door. Negan paused for dramatic effect, asking you what you thought was behind door number one despite knowing you wouldn’t answer. He smiled and told you it was Daryl’s cage.
You did everything in your power to restrain yourself. To not show seething anger or heartbreaking sadness. To not haymaker Negan’s jaw or rush to unlock and open the door.
The leader of the Saviors tilted up his chin and looked down on you with a smile. “Well, damn, darlin’,” he murmured. “After what I saw the other day, you getting in Laura’s way and all, I expected more of a reaction than that. I just told you where I lock up your husband like an animal, and you don’t seem to give a flying shit. Trouble in paradise, hmm?”
Your expression didn’t change.
“Cold.” Negan grinned wider. “I like that.” He shouldered Lucille and started walking away, you reluctantly though obediently trailing after him. “The rest of my wives are soft, warm, fragile. Be nice to finally get my hands on someone I can’t easily break.”
At that moment, you thought about how easy it’d be to get your hands around Negan and break him. His hand. His arm. His neck. You’d done it before, a long time ago, but in enemy territory, everything was like riding a bike. Your rapid memorization. Your stonewalling. Your adaptability to a given situation to ensure survival. And, eventually, for it was never a matter of if but of when, your weaponized body.
“Inside.”
Negan had led you down several corridors, up several flights, and opened a door. Through the frame you saw a bedroom, immaculately furnished for the factory the Saviors called home. You turned your gaze back up at him, narrowing your eyes coldly.
The man balked in mock offense. “I am insulted,” he huffed, glancing in at the large and lavish bed taking up much of one side of the room, before turning back to you. “I told you; I value the bond between husbands and wives. Which is why you and I are just gonna chat—” Negan gestured to the two Saviors still tailing you both “—while these two chuckleheads are gonna get Daryl, bring him here, and you two are gonna annul your little marriage.” His eyes and tone darkened. “That is, unless you’d rather have them bring me just his left hand instead.”
Your expression didn’t change beyond a slightly deeper furrowing of your brow before you stepped into the room. You heard Negan give the order for his men to retrieve Daryl, then the door closed, and you were alone with a madman.
“Sit,” Negan ordered invitingly, going over to the couch by the window and seating himself. “Make yourself comfortable.”
At first, all you did was watch him get comfortable, kick up his boots on the coffee table and spread one arm along the back of the couch. Then, as your feet slowly carried you forward, your gaze looked around the room until you yourself were just as slowly lowering into one of the chairs opposite Negan and the table. He appraised you studiously, yet with a satisfied smile.
“Man,” he sighed. “Though it’d match your pretty little neck, I sure hope Laura didn’t permanently scar up that face of yours. But you handed it right back, didn’t you?” Negan shifted, rolling his head towards the opposite shoulder. “Where’d you learn that, anyway? Military, or is your attire just for show?”
That’s right. After Negan forced you to wash up and change for dinner earlier, you’d donned your characteristic vest modified from your cammies, and your black combat boots. With a stoic expression, you leaned forward onto your forearms, sideways on either knee. Turning your chin slightly away, you then lifted one hand and repeatedly tapped your index finger to the single chevron bar on the opposite lapel.
Negan grinned. “Hot damn, I’m gonna have me an officer for a wife.” He pitched forward, leaning against his own knees and lowering his gaze to his hands. “That brings me to my next question.” Negan lifted his gaze, smiling devilishly. “Between you and Red, which of you was responsible for going all Guantanamo Bay on poor little Joshy at my outpost your people attacked? Hmm? Because, in my humble opinion, only those with special training, or true psychopaths, have that kind of artistic talent. And I’ve gotta say, that masterpiece, leaving Josh in pieces with such savagery, it took my breath away.”
That kid’s name was Josh, then, huh? Chalk his name down on the list with the others.
Negan grinned more arrogantly, knowing the answer before he even asked, “So, was it you?”
Control. Stay in control. As much as it pained you, let Negan continue controlling the situation, and you would handle yourself. When not answering his questions, just blink, stare, breathe, repeat. But be sure to answer them nonetheless. Do not provoke the psychopath, or else he’d show his own artistry again. This is what you told yourself before taking a deep breath, and curtly nodding once.
The smile across Negan’s face deepened before he leaned back against the couch, throwing his arm along the top of the cushion. For a moment, he appraised you studiously again, the expression laced with awe, even. Negan then scoffed abruptly, turning to face the windows.
“Didn’t Rick know how special that is? Hmm? How special you are?”
The question was a curious one, and you let Negan know that with a small tilt of your head when he returned his gaze on you.
“‘Cause it seems to me Rick’s got a bad habit of not utilizing his people to their full potential. Like that blubbering bullet maker downstairs. Rick could’ve built up an arsenal with that mullet head leading the charge, but instead he just sits back and lets me beat the holy Hell out of your people.”
You’d stonewalled the attempted provocation, so Negan tried a new angle.
“Rick might not’ve known, but what about Daryl?”
Your narrowing eyes answered for you: what about him?
“Did he not know how good he had it with you?” Negan pressed. “Smart, in the survivalist sense. Hot, as much as one can be with those stamps of disapproval all along your neck. Can’t talk back but can kick ass six ways from Sunday. Why he would ever throw it all away just for a kiss from someone like Laura I’ll never know!”
Blink. Stare. Breathe. Repeat.
Negan leaned forward onto his knees again and rubbed his chin with one hand. “Could it be… that the sex wasn’t all that good? Hmm? Couldn’t get him off much, could ya? No sound and all, must’ve been like screwing a sex doll.”
You huffed.
Negan scoffed, eyes widening at your reaction. “Wait. Was it Daryl who—?”
Though you didn’t respond, Negan answered his own question and went with it.
“Ho-ho-ho! No wonder you had a change of heart downstairs at his cell!”
Blink. Stare. Breathe. Repeat. Try not to imagine Negan’s face turning purple in a headlock, or fresh warm blood flowing freely from a long slice across his neck, and the joy you got from it.
“Well, either way, darlin’, know that I am not one of those guys,” Negan declared, once more leaning back haughtily into the couch. “Sex is important to me, but it ain’t the only thing I value in my wives. And to be perfectly clear, my wives are never left unsatisfied.”
Keep deluding yourself, prick. Blink. Stare. Breathe. Repeat.
“And I’ll prove it to you, as soon as my goon squad gets back with—”
Knock-knock-knock.
Negan beamed. “Speak of the devil!” he crowed. “Let’s get started, shall we? Come in!”
The door opened, but you didn’t turn. As much as you wanted to see him, you didn’t want to meet Daryl’s eyes. Not yet. So you looked ahead, continuing to watch Negan. His eyes shifted from the door to you, bidding elevated brows and an eager smile, before looking back to the door. Blink. Stare. Breathe. Repeat. Negan’s expression became unexpectedly subdued as he took in and let out a deep breath.
“Skinny Joey,” Negan addressed the Savior as he rose to his feet and slung Lucille over his shoulder threateningly. “Mind telling me why I told you to bring Daryl so I could have his blessing in banging his soon-to-be ex-wife, and you come back without him?”
There was no reply at first. Then, “He-he’s gone, Sir.”
Negan’s tone dropped, but not nearly as low as your heart.
“What?”
“He escaped, sometime before you returned,” Skinny Joey explained nervously. “And Fat Joey, he’s dead. Head bashed in, outside, by the bikes.”
“Do we know how all this shit happened while I was away on business?”
“Not yet. We’ve got people out looking for him though.”
“Well count me in,” Negan declared. “Because when I find him, and I will find him, it ain’t gonna be enough just to take his wife, or his life.”
Negan had confronted the Savior, but now returned to your side, standing in your periphery.
“Today’s your lucky day, darlin’,” he crooned. “Get to build up that wedding night anticipation a little longer. Then I’ll show ya what you’ve been missin’ all this time.”
You continued looking ahead. Blink. Stare. Breathe. Repeat.
“Skinny Joey.”
“Yeah?”
“Set her up in her own room for the night, then grab a few friends and meet me downstairs. We’re gonna pay Dwighty-boy a little visit.”
Before you knew it, a hand was on your arm as you mechanically walked alongside Skinny Joey down the corridors and stairwells to a different bedroom. More like a tiny studio apartment. Single bed. Single chair and table. Countertop with elevated microwave. It was more than you expected, given the circumstances. You fleetingly hoped Eugene was fairing equally well, before turning around at the sound of a creaking door, catching the last glimpse of Skinny Joey in the doorway before the wooden barrier closed between you.
Survival mode instantly kicked in more strongly, and you began neatly though hurriedly rummaging and ransacking the room, looking for anything you could use. All you found was a single four-inch screw at the back of an empty drawer under the counter below the microwave. You’d worked with less, so you took the screw and placed it between your middle and ring finger, the sharp point jutting out of your closed fist like a narwal’s tusk. The feel of the cool threads scraping your skin quickly fell away as you took to pacing your room. Your cell. That’s what it was, in essence. Better than whatever Daryl had had downstairs, you were sure, but a cell nonetheless.
You paced to keep awake. You couldn’t trust anything or anyone in the Sanctuary, especially while you were unconscious. But more importantly, you paced to keep up with your thoughts. With Negan away, at least for the moment, you allowed yourself to feel and express all the things you’d kept at bay while he’d attempted to goad you into a reaction. Anger. Resentment. Sadness. Worry. Fear. Fear for Daryl. Happiness for Daryl. He’d gotten out, but where would he go? Who helped him escape? Could they actually be trusted? Would the Saviors catch Daryl? If Daryl knew you were at the Sanctuary now, would he come back to try breaking you out?
Of course, he would. You just hoped, if Daryl somehow found his way back to Alexandria, or the Hilltop, that Rick or Jesus or anyone really had the levelheadedness and physical strength to stop him. Even if that meant you wouldn’t see each other for a very long time. If Daryl were to try rescuing you, you knew something much more permanent would keep you separated instead.
But that wasn’t the case. Not now. Not that you knew. What you did know was that Daryl had escaped, which meant for all intents and purposes he was alive. What you did know, was that you were alive. And you fully intended to keep it that way, because Aaron’s words had a more profound effect on you than you’d realized. Your heart was still beating, and as long as that was the case, you’d fight. Smart, safe, dirty, bloody. It didn’t matter. Just fight, because somewhere beyond these walls was your reason to try again. There was something, someone, worth fighting for. He’d promised you months ago, at the barn before Alexandria, he wouldn’t go anywhere when you finally plucked up the courage to tell him something. Well, you still had something to tell him, and damnit all to Hell if Daryl broke a single one of his promises while he still drew breath. He hadn’t before, and you’d rather lose yourself again than make him start now.
Notes:
Thank you so much for reading through to the end(?) of the series! I hope you enjoyed it! :)
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