DISCLAIMER: The Walking
Dead characters are the property of American Movie Classics (AMC),
Circle of Confusion, Valhalla Entertainment, Darkwoods
Productions, and AMC Studios. The story contents are the creation and property of
Djinn and are copyright (c) 2013 by Djinn. This story is Rated PG-13.
Baggage Makes the Best
Survivors
by
Djinn
Daryl's
not much for talking. He's not much for
listening, either. That's probably
always been his problem, why people never took to him. He appears to not care about anything, when really he's seeing everything, cutting through the bullshit
of people's words to figure out what they're really saying.
That's
how he survived his childhood. How he
survived his father. He had to know when
to get the hell out of the house, and his dad's words didn't always go with
what was going to come later. So he learned tone, he learned body language, and what goes
on in a man's eyes—because they're the mirrors of a soul and nothing telegraphs
a hard slap better than a certain glint.
He
knows he's different from most of the other survivors—he actually prefers this
world. The zombies are predictable. They eat, they come after noise, they smell
like shit and make creepy noises, and they die easy. As long as you don't let a group surround you,
or become lazy and think it's always gonna be as easy
as a poke with a sharp stick through the prison fence, you'll be fine.
He
can see the fence now, bathed in moonlight, from the guard tower that most
people think isn't safe. He and Carol
may have made them think that. He and
Carol will do just about anything they need to if it lets them be together.
"What
are you doing awake?" Carol crawls
over to him, drops her legs over the side so they're dangling like his, so her bare
thigh is pressed up tight against his. "You
had a long day. You need sleep." She nuzzles him and rubs her hand low against
his back, where it aches a lot of the time.
He
turns and smiles before he kisses her.
This is the only time they let down this way. They play a game for everyone else. Are they or aren't
they? They don't let the others know
they're together partly because he's discovered she likes sneaking around, that
it gives her a feeling of power after having her life monitored day and night by
that shithead husband of hers.
But
mostly they know that together they are far more dangerous than any other two
people except maybe Rick and Michonne—and although Daryl would not have thought
it possible to find two more fucked-up people than Carol and him, Rick and the
samurai gal win the prize with no competition required.
But
that doesn't mean they're dangerous in the same way as Rick and Michonne. Those two are batshit crazy. Carol has said even their demons have demons,
and Daryl thinks she's right. She
usually is right, even when he's sure she's finally fucked up and gotten
something wrong, it'll turn out she's had her money on the right person in the
group, or called what was going to happen without thinking too hard about it.
She's
a survivor, like he is—an observer, like he is.
And what makes them different than Rick and Michonne: those two were
stronger before the walkers.
Daryl
and Carol, they were weak before the world changed. They hated who they were. And now...now they're strong. So strong that the others might get nervous
if they knew all the things they talked about, all the plans they have to
survive.
Carol
loves the others. Probably more than
Daryl does. But he's seen her eyes when
she talks about contingency plans and caching supplies, and there is a
relentless way to them. He knows he's
seeing Sophia and everything that happened to her reflected in Carol's
determination—that Carol will never let anything happen again to someone she
cares about, not if she can help it.
"Awful
lot going on in there." Carol taps
his head softly. "What're you
thinking about?"
"Us. Strength.
Surviving."
She
smiles. He loves that she understands
his shorthand way of speaking. That she
can fill in all the blanks.
"Big
thoughts, Pookie."
He
laughs. She's called him that ever since
he told her his first puppy was named Pookie. His favorite dog.
His
dad ran over it with his truck, drunk off his ass. Daryl went off to the woods to cry. Deep in the woods—he didn't want his dad, or
Merle, to find him crying like a little girl.
But he did cry. He loved that
dog.
Pookie means more than just love. Pookie means
loss. Pookie
is every reason to get up and keep fighting just to survive.
And
the woman who calls him Pookie is, too.
"Hey,
I found this last scouting trip."
He pulls his jacket over, digs around in the pocket, and hands her the
flower. A Cherokee rose.
"It's
beat to shit. Thanks." She rubs the flower—and yeah, it's pretty
mangled after being in his jacket pocket for days, but they're a little short
on florists and fancy delivery trucks—on her neck. "What do you think?"
He
leans in and smells her skin, smiles at the special scent, at what it means
that she does this. All the things she
does. It was her idea to teach the kids
about the weapons. Her idea to make sure
the kids knew the vulnerable parts of the walkers, where to strike. To tell them how when anyone died now, they
came back wrong, a walker.
That
you have to kill them. You owe it to
them. And you owe it to yourselves. If you want to keep on surviving.
She
doesn't sugarcoat things anymore. This
woman who he wouldn't have looked at twice before the walkers. This woman who he now thinks is the most
amazing thing he's ever held—who's ever held him.
She
knows him. She's seen who he is. And she loves him anyway.
"It's
good," he says. "It's nice."
"Just
nice?"
"Nice
enough to get me thinking about other things than talking." He crawls away from the side of the tower,
easing her with him, back to their pile of clothes, dodging their guns and
knives—she does it just as easily as he does.
He's
taught her everything he can.
She's
taught him way more.
She
lies back and pulls him down, wrapping her legs around him, her smile the calm
one that makes him feel safe. It's the
safety he's craved his whole life, that never came, not till he found himself
living in hell.
"I
love you." He stops moving. He always makes sure she knows he's not just
saying it. That he could never just spit
it out like the words don't matter. Love's
been in short supply in both their lives.
You say it when you mean it, no other time.
"I
love you, too." She rubs his hand
back. "I'm glad we're here."
And
that's what makes them survivors. That's
what's going to keep them alive. In this
godforsaken world where everything is broken or dying, they're happy.
"Me,
too," he says, before he gets back to what they were doing, moving slowly,
letting the heat build. Skin against
skin and heart to heart.
FIN