middleofthenightficideas

Yandere Types -

• OBSESSION TYPE • STALKER TYPE • RESTRAINTS TYPE • DELUSION TYPE • REMOVAL TYPE • TRAINING TYPE • BIZARRE-SEEKING TYPE • PROTECTIVE TYPE • MANIPULATIVE TYPE

☠︎︎ Yanderu behavior -

• It's obvious that to Joe- what you can do for HIM defines how he sees you, how much he values you or respects you, and your worth as a person in his eyes, but in the case of being his Darling that doesn't matter anymore, he ends up seeing his Darling as a extension of himself, Joe doesn't expect much from Reader not in a way that means he's disappointed though, just in the way that Reader doesn't need to prove anything to him, or being actually forced to do anything to 'deserve' his attention, on the contrary he may think that Reader is clearly worthy of all his attention and his all consuming protectiveness, but being 'worthy' of his affection doesn't mean Reader actually gets the same respect Joe men get from him.

• Maybe Reader won't see Joe actually follow them, but Reader will clearly notice a raider following them from time to time, always a different one, or Reader suddenly noticing one of their stuff, maybe a glove or small useless things being gone without logical explanation, and later Joe appears with the missing object and say Reader 'left' something by accident the last time they half talked or something...Or he simply wouldn't return anything he took from Reader, to keep it for himself, or somehow he knows how you like your half edible food, or that you had a fight even if he wasn't there...Right? Later when he finally has Reader in his 'protection' he thinks he's in his right to demand affection from Reader whenever he wants, as a thank you for being so 'considerate' with paying attention to every detail from Reader all the time.

• As soon as Reader is in his grasp he'll make sure that you can't get away from his sight ever again, not for long at least, in the case that he has to be away from Reader for one reason or another there will always be someone guarding or accompanying Reader, without exception, you will be with Joe most of the time because that's the only option you will get from him, the 'right' option in his eyes is trusting him and doing everything together, because in Joe perspective that is the best for Reader, sitting next to each other, eating together, and even placing your sleeping bag next to his, until Reader can't question it anymore, why would they question it in the first place? When Joe just wants the best for you...

• I can see Joe as a Platonic Yandere with paternal or even brotherly traits mixed with a good amount of delusion, so he thinks he's already Reader's 'protector' as soon as the fixation begins, he might even refer to himself as part of Reader family with other people or even in front of Reader, yeah Joe knows that he's not Reader biological father, or brother or anything, but he doesn't care in the slightest, he IS part of Reader family now so...why would Reader deny it? Why would Reader deny his care, his love, when it's obvious he's IS the best option to protect Reader? Joe doesn't know how to handle rejection, so to him is clear that Reader is...'confused' about what they need, what a relief that he's here now to show you the truth!

• He is a extremely jealous and possessive person either in his younger or older version, so at first Joe one way or another would get involved in conversations Reader is having with someone else, he is naturally charming and have a way with words so it wouldn't be a surprise that in the best case Joe would mock the person who Reader is talking to, and easily turn the conversation about himself, or even better for Joe make the conversation about Reader, in the worst case on a situation where he already has Reader where he wants them is not a surprise that isolation is the next step, Reader can still interact with Joe inner circle in his gang, but as expected...with clear restrictions and rules.

• He would want compliance from the start, that's how it is, he can be patient the first times if Reader tried to go away but his patience has limits, and if Reader pushes too much he will get tired of waiting, and his attitude will quickly change in his anger if Reader keeps denying him, he could try complete isolating Reader, or directly demanding affection or favors from Reader as a 'compensation' for the lack of compliance until he feels satisfied, on the worst case he may get physically violent, but not actually hitting or punching Reader, maybe a rough grab that leave the skin red here and there or a bruise from him grabbing Reader arm without thinking, but after some thinking he will get regretful, actually regretful, Joe would try to make amends and that leads to the other side of the coin, forceful and suffocating affection more than usual until the regret goes away, then everything returns to normal.

• Remember about stuff being gone? That was just about the objects Reader noticed being gone, and at the same time there's other things that Reader wouldn't notice being gone at all, things that Joe keeps to himself and that only he knows about, like a lock of your hair, a bandage, or even an object with Reader scent like a bandana, scarf or any accessory that Reader was throwing away as soon as it got too torn or dirty, don't worry though...he's just curious about you, your essence in all it's purity, and you'll never notice it, nor anyone else, Joe knows how to be discreet about this kind of things.

♡ Deredere behavior -

• Joe fixation would start slowly, and the first change in his approach is how he talks to Reader suddenly giving them nicknames, 'Kiddo' 'Buddy' 'Son'/Daughter', then the nicknames get more and more affectionate over time until he calls Reader 'Sweetie/sweetheart', 'Honey' 'Love' 'Darling' 'Dear', by that point he will be very affectionate when talking with Reader, but also very condescending, it's not that Joe sees you as stupid or something but his superiority complex mixed with him being a Yandere distorts his point of view about Reader until he can't help but see them in a condescending way.

• Joe is also physically affectionate towards Reader, at first it would be just pats, a lot of pats, pats on the back or shoulder, mostly head pats that end up with him playing with your hair, other subtle actions at first would be Joe sitting close until his shoulders brushes with Reader shoulders, to holding your hand freely, and even interlacing his fingers with yours when holding hands, then it would slowly escalate to him actually holding or hugging them, when he finally has Reader on his grasp it will become actual cuddling and face stroking, even lightly pinching their cheek with a grin.

• He's not actually clingy as a yandere but that doesn't mean he isn't intense, Joe stare is usually intimidating in general but as a yandere the intensity in his eyes can be disconcerting, without the gasmask Reader can see his whole expression and not only his eyes, in a way the softness in his face mixed with the possessiveness when staring at Reader looks out of place in his usual hard face, this side of him is the one Reader would see the most in a case where they doesn't fight much against him, or by the point where Reader is already where he wants them.

The pet names were new too. A welcome addition that never failed to make your heart race. 

“Stop reading over my shoulder then- agh-”

You grumble in faux annoyance when his hand pinches at the vulnerable softness of your side. You attempt to pinch back, but the attack proves to be futile considering the durability of Atlantean skin, meaning not an ounce of ticklishness lived in the prince’s body. 

“You know not to test me, human-”

“You know not to use that name with me, blondie-”

Orm lets out a bemused chuckle, his elbow pressing against yours as he adjusts his seating on the couch. He presses closer to you, though you don’t mind, letting your shoulder rest against him. 

“My apologies, little one. Sometimes I forget about your…delicate sensibilities.”

“Not delicate, I just won’t take any shit from you, fish boy.”

Your words hold no real malice, a smile playing on your lips as you attempt to get back to what you’re reading. 

Orm found himself relishing in moments like this with you - the easy and comfortable silence that falls over you both. A comfort that he was not able to give himself when he was thought to be rightful heir to the throne of Atlantis. He was, more often than not, forced to live amidst the chaos that came with being a royal - the bustling lifestyle that he had grown accustomed to. Although he was clearly leadership oriented and was a capable prince, he had never stopped to ask himself if he played his role because he truly enjoyed it, or simply because of duty - duty to the ghost of his father’s wrath and to the mother he had once thought dead. 

It was moments like this, with you, that made him try to think on where exactly he used to source his joy from. 

“Hm, that you don’t.”

More comfortable silence passes over you two as you co-read, nothing but the chirping birds and bristling leaves to add soundtrack to the scene. However, the way you fidget against the cushion and the fact that you have been looking at the same page for an extended amount of minutes puts Orm on alert.

“You are thinking very loudly.”

“M’fine, scales.”

Orm closes his book at your stubbornness, turning his body fully so that he faces you as you pretend to be engrossed in your story.

“Out with it.”

You withhold your groan at Orm’s attentiveness, closing your own book before looking at the Atlantean who waits for you to speak. 

“Tom is having a barbeque this weekend - it’s kind of an annual thing. I know he’s still a sore subject, but would you maybe wanna come-”

“I don’t think that’s wise, little one.”

You wince at his quick response, though you already expected the rejection.

“C’mon, Orm, the Sampsons will be there! So, you’ll know someone aside from me-” 

Orm’s heavy hand lands on your thigh, quelling any of your suggestions as he squeezes above your knee.

“I do appreciate your Herculean efforts to help me assimilate into society, but it is not a good idea to put me in the same room as that man-”

You whack Orm in the shoulder for his poor choice of words.

“That man has a name, and he is one of the few good ones that I know. If you don’t wanna come with me, fine, but I suggest you ease up on how you talk about him.”

You scooch an inch or so away from Orm as you turn back to your book, the small distance feeling like a great canyon to the Atlantean. 

Orm sighs to himself upon realizing the offense he’s laid towards your close friend’s father, moving closer on the couch to gain your attention. It had become clear to him that Tom had become a solid pillar in your life over the course of you relocating back to Amnesty Bay. While Orm still felt a sting in his heart at the mention of him, he knew just how important he was to you.

“Little one?

Your gaze stays trained on the pages of your book, knees kicked up to your chest.

“Do not ignore me, you know that does not end well.”

Your nose practically turns up at Orm’s gentle warning, making no move to acknowledge the Atlantean. 

“I understand that Arthur’s father is important to you, truly, but please see that I only wish to not make the festivities…uncomfortable.”

Orm’s hand comes up to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear, a gesture that had become familiar in this “friendship” you two had built. The book in your hand folds slightly, telling Orm that your eyes were slowly averting from the pages.

“He…he serves as a reminder of why my mother was banished - him and Arthur. While I am coming to terms with what they mean to her, I cannot put on a smile for them just yet.”

You let out a soft sigh at his words, your downturned eyes landing on him. You discard your book on the coffee table, taking one of Orm’s large hands into your own. 

“I know that, honey, and I don’t want you to force yourself either, but Tom’s a really good guy. Maybe, if we keep you separated for a bit - y’know, put you guys in separate rooms so you don’t have to say hi-”

“That will be quite enough.”

The sharpness in his tone nearly makes you reel back. You knew where he was coming from and you thought he had every right to be apprehensive, but a part of you felt pulled in different directions now that you and Orm were keeping up a better relationship. You hadn’t visited the Curry house in weeks, and while you didn’t blame Orm, you couldn’t help but feel like a part of you was missing when separated from them.

Still, the last thing you wanted was to make Orm uncomfortable in his temporary home.

“Right. Sorry. I…won’t push again.”

You return your gaze to your book, trying to stamp down the subtle ache in your chest at his response.

A pang of guilt hits the blonde when you suddenly go quiet, the lack of your chirpiness a sore reminder of the effects of his temper.  

“Little one, I am sorry for the harshness of my words, but you must understand the position I would be put in if I did go.”

You can barely keep up your silence for more than half a minute, immediately turning to look at Orm with soft, saddened eyes and a heavy heart. 

“I know. Yeah, I know, Orm. You're right, m’sorry for bringing it up. I just can’t help but be a bit…hopeful? I mean, we’ve been getting on so well and I just thought that if you could tolerate me then maybe…” Your words trail off. “...but that’s not fair of me to suggest. M’sorry-”

Orm cuts your apology off short with a hand coming up to your face, his thumb softly tracing the swell of your cheekbone. 

“You have nothing to be sorry about. You’re sweet. That’s good.”

You roll your eyes at the subtle praise in hopes that the gesture will mask how warm his proximity makes you.

“Oh? Is it not weak of me to be? Too human?” You retort sarcastically.

Orm chortles at that, his thumb maintaining a leisure pace running along your cheek. 

“No. It’s refreshing…and warm…and…”

You and Orm had more of these moments too - moments where you would just look at each other in silence. There’s no undertone of fear or creepiness in them - just peace. 

“And…?”

“And-” Orm suddenly rises from the couch with a cough, his book tucked under his arm as he straightens up his posture. “-and I’m going to the porch for some air.” 

The moment ends just as it begins as the Atlantean hurries off to the side porch, the door rattling slightly due to the quickness in which Orm closed it. 

You huff to yourself in disbelief, unsure of how such a quiet moment could be cut so abruptly. With a shrug, you lay yourself over your couch, hoping to drown out your anxious thoughts within the pages of the book, completely unaware of how heavy the Atlantean is breathing on the porch just outside.

(end of preview)

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The first time Daryl Dixon looked at you like you were real, it was in the quiet aftermath of violence.

Not in the middle of it. Not when adrenaline made everyone brave and loud and stupid. After. When the world had that bruised hush it got when the dead were down and the living were counting fingers, counting breaths, counting who didn’t answer their name.

You’d been rinsing blood from your hands in a metal basin, the water turning pink, then rust-dark, then clear again. You hadn’t noticed him at first. Daryl was good at being a shadow when he wanted to be. But you felt it anyway, that weight of attention, that faint heat at the edge of your peripheral vision.

When you glanced up, he was leaning in the doorway, crossbow strapped to his back like it was part of his spine. Hair in his eyes. Sleeves pushed up. A bruise blooming across his knuckles.

He watched you like he’d seen a thousand people break, and he was trying to figure out if you were the kind that did.

You dried your hands on your jeans and lifted your chin. “You need something?”

He didn’t answer right away. Daryl had always been sparing with words, like he treated them as ammunition. Finally, he jerked his head toward the hallway, toward the others, toward the noise and the chatter and the clanking of weapons being cleaned.

“Just… makin’ sure you’re… alright.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t practiced. It was a rough-edged offering, held out with a kind of stubborn caution. Like he expected you to laugh. Like he expected the world to snatch it away the second he let go.

You could’ve brushed him off. You could’ve said you were fine, you could’ve made a joke, you could’ve stepped around him and joined the rest of the survivors and let him fade back into the wallpaper of your life.

Instead, you nodded once, slow.

“I’m alright,” you said. Then, because you’d learned to read the soft places people hid behind their hard ones, you added: “You?”

His eyes flicked away like you’d caught him doing something indecent.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

But he didn’t leave.

That was how it began, really. Not with fireworks. With the quiet choice to stay in the doorway.

Over the years, you learned all his doorways.

The one he hovered in when he couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to admit it. The one he paused in when the kids were laughing too loud and it made something in his chest ache in a way he didn’t have a name for. The one he leaned against when he’d come back from a run with blood on his shirt and silence in his mouth.

You learned to meet him there.

Sometimes with a hand on his forearm, grounding him. Sometimes with a cup of coffee he’d pretend he didn’t want. Sometimes with nothing but your presence, shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing a quiet that didn’t demand he become someone else.

People made stories about Daryl. They always had. The feral tracker, the lone wolf, the man who didn’t need anyone.

You learned the truth in the small hours: he needed. He just didn’t trust need. Not in a world that took and took until you were hollow.

You didn’t fix him. You didn’t soften him into a different shape.

You simply stayed.

And Daryl, in his own slow, stubborn way, began to stay back.

By the time the Commonwealth rose around you, clean streets and uniforms and rules like a thin blanket thrown over the rot of the world, you and Daryl had history carved into you.

Not the kind that fit neatly into a story. The kind that lived in scars and inside jokes and the way he’d reach for you in his sleep without waking up.

You’d been there through the prison and Terminus, through Alexandria’s early days when it still felt like a fragile lie, through the long war that turned everyone into something sharper. Through losses that never quite became bearable, only survivable.

Through Rick’s disappearance, the bridge, the years of grief that settled like silt and changed the whole riverbed of your lives.

Daryl blamed himself for that. He carried it like a stone under his tongue. You could see it in the way his jaw locked whenever Rick’s name came up, in the way he went quiet when anyone talked about hope like it was simple.

He’d gone searching for Rick more times than you could count. At first with desperation. Then with ritual. Like if he stopped, it meant admitting the world had won.

You’d gone with him sometimes. Other times you’d stayed behind, guarding a home that never stopped feeling temporary, caring for people who needed you, keeping the lights on in a place that still flickered.

And every time he came back, he came back to you.

To your hands on his face, checking him for injuries he’d pretend weren’t there. To your arms around his waist, pulling him into the kind of warmth he wouldn’t ask for out loud. To the soft, low “Hey” he’d breathe into your hair like it was a prayer he didn’t believe in but kept saying anyway.

He never said “I love you” easily. He showed it instead.

In the way he kept the edges of your world safe. In the way he learned your tells. In the way he watched the road when you slept. In the way he brought you little things he’d find, like a wrapper with a faded cartoon you liked, or a clean scarf, or a book that wasn’t moldy. Like offerings.

So when the Commonwealth finally settled, when the fighting quieted, when you stood on a street that almost looked like before, and he told you he was leaving again…

It felt like someone had reached into your chest and twisted.

He tried to say it like it was nothing. Like it was just another run. Like he’d be back before you had time to miss him.

But you’d learned his voice. You heard the lie in the spaces between his words.

“I gotta,” he said, eyes fixed somewhere past you. “I can’t just… sit here.”

You crossed your arms tight, trying to hold yourself together. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

His throat worked. “Ain’t ‘bout alone.”

“It’s about guilt,” you snapped, because sometimes honesty came out sharp when you were scared. “It’s about you punishing yourself for every bad thing that’s ever happened.”

That got his attention. His eyes flashed, hurt and stubborn, the old Daryl rising like a guard dog.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“Don’t what?” you shot back. “Care? Ask you to stay alive? Ask you to stop acting like you’re the only one who lost him?”

The air between you went taut.

His voice dropped, rough. “I can’t—” He stopped, swallowed something too big. “I can’t stop seein’ it. The bridge. The river. Him—” He rubbed his mouth hard with his knuckles. “If there’s even a chance… I gotta know.”

You softened, just a little, because you understood that kind of obsession. The way grief could become a job you clocked into every day so you didn’t have to sit still and feel it.

But you also knew what the world did to people who went out alone. It swallowed them whole and left their loved ones chewing on unanswered questions until their teeth broke.

“Then let me come,” you said, quieter. “We’ll go together. Like we always do.”

His eyes flicked to yours. For a heartbeat, you saw the temptation. The relief. The wanting.

Then, like always, he buried it.

“Can’t,” he said.

Your stomach dropped. “Why?”

He looked away. “Judith. RJ. Carol ain’t here. Someone’s gotta—”

“You’re not their only person,” you whispered, even as something in you knew he felt like he was. “And I’m not… I’m not expendable, Daryl.”

That made him flinch, like you’d slapped the truth into him.

“I ain’t sayin’ you are.”

“Then why does it always feel like you’re choosing the road over me?”

He went still. The silence stretched long enough that you could hear the faint far-off hum of the Commonwealth’s generators, the artificial heartbeat of this new world.

When he finally spoke, it was barely a sound. “’Cause the road’s what I know.”

There it was.

Not a rejection of you. A confession of fear.

You took a step closer, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “And what about what you have now? What about… us?”

His eyes lifted. They looked wrecked, like he’d been holding back a flood for years and the dam was cracking.

“Don’t,” he whispered again, softer this time. Not a warning. A plea.

Because if he let himself want you out loud, he might not be able to leave.

And he was terrified of what would happen if he didn’t leave. Terrified of stillness. Terrified of being happy. Terrified that the universe would notice and take it away.

You reached up and touched his cheek, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Come back,” you said. “I don’t care if it’s two weeks or two months. Just… come back.”

His hand covered yours, warm and rough, grip tight like an anchor. “I will.”

You searched his face. “Say it like you mean it.”

His jaw clenched. Then, like it physically hurt, he nodded once. “I’ll come back.”

You kissed him first, because if you didn’t, you might fall apart. A hard, desperate kiss that tasted like salt and fear and the shape of everything you couldn’t control.

When you pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a second, and he breathed like he was memorizing you.

Then he left.

People think the worst part of losing someone is the moment it happens.

They’re wrong.

The worst part is the stretch afterward. The slow dawning that the world kept turning even though your person didn’t come back with it.

Days became weeks.

The first week, you told yourself he was fine. Daryl always came back. He was built for the road. He was a creature of survival.

The second week, you started sleeping lighter.

By the third, you had that constant tightness in your chest, like your body was bracing for impact. Every time someone came through the gates, your heart leapt like a dog at the door.

It was never him.

Then came the whispers.

A rider came in from the edge, shaken, talking about men on the water. Boats. Strangers. A scuffle at the docks outside the Commonwealth’s reach.

Someone said Daryl’s bike had been found.

Someone else said there’d been blood.

And then, the thing that truly split you open: a messenger, pale and apologetic, telling you they’d found a piece of his vest snagged on a rusted cleat near the shoreline. The patch torn. The threads dark.

Blood.

No body.

No proof.

Just absence.

Grief is a strange beast. It doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it goes quiet and makes you practical.

You didn’t collapse. You didn’t scream.

You went cold.

You asked questions. You mapped last known sightings. You walked the waterfront until your feet blistered. You demanded details from people who didn’t have them.

And in the end, when there was nothing left but theories and a shoreline that swallowed answers, you made a decision.

If the world was going to take him, it would have to do it with certainty.

Because you could not live on maybe.

So you left the Commonwealth too.

Not impulsively. Not recklessly. You planned. You packed. You traded. You learned routes and rumors. You followed every scrap of information like it was a lifeline.

At first the trail was shallow, mostly the kind of stories people told when they wanted something from you.

A quiet man with a crossbow. A guy on a bike. A drifter who looked like he’d fought the apocalypse with his bare hands.

Then the rumors began to shift.

Not “I saw him,” but “I heard.”

He’d been taken.

Not killed. Taken.

By people who knew the water. By people who moved like they had a system.

You chased that word across states, across coastlines, across the broken skeleton of the old world. You found dock towns where the air still tasted like salt and rust. You found men who spoke in half-truths and traded secrets like contraband.

And finally, after months that blurred into each other, you found something solid.

A name: a boat. A route: across the Atlantic. A destination whispered like a joke no one believed: France.

At first you laughed, because it sounded insane. A fairy tale. A place that belonged to postcards and wine and a life that no longer existed.

But the world had taught you one thing: insane was just another word for “real” now.

So you did the impossible.

You found passage.

Not on a shining ship with cabins and comfort, but on a half-dead cargo vessel patched together with hope and duct tape, crewed by survivors who’d made a living moving people and goods between continents like the apocalypse hadn’t rewritten physics.

It cost you almost everything.

You gave up supplies. Ammo. A ring you’d kept tucked away from before. You lied when you had to. You fought when you had to.

You crossed an ocean full of ghosts.

And every night, with the sea groaning beneath you and the wind screaming like a warning, you held onto one thing: Daryl was alive. He had to be.

Because you were not dragging your soul across the world for a corpse.

When you finally saw land again, it didn’t look like salvation.

France rose from the fog like a bruise. Gray skies. Broken coastlines. Old buildings hunched under the weight of time. The air smelled different, not just rot and smoke like back home, but damp stone and salt and something faintly sweet, like decaying fruit.

Europe had been old before the world ended.

Now it looked ancient.

You stepped off the boat with your pack biting into your shoulders and your heart beating too fast, and you thought: Okay. Now what?

Now you became a hunter again.

Not for the dead.

For your living.

It took longer than you wanted to find him.

France was full of factions, whispers, language barriers, and people who had learned to survive in ways you didn’t recognize. There were groups that spoke of hope like it was religion. There were groups that spoke of power like it was the only god left.

You learned names quickly.

Pouvoir. Genet. The Nest. Union of Hope.

You learned what people feared. You learned what they wanted. You learned the kinds of questions that got you stabbed and the kinds that got you a seat near the fire.

You kept your head down. You listened. You traded.

And always, you asked, in whatever broken French you could manage, in whatever gestures you had to use:

“A man. American. Crossbow.”

Most people shrugged. Some laughed. Some looked away too fast.

Then, in a crumbling town that smelled of wet ash, you heard it.

A kid, maybe sixteen, dirt on his face and hunger in his eyes, said it like it was gossip.

“L’Américain,” he told you. “They say he is with the nuns.”

Your breath caught.

“Nuns?”

He nodded. “At the church. They travel. They fight. They protect the boy.”

“A boy,” you repeated, because your brain was trying to catch up to your heart.

The kid shrugged. “A special boy. People talk.”

You didn’t care about special boys. Not right then.

All you heard was: he’s here.

You left at dawn.

You walked until your legs burned and your lungs tasted like metal.

You followed signs that weren’t signs, just the subtle shifts in danger and rumor. You followed the shape of Daryl Dixon through other people’s stories: a quiet killer, a reluctant protector, a man who didn’t belong but still stood between monsters and the vulnerable.

That was him.

That had always been him.

By the time you reached the coast, the sun was already sinking, spilling gold across the water like someone had tipped a chalice of light into the sea.

The beach was quiet.

Too quiet.

The air was soft with salt and that strange European damp that clung to your skin. Wind tugged at your hair. Your boots sank slightly into the sand, leaving prints that looked too temporary.

And then you saw them.

Two figures near the waterline.

One of them was Daryl.

You knew him even from a distance, like your body recognized the shape of him before your mind could catch up. The way he stood slightly hunched, like the world was always ready to swing at him. The way his shoulders held tension even in stillness. The way he looked at the horizon like it might answer questions.

Your chest went tight. Your vision blurred, not from tears yet, but from shock. From the sudden, violent proof that your hope wasn’t a lie.

You took one step forward.

Then you saw her.

A woman close to him, dark hair, face turned up toward his. She touched his arm like she belonged there. Like she knew him. Like she had a right.

You froze.

Because then he leaned in.

And he kissed her.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t hungry. It was… quiet.

A sunset kiss. Soft. Almost careful.

Like two people trying to borrow warmth from each other before night fell.

Your body went cold so fast it felt like falling through ice.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Your brain tried to shove logic into the wound. He thought you were dead. You thought he was dead. People do strange things in grief. It’s not betrayal if the world told him you were gone.

But your heart didn’t care about fairness.

All it knew was: you crossed an ocean for him, and you found his mouth on someone else.

The woman pulled back first, smiling faintly, like she’d just been given something precious.

Daryl’s hand lingered at her waist a second too long.

Then his head turned.

Like instinct.

Like the part of him that survived by noticing the shift in air behind him.

His eyes found you.

And the world stopped.

Daryl Dixon went utterly still, like a deer caught in headlights, like a man shot through the chest and not yet feeling the pain.

His face drained of color.

His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

His eyes… God, his eyes.

They weren’t just shocked.

They were wrecked.

Recognition hit him like a wave, and you watched it ripple through his whole body. His shoulders jerked. His breath stuttered. His hand dropped from the woman like he’d been burned.

“Y/N…?” he rasped, voice breaking on your name like it was something holy and impossible.

The woman beside him turned, confused, looking between you and him. She said something in French, soft and questioning.

Daryl didn’t even look at her.

He took a step toward you. Then another. Faster. Like his body was moving before his mind could think.

His eyes shone wet in the low light, and you realized with a sick jolt that he was on the verge of tears. Daryl, who’d survived everything with grit and silence, looked like he might crumble right there in the sand.

“Holy—” he breathed, like he couldn’t find words big enough. “You… I thought you—”

He broke off, swallowing hard. His hands lifted, shaking slightly, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. Then he surged forward, closing the distance with desperate urgency.

He reached for you like he’d been starving.

And for half a second, your body wanted to let him. Wanted to collapse into him, to breathe him in, to let the world finally right itself.

But then the image of his mouth on hers flashed behind your eyes like a cruel little film reel.

So when his arms wrapped around you, when his forehead pressed against your temple, when he made this broken sound in his throat like relief turning into grief…

You shoved him.

Hard.

His arms fell away instantly, like you’d struck him, like your rejection was a blade he knew too well. He stumbled back a step, blinking at you, stunned.

You were shaking. Not from cold. From rage. From pain. From the sheer, unbearable clash of love and betrayal and months of fear compacted into one moment.

“You…” Your voice came out raw, thin. You swallowed, tried again. “You’re… you’re serious?”

Daryl stared at you like he couldn’t understand the words, like all he knew was that you were here and he’d been praying to every dead god for that.

“Y/N, I—”

You laughed once, sharp and humorless, the sound of something cracking. “Don’t.”

His face twisted. “I didn’t— I thought you were—” He shook his head hard, like he could shake the memory loose. “They told me… they said… your—”

“My what?” you snapped. “My blood? My vest? The ocean?”

His eyes widened. He looked stricken. “You… knew?”

“Yeah,” you hissed, stepping closer because anger made you brave. “I knew you were gone. I knew there was blood. I knew nobody found a body. So I did what you do, Daryl. I didn’t sit down and accept it.”

His breath hitched.

“I tracked you,” you said, voice shaking now, not from fury but from the heartbreak underneath it. “For months. Across states. Across the damn ocean. I came here because I couldn’t live with maybe.”

Daryl’s eyes glassed over fully. His jaw clenched like he was trying not to fall apart.

The woman beside him spoke again, worried now. “Daryl…”

He flinched at her voice like it reminded him of the crime scene you’d walked into.

He turned to her, finally, and said something low and firm in English. “Go.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Please,” he added, rough, and the word tasted like he hated needing it. “Just… go.”

She hesitated, eyes flicking to you, then back to him. Her face tightened with understanding and hurt. She murmured something in French that sounded like resignation, then stepped away, leaving the two of you standing in the sunset’s dying light like the last people on earth.

The wind shifted. The sea hissed. Somewhere far off, gulls cried like ghosts.

Daryl turned back to you, eyes wet, face open in a way you almost never saw.

“I ain’t… I ain’t got no excuse,” he said hoarsely. “I thought I lost you.”

You folded your arms like armor. “So you kissed her.”

His throat bobbed. “I didn’t mean for it to—” He stopped, dragged a hand down his face. “It wasn’t… like that.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your voice broke on the sarcasm, because part of you wanted him to say it was. Part of you wanted it to be a clean betrayal so you could hate him and stop hurting.

But Daryl had never been clean. His love had always been messy and human and earned in blood and silence.

He took a half-step toward you, then stopped, like he was afraid you’d shove him again.

“Listen,” he said, voice trembling with strain. “Every day I been here, I been thinkin’ you’re dead. Every day. I been seein’ you… everywhere. In my sleep. In the way the light hits the trees. In the stupid shit people say that sounds like you.”

His eyes squeezed shut a second, and when he opened them, a tear had slipped down his cheek, catching the last gold of the sun.

“I been mournin’ you,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

Your anger faltered for a heartbeat, replaced by something raw and aching.

Then you remembered the kiss.

And the hurt surged back like a tide.

“You don’t get to mourn me and replace me in the same breath,” you said, low and deadly.

He flinched like the words punched him.

“I didn’t replace you,” he insisted, voice cracking. “I can’t. I don’t—” He swallowed hard, hands fisting at his sides. “She… she helped. That’s all. We been runnin’ together. Surviving. I ain’t… I ain’t built for this shit, Y/N. Not alone. Not here.”

You stared at him, heart hammering.

He looked so tired. The kind of tired you couldn’t sleep off. The kind that lived in your bones.

And still, you couldn’t unsee it.

“So what,” you said bitterly, “I show up and you just… switch back? Like I’m a jacket you thought you lost?”

His eyes widened, horrified. “No.”

“Then what do you want from me, Daryl?”

His breath hitched. His voice came out small.

“I want you.”

The simplicity of it gutted you.

He took another step closer, slow this time, like approaching a wounded animal.

“I want you alive,” he said. “In front of me. I want… I want to hear you talk. I want to know you’re real.”

Your throat burned.

“And I know I fucked up,” he added, voice rough. “I know. I ain’t gonna pretend I didn’t. But don’t… don’t leave. Please.”

There it was.

Daryl Dixon, begging.

He didn’t do that. He didn’t ask for mercy. He didn’t kneel.

But he stood there in the sand with tears on his face and his pride stripped down to bone, and he asked anyway.

You hated how much it shook you.

You took a shaky breath, forcing air into your lungs like you were learning how again.

“I can’t just—” you started, voice breaking. “I can’t just pretend that didn’t happen.”

“I ain’t askin’ you to,” he said quickly. “Yell at me. Hit me. Whatever you gotta do. Just… don’t disappear again.”

You looked at him, really looked.

This wasn’t the Commonwealth. This wasn’t home. This was France, a place where everything felt wrong and unfamiliar, where the rules of survival were written in a language you didn’t fully understand.

And Daryl… Daryl looked like a man who’d been drowning and just spotted land, only to realize the land could walk away.

Your anger was real.

But so was the fact that you’d crossed the world for him.

So was the fact that your body still ached with the memory of his arms around you, even though you’d shoved him away.

You let out a breath that shook.

“Tell me,” you said, voice low. “Tell me what happened. From the beginning. How you got here. Why you thought I was dead. Why you… why you let yourself—”

His eyes closed. He nodded once, like he’d take any punishment if it meant you stayed.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”

He looked down at the sand like it might hold the story for him.

“I left,” he began, voice rough. “Same as I told you. Road. Searchin’. I was a couple days out when I hit the coast. Heard… heard stuff. People movin’ goods. People movin’ people.”

His jaw clenched. “I got jumped. Woke up… on a ship. Couldn’t get out. They had guns. They had numbers.”

He swallowed hard, throat working like the memory still tasted like fear.

“Storm hit,” he said. “Ship went to hell. I got thrown. Water… everywhere. I thought I was gonna drown.”

You felt your stomach twist, imagining it. The sea, black and endless, eating him alive.

“I made it to shore,” he continued, voice quieter. “France. Didn’t know where the hell I was. Didn’t know how to get back.”

He lifted his eyes to you then, and they were haunted.

“And then,” he said, voice breaking, “I heard what happened back home. From people who came through. They said… there was blood. They said you were gone.”

Your chest tightened. “Who said that?”

He shook his head slightly. “Don’t know. Couldn’t even tell you if it was true or just… rumors. But I believed it.”

His eyes glistened again. “’Cause it made sense. ’Cause this world don’t let me have things.”

You flinched at the bleak honesty.

“And Isabelle,” he said, voice careful now, like stepping onto thin ice, “she… she was there. Helpin’ me. Keepin’ me from gettin’ myself killed. She ain’t you. She ain’t ever gonna be you.”

He swallowed. “That kiss… it was a mistake. It was… grief. And loneliness. And thinkin’ I was never gettin’ back to you anyway.”

Silence stretched between you, filled with the sound of the ocean breathing.

You didn’t know what to do with the truth.

It didn’t erase the pain.

But it gave it context. It turned it from a knife into something duller, heavier. Something you could maybe carry instead of bleeding out from.

You stared at him, arms still crossed tight.

“I’m not dead,” you said, voice shaking.

His face crumpled. “I know.”

“And I’m here,” you added, like you needed him to understand the weight of it. “I’m here. I did this. I found you.”

“I know,” he whispered again, tears spilling now, unable to hold them back. “I know. God… Y/N—”

He took another step, then stopped himself, hands lifting slightly like he wanted permission.

You hated that you’d become the one he was afraid of.

But you also understood. Because you were afraid too.

You let your arms drop slowly, like lowering a weapon.

“I don’t know what happens now,” you admitted, voice ragged. “I don’t know if I can… go back to how it was. Not yet.”

His nod was immediate, fierce. “Okay. We don’t. We don’t gotta go back. We just… we just go forward.”

The words sounded strange coming from him, like hope that hadn’t been sanded down into something practical.

You swallowed hard. “I need… space.”

His face tightened, panic flashing like a flare.

“Not forever,” you said quickly, because you couldn’t stand the way he looked like he might break again. “Just… I need time to breathe.”

He nodded, jaw clenched like it hurt. “Okay.”

You glanced toward the dunes, toward the darkening line of trees. “Where are you staying?”

He hesitated. “Near the church. With them.”

“With her,” you corrected quietly.

Pain flickered across his face. “Yeah.”

You exhaled, shaky. “I need to put my pack down somewhere. I need food. Water. Sleep that isn’t… on a boat.”

His expression softened at that, protective instinct kicking in like muscle memory. “You’re hurt?”

“No,” you lied automatically, because you didn’t want the conversation to turn into him fussing over you like he could make this better by fixing something visible.

But Daryl knew you. He always had.

He stepped closer, slow and careful, eyes scanning you. “You’re bleedin’.”

You blinked, startled, and realized your palm was scraped raw from where your nails had dug into it while you watched him kiss her.

You looked down. Blood welled bright against your skin.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered.

He reached out, paused, then very gently took your wrist. Not pulling. Just holding, like asking.

You didn’t yank away this time.

His thumb brushed the side of your hand, tender. “Ain’t nothin’,” he murmured, voice thick, “but you shouldn’t be bleedin’ alone.”

Something in your throat tightened so hard it hurt.

You let out a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

Daryl’s grip tightened a fraction, grounding, steady. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t try to hug you again.

He just stayed.

A doorway, again.

You closed your eyes for a second, letting the sea air fill your lungs.

Then you opened them and met his gaze.

“Walk me there,” you said, voice quiet. “But don’t touch me yet.”

His nod was immediate. “Okay.”

He released your wrist like you were glass.

You started walking up the beach, sand shifting under your feet, the last of the sunlight dying behind you.

Daryl matched your pace, half a step back like he was afraid to crowd you.

It should’ve felt like victory, finding him.

Instead, it felt like standing in the ruins of something you loved, trying to figure out if it could be rebuilt.

As you walked, you heard him swallow, then speak, voice barely above the wind.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You didn’t answer.

A few steps later: “I’m real sorry.”

Still nothing.

Then, softer, almost broken: “Don’t… don’t give up on me.”

Your chest clenched.

Daylight broke and Andrea hadn't moved.

Daryl grumbled about Amy turning, but you quickly shot him down each time. People grieve in different ways. Andrea knew what she had to do when the time came.

"Y'all can't be serious." Daryl huffed, watching Andrea through squinted eyes, "Let that girl hamstring us? The dead girl's a time-bomb." He seethed.

"Daryl," You glared up at him, rubbing the scratch on your upper arm. "Don't be insensitive."

"We ain't got time for this." He seethed, glaring back at you.

You stood, "She lost her sister, not her smarts. She knows what to do."

He stepped closer, putting his weight on one leg, slightly slouching to be eye level with you. Maybe he was trying to be intimidating, but it didn't work. You had seen the dark, sad parts of him. He will never be able to scare you or berate you with actions or words. "And if she don't?"

"What do you suggest?"Rick questioned Daryl, stopping the oncoming argument.

Daryl stepped closer to Rick, bringing his fingers to his temple, "Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance."

"No," Lori spoke up, "For God's sake, let her be."

Dary scoffed before walking off. In turn, you eyed the back of Andrea's head. She knew what she had to do, right? You hoped so.

Pulling your eyes away from her, you looked around at all of the bodies. Most were people who you had just seen, laughing and eating. Others were the dead that had wandered from the city.

Shutting your eyes, your hand automatically went to your wrist, the tightly woven thread helping to ground you. Your fingers traveled down to your left hand, the wedding ring soothing against your fingertips, a contrast to the thick thread of the collar/ bracelet on your wrist.

Daryl looked up as he helped drag a body across the ground. He watched you, watched your movements; a desperate search for comfort.

- time skip -

Daryl stomped away, not understanding why Amy and Jim were not being taken care of. They were "ticking time bombs". They were liabilities. In the new world, there was not time to grieve. Sneering at the thought, he yanked the tent flap back, watching you jump, immediately wiping under your eyes.

His eyes trailed over you in the silence of the moment. You needed comforting. He wanted to comfort you. He really did. But he had a feeling those tears were his doing. He shouldn't have taken his frustration out on you, knowing you had witnessed something horrific.

The tent opening fell down as he walked away.

Your hands instantly went back to your face, muffling the sobs that raked your body.

-

Sweat had mixed with the dirt and grime, caking your skin as you helped bury the bodies. The bright sun beat down, causing you to squint.

Daryl kept an eye on you from a distance. Neither of you had uttered a word to each other since the morning. You were both too stubborn.

Backing his truck up, bodies in the bed of it, Daryl caught sight of you looking up through the side mirrors. Just as quickly, you looked away and got back to digging, ignoring Rick and Shane's argument to your left. Turning the truck off, Daryl jumped out, slamming the door.

He made his way to where you, Rick, and Shane were digging holes for the friends you had light the night prior. "I still think it's a mistake not burning these bodies. It's what we said we'd do, right? Burn 'em all, wasn't that the idea?"

"At first."

Daryl scoffed, "The Chinaman gets all emotional, says it's not the thing to do, we just follow 'em along? These people need to know who the hell's in charge here- what the rules are."

"And who the hell's in charge, Daryl? It sure as hell ain't you."

Daryl scoffed again, watching as you glared at him, waiting for him to reply, from where you had jumped down in a freshly dug hole.

"There are no rules." Rick countered Daryl's statement.

"Well, that's a problem." Lori walked past Daryl's truck, children and their mothers behind her. "We haven't had one moment to hold onto anything of our old selves. We need time to mourn, and we need to bury our dead. It's what people do." With that, she turned and walked away, not caring to hear what anyone thought about that.

-

Feeling disgusting, you had made your way back to the tent. Not having any clothes, you opted for something of Daryl's. His cut shirts weren't ideal, but they were cooling and non-restricting. His old work pants fit loose, but that's not anything string couldn't fix.

Buttoning the second to last button of the dingy shirt, you heard the opening of the tent begin to unzip. You moved to cover yourself, but ultimately relaxed when Daryl stepped in. He looked up, scanning your body before glancing behind himself, making sure nobody had seen you changing from over his shoulder. He zipped the flap back up, before simply standing there. He was slightly hunched over, as were you, thanks to the small tent.

It was silent.

Your fingers went back to the button, as you ignored your husband's presence.

Daryl moved closer, standing behind you. The air around you two changed. His head fell to your shoulder, his own grime mixing with yours. He stayed there, vulnerable. This was his way of apologizing.

Your body relaxed further, sinking back into him. His arms snaked around your middle, holding you close.

"It's okay." You whispered, only loud enough for him to hear, and not to disturb this newfound peaceful atmosphere. He nodded, moving his hands to your hips, turning you around. His fingers made quick work of buttoning the last button for you.

-

The next morning, everyone was getting ready to leave for the C.D.C. Rick was out in the field, talking to a man named Morgan, the guy who had saved Rick’s life. Lori, Carol, and the kids were helping to load everything into cars. You helped Daryl load up his truck. Hopping onto the tailgate, you helped pull Daryl’s bike up, gently laying it on the truck bed.

“Are ya willin’ to put your life in his hands?” Daryl helped you jump down, glancing at Rick in the distance. Daryl was looking to you for answers. You were always the more level-headed of the two. Daryl would follow you into fire, he’d follow you to the end of the world. And you just might be doing that.

“I think you have to hope there’s a safe place out there. If we don’t hope for it, then we won’t get it. Hope is all we’ve got.” You patted his chest, before walking by him. He watched you, before slamming the rusted tailgate closed.

-

The wind blew through your hair, cooling your face. Daryl drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other near his mouth as he nipped at his fingernails. The leg that was not being used for the gas and brake pedals slightly shook, a trailer to his nerves. You rode in silence.

“”M sorry–‘bout yesterday.” He spoke up first, biting his thumb nail. You turned your head, looking at his side-profile. He didn’t dare to glance at you.

“I know. I am too. We were both on edge; said some things. It’s alright.”

He nodded, pulling his thumb from his mouth. “Ya think Merle’s alright?”

You thought about it. Daryl had told you what they found on the roof and what they had run into.

“I think he’s a tough fucker to kill.” Daryl let out an entertained huff, “He had enough energy to steal the van, so there’s a high chance he’s okay…maybe.”

Daryl let your words marinate. Letting out a deep exhale, he swapped hands on the wheel, placing his right one of your knee. You moved closer to him, placing your hand over his.

-

Guilt was eating at you.

You had all left Jim under a tree. Sure, it was per his request, but that didn’t stop the shame bubbling in your gut. Even miles from where he sat, you had a frown on your face, thinking of him. The turning was inevitable. But the thought of him having to sit there and deal with the feeling of his bones being made of glass, cutting into him with the slightest move, having to deal with that all on his own, hurt you.

Daryl felt the tension in the truck. You sat closer to the door, hands in your lap.

His hand moved toward the radio, before cursing himself. That wouldn’t work in the apocalypse

Grumbling, he leaned over, opening the glove box and blindly digging through. Pulling a cassette tape out, he plucked it into the truck, twisting the volume knob.

It’s what Jim wanted, you kept reminding yourself. But it didn’t make you feel any better about yourself. You just hoped he wasn’t in pain for much longer.

-

Daryl tapped your arm, watching you blink awake. The melody had settled you to a light slumber. Still groggy from sleep, you took in your surroundings. For a moment, you forgot that the world went to shit. The sky was turning a dark orange, sun setting in the distance. But as you sat up in the seat, you could see the bodies on the ground, bugs buzzing above them.

“Wanna get out?” Daryl stared at you as you looked at the huge building through the windshield. Even more bodies laid in front of the building, flies swarming them. Some bodies were mindlessly wandering around.

This was the C.D.C?

Without giving a response, you opened your door, jumping out. Daryl followed, grabbing his crossbow and a shotgun from the floorboard. Walking around the truck, he pressed the gun to your side, getting your attention. You grabbed it and began following everyone to the building.

The stench alone almost had you hurling.

“Alright, everybody,” Shane began whispering, “Keep moving. Go on. Stay quiet. Let’s go.”

The constant buzzing of flies and the horrible smell of decay just might be your own personal hell.

Finally, you were a few feet from the building. Rick and Shane beat on the roll-up doors.

“There’s nobody here.” T-Dog swayed on his feet, turning to look over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Then why are these shutters down?” Rick was holding onto hope; he had to.

“Walkers!” Daryl pulled you by the arm, putting you behind him.

Children screamed, guns cocked, feet shuffled.

“You led us into a graveyard!” Daryl turned, making his way toward Rick. His nostrils flared. Fury behind his eyes.

You stepped in front of him, separating him and what he wanted to do out of anger and frustration.

“He made a call!” Dale interjected.

Daryl rounded you, “It was the wrong damn call!”

Shane stopped Daryl. “Just shut up. You hear me? Shut. Up. Shut up!” He pushed Daryl back, pointing at him.

You quickly walked over, grabbing Daryl’s shoulder before the whole thing could escalate.

Shane turned, walking back to Rick, who still stood at the shutters. “Rick, this is a dead end.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Carol held onto her daughter, but was ignored.

Night was blanketing the sky–fast. You could barely see where the cats were parked from where you stood.

Shane continued, “Do you hear me? No blame.”

Lori acknowledged Carol, “She’s right. We can’t be here, this close to the city after dark.”

“Fort Benning, Rick-still an option.”

“On what?” Andrea stepped forward, glowering. “No food, no fuel. That’s 100 miles.”

“125. I checked the map.” Glenn corrected.

Carl clung to Lori’s legs. She stared at her husband, “Forget Fort Benning! We need answers tonight, now.”

“We’ll think of something.” Rick tried, not meeting his wife’s eyes.

“C’mon!” “Let’s go!” “Let’s get out of here!” Everyone began to make their way back to the vehicles, “Alright, everybody back to the cars. Let’s go, move.”

“The camera– It moved!”

“You imagined it.”

“It. Moved.” Rick didn’t think anything of Dale’s words, walking closer to the camera near the doors. “It moved.”

“Rick, man. It’s an automated device. It’s gears, okay? They’re just winding down. Now come on. Man, just listen to me.” Shane grabbed Rick by his upper arm, trying to drag him away. “Look around this place. It’s dead, okay? It’s. Dead. You need to let it go, Rick!”

Rick pushed Shane off, going to the shutters and beating against them again. He stared up into the camera.

“Rick! There’s nobody here!” Lori yelled.

Rick ignored her, “I know you can hear me!”

Shane began ushering everyone back to the cars. “Everybody get back to the cars, now!”

Rick didn’t budge. “Please, we’re desperate. Please help us.” He begged, “We have women, children, no food, hardly any gas left.”

Lori thrusted Carl onto you, seeing as you were the closest to her, and ran over to Rick. She grabbed him. “Rick-”

“We have nowhere else to go-”

“There’s nobody here.”

Rick continued to pound on the doors.

Carl clung tighter to you.

“Keep your eyes open.” Shane ordered.

“If you don’t let us in, you’re killing us! Please!” Rick yelled at the top of his lungs.

Shane went over, pushing Lori away and grabbing Rick by his shoulders. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”

Carl pushed himself closer to you, hearing his father so desperate but to no avail.

Rick fought against getting dragged back, still staring into the camera, “Please help us.”

People shouted. Carl’s tears soaked into your /Daryl’s/ pants.

“You’re killing us! YOU’RE KILLING US!”

Shane shoved Rick away, watching his face crumble.

“You’re killing us.”

Your eyes widened, holding Carl closer, as a bright light nearly blinded you. The shutters opened, rolling up slowly. A hissing echoed. Everyone gawked, not knowing what to do.

“Daryl, you cover the back.” Shane ordered. Carl let go, running to his mother.

You cocked your gun, joining Daryl. He glanced at you, a questioning gaze set on you. You simply blinked at him, in shock.

Everyone walked toward the light, looking around and gawking at the interior. It smelt clean, a contrast to the horrid, rotting smell outside.

“Hello? Hello?!”

“Close those doors.”

“Watch for walkers.”

“Hello?”

A gun cocking had the group readying themselves, wildly looking around for the source.

A man stood in the shadows, gun in hand. “Anybody infected?”

“One of our group was. He didn’t make it.” Rick answered the unknown man.

“Why are you here?” The man stepped forward, “What do you want?” He put the gun down, looking at all of your grime-covered faces.

“A chance.”

Part 4 (TBA)

•2021-2025 by xoxo-sarah on Tumblr•

Orm wakes in the early morning, slivers of pre-dawn light filtering through his window. He lays still for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the wind and the house settling before he at last rises. Ever since Arthur, Mera, and their son, had moved to their own home, he rarely heard a sound this early. Tom still slept, though Orm knows he too will wake soon, so he quickly dresses, in simple work clothes, and begins the morning duties.

The creaks and shudders of the house are his only company as he gently steps onto the porch, and for a brief moment, he finds himself almost missing the full house. Though he’d never turn an ear to purposefully listening in to others' conversations, the background noise was almost comforting. He’d known the comings and goings in the upstairs rooms by the footsteps alone, could track where they were going and what they were doing, and the downstairs movements were similiarly traced by the groaning of the floorboards.

Orm knows he might be called paranoid for keeping such tabs, but if that were the worst of his offences these days, he’d bear it.

The sun won’t show itself for an hour or more by the time he’s trudged up the lighthouse steps and performed the routine checks and tests Tom had shown him, and although Orm could now say he relished the feeling of the sun on his skin, he liked rising before it woke, enjoyed the blue haze the world was cast in before it’s rays reached any of them. It reminded him of Atlantis. It reminded him of home.

After checking the boat docked on the pier, he pulls it up and out of the water, for some maintenance later, as he’d been advised yesterday, though he has no real grasp on the mechanical side of things, he was happy to help the old man with his strength alone.

In his exile, and subsequent ‘death’, Tom had been willing to take Orm in, and in doing so, had given him a new sense of purpose, of duty, and the lighthouse was quickly becoming a source of calm and solace for the once-king of the waves below.

One of them at least.

The other, as he would come to know her, arrives at around midday.

-

You arrive at the Lighthouse at around 12:30.

Your modestly sized, government-issued four wheeler is hooked up in the back with an equally modest sized little dingey. Your business out at the bay only really needed to be a conversation, but you’ve known Tom Curry long enough by now to know he’d have no problems with you killing two birds with one stone, and allowing you to use his pier.

Besides, it was choppy out there today, and you didn’t want to give the old man a scare when you inevitably left your boat anchored and seemingly empty.

You pull your uniform bomber on as you exit your truck, seeing as you were out here on official business afterall, and step out into the fierce winds that were already picking up. One look up at the sky tells you if not now, it would rain soon enough, but you find yourself startled by movement and sound to your right, and you jump to face the man that has now exited the boat shed only a few meters away.

“Can I help you?” he asks, voice low, but smooth and rounded, somehow sounding incredibly formal despite his almost ragged appearance. That wasn’t to say the man was not well kept, in fact he looked incredibly similar to the impression his voice gave off, only, he wore a dark set of work clothes, and instead of waterproof pullovers like you’d see most of the dock workers or even you yourself have worn on occasion when working on wetter days, this man's clothes are damp, if not outright soaked in patches.

To his credit, if the man was bothered by his lack of dryness, he doesn’t let on.

He’s handsome, you realise dumbly and out of nowhere, very aware of the ridiculousness of your standing there and accessing him like a value to be taken stock of, especially given that the rain you’d predicted had begun to sprinkle lightly now. And yet, you can’t help yourself. He is handsome, with strikingly defined features, piercing blue eyes and almost white blond hair. You find there's something almost familiar about him, which is when you remember.

This must have been Tom’s ‘other son’. You knew Tom’s son Arthur tangentially, you’d gone to the same school, though a few years apart, and you’d even been saddled together on a luckless double date once back in high school, but despite this, you’d honestly say you knew Tom much better. Still, for as long as you’d known the Curry’s, it had been just the two of them. You were too young to remember the strange woman your father had mentioned once, and to be honest, your father mentioned a lot of ‘strange’ things, so you’d never really paid him much mind on that front, but recently, the talk of the town had you wondering.

You’d seen the family around town since Arthur’s mother had returned. You hadn’t met this man yet, but you’d heard through the grapevine at your work about him, Arthur’s brother. Apparently he was helping to run the lighthouse, and looking at the man before you now, there's not a doubt in your mind he’s of the same blood as the ethereally beautiful woman you’d seen here and there.

“Oh, I–” you start, feeling your face heat up slightly as you tear your eyes away from staring at the man openly, his slowly rising eyebrow telling you he’d been fully aware of your struckedness. A small, physical shake of your head gets you back on track, just as the man dusts his hands off– though you note they didn’t appear dirty to you– and steps closer to you. He briefly looks up at the clouds as he feels the first of the rain on his face, and you almost have to give another shake of your head to draw yourself away from waxing poetic about the way he looks so lovingly up at them.

“I work for the Marine Park office, I just need to talk to Tom about the upcoming season…” you manage to get out. His eyes finally leave the sky to focus back on you as he comes to a stop a few feet away, though after a moment, his gaze travels beyond you, to what it takes you a moment to realise is your truck, specifically your boat, and you clear your throat. “… and I didn’t think he’d mind if I used his pier after…” you tell him quickly, feeling a little like you’re under deep scrutiny, but you get the distinct feeling that his lightning-coloured eyes make everyone feel that way.

He looks back at you quickly once he’s processed your words, a small, concerned looking frown coming over his features.

“You’re going out to the Archipelago today?” he asks. It isn’t a true Archipelago that you had here in Amnesty, it was really just a large collection of small rocks and islands formed off the coast, outside of the initial Bay, but it had been called as such for longer than you can remember.

“Well, I plan to be below the water, so the wind and the rain doesn’t bother me too much,” you reply, preparing yourself to assure and defend your decision to do your job, but unlike the warnings of rough waters and danger you’re expecting from the stranger, he shakes his head and nods out at the pier, and the water beyond it.

“There’s a shark in the area. Tom has been monitoring it since yesterday… I thought he would have relayed that information to your office…?” he tells you instead. It takes you a moment to really hear what he’s said, but once your mind filters it through, you let out a laugh of almost relief, your own gaze trailing out to where he’d been gesturing at.

“Oh, that’s just Khan! He’s a local. Sort of. Usually swings by once a month or so to get pets and head scratches… don’t worry, he’ll retreat deeper by tomorrow, I’m sure. It gets too cold for him otherwise,” you assure the stranger with a wave of your hand.

The man’s features turn to surprise, and he blinks down at you like you’ve just said something completely insane. It doesn’t bother you, however. As the certified ichthyologist hired to work for the Amnesty Bay Marine Park, you were more than used to people thinking you were insane for swimming with some of the sharks that came through the area over the summer months, but Shere Khan was different. An older, docile creature, the king of the tiger (sharks) as you’d dubbed him, loved to keep you and your colleagues company when you were out and about on the water, and you almost didn’t feel quite right anymore going out there without him when he was away.

Contrary to how most people would feel with a six metre tiger shark tailing their boat, ever since an incident with a slightly more aggressive and curious bull shark several years back, you actually felt much safer with him around.

“You’re going to–” he doesn’t get to finish, the disbelief in his voice going entirely unanswered as nearby the back door to the property’s main building all but bursts open, and Tom comes barrelling down the steps, drawing both of your attention. On his face is a massive grin, and you don’t stop to think about not wanting to leave the close proximity of the stranger, instead caught up in the joy of what you know is about to be a massive bear hug.

“Gracie!” The lighthouse keeper exclaims as he gathers you up in a bundle of an embrace, and you can’t help but let out a laugh. “It’s been too long, my girl! You never come see me any more!” he complains with the faux grouchiest looking version of a pout you’ve ever seen, and as he puts you down, you give his shoulder a playful shove.

“Don’t get sour on me, gramps, I’ve heard you’ve replaced me!” you say cheekily, jerking your thumb over your shoulder at the blond man who seems to gingerly approach. Something in Tom’s eyes light up as he looks between you and the stranger, but he appears to try to cover it up quickly with even more faux attitude. He points a threatening finger at you.

“I’ll get more sour if you keep calling me ‘gramps’!” he growls out, but his aggression lasts only moments, and he looks past you to the blond who lingers beside the two of you.

“Grace, this is Arthur’s brother Orm. Orm, this is Grace. She’s a Marine Park Ranger here in Amnesty. Takes care of the tourists during holiday season… and she’s a family friend.”

At last with an introduction, you turn to the man, and after only a moment of hesitence on his part, you shake his hand, cursing yourself for how flushed and warm your face feels when you make eye contact again. You’re glad to see any of his prior alert for your upcoming swim conditions has receded, a sort of grim acceptance seemingly overcoming him now, but again, that in itself is more than familiar to you from outsiders.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Orm tells you somehow both incredibly regally, but simultaneously stiffly, as though he knows his formality is out of place, yet knows no other way. You decide to ease any of his discomfort by matching the strange, frankly weird energy you get from him.

“The pleasure is mine, I’m glad the old man has someone to help him out at the lighthouse now… was starting to worry me for a few years there,” you say truthfully, but playfully, and it doesnt go unnoticed to you the way Orm’s slightly too polite small turns a little softer, and he gains a small glint in his eyes as they flicker past you and toward the sound of the angry hiss you hear.

“For your information, the ‘old man’ is still hear, and is still willing to call up someone’s father to inform him of her breaking the cardinal rule of not insulting the Lighthouse Keeper!”

You ignore Tom, though you roll your eyes and laugh, your attention more importanttly taken up by the fact you’re still shaking Orm’s hand. You quickly pull away with a nervous chuckle at your own expense, though thankfully this time, the blond doesn’t seem willing to call you out with another raised eyebrow. He simply stays still in place, with his hand outstretched yet now empty, before he too seems to realise his fault, and drops it to his side.

You clear your throat and have to force yourself to tear your eyes away from the striking man in front of you.

“Well, ah, I’d love to have come for a social visit, but I do need to talk to you about a few things regarding the upcoming tourist season…” you tell Tom, who does his best faux grumble, but nods along despite himself. Naturally you both begin making your way up to the house, and only a glance behind you reveals Orm, standing still in his place, and watchnig after you curiously. 

When you catch one anothers eye again, you both bashfully startle, and look away.

-

Orm is tying your boat to the dock when he finally hears his mother’s footsteps approach. She’d been watching him from the window, then the porch for some time as he’d unhooked the boat off the back of the monstrosity one might call a ‘car’, and pulled it down to the pier for you. Strictly speaking, it certainly wasnt his job to do. He can tell the boat isnt all that heavy, likely picked out by you specifically so you would not need much help… but Orm finds he can’t stop himself once the thought has entered his head.

“You know, Tom’s mentioned Ranger Grace before, I don’t know if you remember, he suggested perhaps the two of you meet… to make sure you don’t spend all of your time here at the lighthouse, I mean…” his mother starts, and Orm suppresses a roll of his eyes.

“She’s planning on swimming with that shark that's out there,” he ignores his mothers insinuation, but she isn’t deterred.

“Her father’s a sailor, captains a ship out of the Bay, perhaps you could take a trip,” she goes on like he said nothing at all.

“His name is Khan. It– he has a name. How big did Tom say it was? six metres? She’s insane,” he wants to hate himself for sounding so enamoured but he can’t bring himself to do it. Atlanna rests her hand on his arm, and when he looks back at her she’s giving him a soft smile that almost makes him fold entirely.

“If Tom trusts her, you should too.”

Orm isn’t quite sure why it feels like she’s speaking about more than just the shark.

-

When you exit your meeting with Tom, you step out of the house to find your boat no longer hitched on the back of your car, and after only a few moments of searching, you spot it, bobbing at the end of the pier. Curiously, you begin wandering over to it, only to stop short when you see the blond man– Orm, knelt down on the pier, winding up a thick length or rope, and occasionally looking out over the rough waters ahead.

When you approach, you seem to startle him, because he stands suddenly and whips his head toward you, though clearly seems to regret such attentiveness, if the flustered look on his features is anything to go by.

“Ranger Grace,” he says formally, making you grin. You wonder, with a manner like that, if he has to force himself to suppress a bow.

“Just ‘Grace’ is fine,” you tell him, and for a moment you stare at one another. You feel captive in his intense gaze, like you’re being sized up or analysed, but in a single second you’re released, and he looks away, back toward the water, a tiny frown creasing between his eyebrows.

You already know what he wants to say, it’s the same thing a hundred people have said to you before, and you hold back a friendly eyeroll, and open your mouth to abate his worry, but once again when he speaks, it isn’t what you’re expecting.

“You care about them, the creatures out there,” he states, like it isn’t a question, something almost wistful in his voice. He turns back to you.

“I– why wouldn’t I care?” you ask confused at his strange manner, and this time when he frowns deeper, its at you, though not displeasure you note, more like he can’t quite figure you out. It confuses you more. You weren’t all that complicated, at least you’d never felt particularly complicated.

He stares at you again, though he seems to be at a loss for words, like he doesn’t know how to respond, but you decide to put him out of his misery.

“If you’re worried about Khan, I could introduce you?” you say, seemingly throwing him completely off guard, and distracting him from his uncertainty.

“Excuse me?”

“Khan, the tiger shark. I could introduce you. He’s really sweet.”

That makes him almost blanch, and he blinks at you like you’ve lost your mind. You can’t help but let out a laugh.

“Are you laughing at me for being reticent about an ‘introduction’ to a wild tiger shark?!” Orm sputters, and although you put a hand over your mouth, you can’t stop the giggles that continue to bubble out of you.

“He’s very friendly!” you say in your defence. Orm raises a single eyebrow at you.

“Oh, I’m certain he is,” he bristles, making you laugh once more.

You don’t notice how his face seems to soften, but you settle yourself down as he glances back out at the ocean.

“Perhaps another time,” he tells you gently. You raise both hands to assure him no offence is taken, and begin making your way further down the dock to your boat.

“I’m going to change and set off, before it gets much rougher out there,” you tell him, watching him nod as you siddle up to both him and your swaying boat. You prepare yourself to step out to it, but before you can, a large strong hand shifts into your vision, and you look up at its owner, blinking in surprise.

Feeling nervous for no other reason than a handsome stranger has offered you his gentlemanly help, your face flushes as you accept it, placing your hand in his and letting him steady you as you step down into your dingey. He doesn’t let go right away, and youanxiously look back up at him, almost questioningly. He lets go when he catches your eye, stepping back with his hands folded behind his back, and clears his throat.

“We will look for your return,” he tells you.

Strangely, you get the feeling he means something else.

-

The rocks in the Archipelago provide enough cover for Orm to swim at a comfortable distance from you and remain hidden. If anyone were to ask, he’d say that he wouldn’t normally do this, it wasn’t like him to stick his nose in the business of humans, but since no one is asking, he isn’t too proud to admit that he’s worried. He wants to think more of himself than that he's simply worried because he thinks you’re beautiful, and in truth, he does. It intrigues him that you have seemingly befriended a shark, intrigued him more that your job appeared to send you attending to something out in the ocean, and from what he can see now, it was… interesting to say the least.

You’d changed into some kind of swimming suit, similar to what he’d seen other swimmers wear before, but unlike them, you seem to carry some kind of… device in your mouth. It was cylindrical in shape, and every so often bubbles would spout from it unexpectedly. It certainly doesn’t seem to bother your companion, who he begrudgingly has to admit, is a rather docile, rather large tiger shark. Orm watches from a distance as it swims around you, occasionally bonking its face into your idle hands, at which point you smooth your hand over the top of its nose. You even occasionally seem to hold gently onto its dorsal fin, and let it lead you through the water. He can honestly say he’s never witnessed such a… a… friendship between a human and any sea life.

He knows he should leave after seeing you’re safe. But he can’t bring himself to do it.

As you near the base of a nearby outcropping of rocks, Orm watches you unsheath a large, long knife from a strap on your thigh, and carefully, you swim lower, and begin cutting away at the kelp and seaweed that has grown all around it. It’s only once a large patch has been cut away does he realise the overgrowth hides the entrance to some sort of cave. He wants to get nearer then, as only your legs become visible, but he holds back, in case you were to turn around and see him, but he finds himself pressed by other matters. Seemingly knowing he’s too large to fit, the shark, Khan, he reminds himself, swims a little further away from you, seemingly occupying himself until he begins to get nearer and nearer to Orm’s hiding place.

Orm’s eyes flash between where he can barely see you now and the shark, and decides the shark is the more immediate threat. Khan siddles up quite close, swimming laps back and forth right by him, and Orm gets the distinct impression he’s being eyed up, if not outright warned off.

“Away!” Orm tries to shoo him. “Back to your human,” he wills the creature, though the shark remains persistent, getting even closer. Orm isn’t worried about attack, though he does wonder what you would think if your apparently docile friend were to attack a stranger seemingly out of nowhere.

Then, as if you’ve called both their names, Orm and Khan both startle, and look towards the cave entrance, with Khan swimming off immediately. Perhaps that is what spurs Orm away from his hiding spot, perhaps it’s the unsettling sound of muffled panic, but soon enough he too is moving far closer than he’d ever intended, his stomach sinking somewhat as he hears the familiar sound of something dropping to the ocean floor.

A fish, a large one he has no mind to name in that instance, swims hurriedly and suddenly out of the mouth of the underwater cave, and Orm presses himself back some to allow its exit. Worry now consumes him once more, and without further thought, he swims forward, his eyes adjusting far better to the darkness than he knows you would. He finds you, hand raised to the back of your head, where the familiar sight of blood has begun to flow, staining the water around it red. You seem stricken otherwise, your body no longer swimming, and it's only when he realises your breathing apparatus has fallen from your mouth that he knows your injury is far worse than it might first appear.

Your body shakes, and if you’re conscious, you must only be barely cognisant of your surroundings, which is why Orm swims in closer, as you begin to drift down, unconcerned in your current state about the very real danger of drowning, but it’s no matter. He catches you in his arms, just as a spout of bubbles exit your lungs, and he knows he must get you back to the surface immediately.

He doesn’t waste time fetching your equipment, nor the knife you’ve dropped, he doesn’t worry about your boat left out in the water, or the shark that trails him until he reaches the pier. Orm adjusts to the weight of holding you above water, climbing the rocks and thanking whatever the surface dwellers liked to thank when Tom comes jogging out of the house, concern and panic plastered on his face.

“She hit her head, she’s bleeding,” Orm informs him hurriedly, knowing that Tom will know what to do. The old man looks up at him questioningly, but seems to think better of it, quickly ushering him inside. His mother, upon seeing him and the unconsious woman he carries, all but drops her tea cup on the table, rising fast and disappearing into the kitchen.

You convulse in his arms and it’s all Orm can do not to drop you.

“On the floor, put her on the floor!” Tom orders him, to which he obeys, gently laying you out on the living room floor where Tom pushes him aside once you’re flat. Orm watches in no small amount of concern as the olde rman begins pressing in hard on your chest in rhythm to his counting, before leaning down and placing his mouth over yours. Luckily, once he’s pulled away again, the water is dislodged from your lungs, and Tom quickly turns your head to one side as you splutter and cough.

Your eyes blink open briefly, and you croak out something no one can understand before the coughing takes you again and you try to raise your hand to clutch at your head. Tom stops you, and looks back to Orm again.

“Help me set her on the couch.”

He does as asked, though now you’re no longer unconscious, you appear to shift and wiggle more, clearly pained, and Orm surprises himself when he sushes you softly. His mother returns, with a box of medical supplies, and Tom once again nudges Orm to the side once you’re settled.

“Tom,” you rasp groggily, sounding panicked. “My head,” you try to alert him, but Tom only hushes you, and pulls your hands away from your hair.

“It’s alright, Orm told us, just bear with me, alright? I’ll call your office.”

That seems to calm you somewhat, and you squeeze your eyes shut again.

“Is Khan alright? He’ll be worried…” you ask, sounding small and tired, and Orm almost lets out a laugh. Almost drowning in an underwater cave and you still have the mind to ask after the shark.

“He’s fine, he let us know you needed help,” he says without thinking, and your eyes peel open once more, struggling to find and focus on him before you smile wrly.

“Told you he was friendly.”

Orm does laugh at that, feels the anxiety and worry in his body leave all at once knowing you were alright. Tom laughs too, but shushes you again, and looks over at him.

“Can you call the Marine Park Office? It’s on the fridge,” he says, just as his mother steps around the couch and begins to inspect the back of your head, where Tom holds you up.

Orm hesitates, realising he doesn’t wish to leave your side, but forces himself to hurry off and do as told. He has to stop himself listening in to his mother and Tom’s quiet conversation, in order not to ignite his worry again, and instead, after making a call out to the Marine Park Office, as awkward as he feels doing so, Orm dives back into the water.

Khan is right by the shallow waters, swimming back and forth in a manner Orm would describe as ‘stressed’, and once the creature catches sight of him, he swims right over, slowing as he eyes Orm up.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” Orm says, feeling a little foolish speaking to a shark. “But she’s okay.”

Khan eyes him, continuing to swim in short laps, this time closer to him. Orm wouldn’t know how to explain himself to anyone if they were watching, but something possesses him in that moment to reach out his hand. Khan turns his headband slows somewhat in his movements, but in a matter of seconds he’s making for Orm, before gently bonking his nose against his hand.

Orm finds himself laughing at the sheer absurdity of it, but he can’t stop himself from going back for another pass, running his hand over Khan’s smooth head one more time before he fixes the creature with a business-like look.

“I’m going to collect her things. Would you care to join me?” he asks, and receives his reply in the form of the shark turning tail and making back for the small cave entrance some ways away. Orm is glad your boat is docked so nearby, he’d not explored these waters well enough yet to know where exactly he’d rescued you from, not in his sheer hurry to get you back to the surface.

Khan waits for him, once again swimming laps and circles around the small outcropping, and it doesn’t take long for Orm to find your dropped knife and the device you used to breathe. He inspects it curiously, though it’s completely foreign to him and he tucks away his questions to hopefully ask you later. His other curiosity he finds he can sate for himself, and with your items in hand, he swims further into the curving cave structure, until he can swim no further, and finds instead a path up.

He isn’t surprised you wished to clear the pathway into the grotto he finds, beautiful and natural as it is. He would never have guessed the rocky outcropping a few hundred feet from the edge of the pier would hold something so special, but as he pulls himself up onto the lip of the small standing area, Orm can see himself possibly spending more time here. The dark clouds outside are visible to him through a small opening at the top of the peaked ceiling, and he supposes on sunnier days they provide an amount of light, though the darkness doesn’t bother him.

He wonders, idly, secretly, if perhaps, he may convince you at one time or another, to take him here yourself.

-

You wake with a splitting headache.

A sharp pain toward the back of your head makes you reach a hand out, but a warmer, more calloused one stops you.

“Tom advised me that you shouldn’t touch it,” a deep timber voice rolls over your thoughts, before you groggily realise it's not just in your mind, but in the room also. You squint your eyes open, and peer over at Orm who sits somewhat stiffly nearby. “Luckily it was not a bad cut, though judging from your unconsciousness, and need for sleep, it appears to me as though the blow to your head was worse,” he squints back at you, though you aren’t sure he’s aware he’s doing it until his features seem to soften and he quickly snaps forward to help you adjust to sitting.

“That’s no good…” you say redudantly, and look briefly around the familiar living room. Just hours ago you had been sat with Tom right here, and going over the same old information you always did when it approached tourist season. You almost feel foolish for all the attempts you’d made to assure both he and Orm that you would be fine on your afternoon swim. Thunder cracks overhead and you start, sitting up straighter and fixing your apparent lone companion with wide eyes.

“My boat!” you say startled, but the blond man beside you calms you with a rather regal wave of his hand.

“Is already docked. I went back for it some time ago,” he tells you in a voice one might find condescending if you weren’t so briefly panicked. Your worry subsides with his simple words and you blink up at him curiously.

“First you set it in the water, and then you fetch it from its anchoring? I can see why Tom keeps you around,” you joke, bringing a tight smile to the man's lips. He appears to be more focused in looking you over, his eyes darting over your form as if accessing for further injuries. “Khan didn’t give you any trouble I assume? I’ll admit he can be a bit firghtening, but he’s really–”

“– friendly. Yes, I experienced as much for myself,” he cuts you off, and you relax a little further.

“You swam with him?” you ask, almost a little surprised, though given your accident, you’re not sure what else you’d have expected. Khan was a very loving creature, if he’d gone to get you help, his appearance by the docks instead of by your side clearly suggesting as much to Tom, and you have to guess Orm too, then you imagine he wouldn’t have gone far in the time it took for Orm to also head back out to where you’d anchored your dingey.

“Yes. I am not as eager as it appears you are to share waters with a creature such as Khan, but I am not afeard of it either…” Orm states, though appears to pull back some, as if he thinks he’s said too much.

“I suppose that means I won’t have to introduce you next time…” you trail off, wondering when exactly you had planned on seeing this man again. He was handsome, certainly, but you’d met him only this afternoon. You suppose the fact that Tom vouched for him went a long way in your books, but beyond that, you feel as though you’ve already grown fond of his odd mannerism, the way he spoke like a storybook prince of some stripe. He seemed out of place, and although clearly having learnt a lot about Lighthouse keeping, or at least enough to know about keeping watch, there was a manner to which he seemed to perform the duties like they are unfamiliar to him.

“I wouldn’t say no to a formal introduction,” Orm responds after a beat of quiet. You smile at him, feeling nervous all of a sudden, though you aren’t exactly sure why. The kitchen door opens then, and you both turn in unison to find Tom, and Arthur’s mother entering, shucking off their raincoats.

“Glad to see you’re still with us,” Tom exclaims, not bothering to remove his boots before he’s beelining toward you. Orm seems to shrink back, like he’s guilty of something, and you briefly catch a glimpse of his mother attempting to make further eye contact with him that he seems to avoid.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” you say with little conviction. Tom steps around the couch, but brushes a hand over your shoulders as he does.

“We called your office, and I spoke with the nurse at the clinic in town… she thinks you’ll be fine but asks that if you have any side effects, you head in… she also asked that you not drive yourself home.”

You groan, knowing its not the smartest idea anyway, but it made you feel more indebted.

“So I’ll pick my car up in the morning?” you ask, already knowing there was no use in arguing. Tom nods.

“And I’ll pick you up for that too.”

You nod back at him, before rubbing at your eyes with your palms.

“I called your Pa, too,” Tom says more quietly, making you look up at him pleadingly.

“Tell me you didn’t really?” you ask, feeling like a teenager caught out drinking. Tom shrugs.

“I’d want to know,” he says by way of explanation. You huff out a grumble, and sit back against the cushions.

“He’ll only say it’s what I get for disrespecting the lighthouse keeper,” you say, though you know it's unfair. Tom chortles and pats your knee.

“Well maybe next time you’ll think better of calling people old!” he says back. You groan again and squeeze your eyes shut.

“C’mon Gracie, let me get you home,” he says then, heaving himself up off the couch with a small amount of effort. Orm rises then too, and you notice he seems rather intent on lending you his hand to get up. You only hesitate for a second before you take it, feeling your face flush some, but you tactfully avoid looking at either Tom or Orm’s mother, instead focusing on the blond who’d helped you, his grip firm. Embarrassingly, you get the sense the size of his arms or the broadness of his chest aren’t simply for show, if the ease in which he lifts you is anything to go by.

“Thank you,” you tell him softly, hoping he understands you mean to thank him for more than just this moment. He looks down at you seriously, and nods once.

“Of course,” comes his reply. You realise you still hold his hand in yours and release it, blinking rapidly as you clear your throat and turn away from him. Tom looks between you unsubtly, and you decide some distance might quell his medlesomeness.

“Thank you for everything,” you say louder, turning to find Orm’s mother smiling kindly at you from the kitchen doorway.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” she says gently.

With your dry clothes having been retrieved from the trunk on your dingey by Orm (you assume), you only bother to place your jacket on before collecting the rest and following Tom out to his car.

Curiously, when you glance back at the house in the rearview mirror, you think you spot a man watching you go.

Daylight broke and Andrea hadn't moved.

Daryl grumbled about Amy turning, but you quickly shot him down each time. People grieve in different ways. Andrea knew what she had to do when the time came.

"Y'all can't be serious." Daryl huffed, watching Andrea through squinted eyes, "Let that girl hamstring us? The dead girl's a time-bomb." He seethed.

"Daryl," You glared up at him, rubbing the scratch on your upper arm. "Don't be insensitive."

"We ain't got time for this." He seethed, glaring back at you.

You stood, "She lost her sister, not her smarts. She knows what to do."

He stepped closer, putting his weight on one leg, slightly slouching to be eye level with you. Maybe he was trying to be intimidating, but it didn't work. You had seen the dark, sad parts of him. He will never be able to scare you or berate you with actions or words. "And if she don't?"

"What do you suggest?"Rick questioned Daryl, stopping the oncoming argument.

Daryl stepped closer to Rick, bringing his fingers to his temple, "Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance."

"No," Lori spoke up, "For God's sake, let her be."

Dary scoffed before walking off. In turn, you eyed the back of Andrea's head. She knew what she had to do, right? You hoped so.

Pulling your eyes away from her, you looked around at all of the bodies. Most were people who you had just seen, laughing and eating. Others were the dead that had wandered from the city.

Shutting your eyes, your hand automatically went to your wrist, the tightly woven thread helping to ground you. Your fingers traveled down to your left hand, the wedding ring soothing against your fingertips, a contrast to the thick thread of the collar/ bracelet on your wrist.

Daryl looked up as he helped drag a body across the ground. He watched you, watched your movements; a desperate search for comfort.

- time skip -

Daryl stomped away, not understanding why Amy and Jim were not being taken care of. They were "ticking time bombs". They were liabilities. In the new world, there was not time to grieve. Sneering at the thought, he yanked the tent flap back, watching you jump, immediately wiping under your eyes.

His eyes trailed over you in the silence of the moment. You needed comforting. He wanted to comfort you. He really did. But he had a feeling those tears were his doing. He shouldn't have taken his frustration out on you, knowing you had witnessed something horrific.

The tent opening fell down as he walked away.

Your hands instantly went back to your face, muffling the sobs that raked your body.

-

Sweat had mixed with the dirt and grime, caking your skin as you helped bury the bodies. The bright sun beat down, causing you to squint.

Daryl kept an eye on you from a distance. Neither of you had uttered a word to each other since the morning. You were both too stubborn.

Backing his truck up, bodies in the bed of it, Daryl caught sight of you looking up through the side mirrors. Just as quickly, you looked away and got back to digging, ignoring Rick and Shane's argument to your left. Turning the truck off, Daryl jumped out, slamming the door.

He made his way to where you, Rick, and Shane were digging holes for the friends you had light the night prior. "I still think it's a mistake not burning these bodies. It's what we said we'd do, right? Burn 'em all, wasn't that the idea?"

"At first."

Daryl scoffed, "The Chinaman gets all emotional, says it's not the thing to do, we just follow 'em along? These people need to know who the hell's in charge here- what the rules are."

"And who the hell's in charge, Daryl? It sure as hell ain't you."

Daryl scoffed again, watching as you glared at him, waiting for him to reply, from where you had jumped down in a freshly dug hole.

"There are no rules." Rick countered Daryl's statement.

"Well, that's a problem." Lori walked past Daryl's truck, children and their mothers behind her. "We haven't had one moment to hold onto anything of our old selves. We need time to mourn, and we need to bury our dead. It's what people do." With that, she turned and walked away, not caring to hear what anyone thought about that.

-

Feeling disgusting, you had made your way back to the tent. Not having any clothes, you opted for something of Daryl's. His cut shirts weren't ideal, but they were cooling and non-restricting. His old work pants fit loose, but that's not anything string couldn't fix.

Buttoning the second to last button of the dingy shirt, you heard the opening of the tent begin to unzip. You moved to cover yourself, but ultimately relaxed when Daryl stepped in. He looked up, scanning your body before glancing behind himself, making sure nobody had seen you changing from over his shoulder. He zipped the flap back up, before simply standing there. He was slightly hunched over, as were you, thanks to the small tent.

It was silent.

Your fingers went back to the button, as you ignored your husband's presence.

Daryl moved closer, standing behind you. The air around you two changed. His head fell to your shoulder, his own grime mixing with yours. He stayed there, vulnerable. This was his way of apologizing.

Your body relaxed further, sinking back into him. His arms snaked around your middle, holding you close.

"It's okay." You whispered, only loud enough for him to hear, and not to disturb this newfound peaceful atmosphere. He nodded, moving his hands to your hips, turning you around. His fingers made quick work of buttoning the last button for you.

-

The next morning, everyone was getting ready to leave for the C.D.C. Rick was out in the field, talking to a man named Morgan, the guy who had saved Rick’s life. Lori, Carol, and the kids were helping to load everything into cars. You helped Daryl load up his truck. Hopping onto the tailgate, you helped pull Daryl’s bike up, gently laying it on the truck bed.

“Are ya willin’ to put your life in his hands?” Daryl helped you jump down, glancing at Rick in the distance. Daryl was looking to you for answers. You were always the more level-headed of the two. Daryl would follow you into fire, he’d follow you to the end of the world. And you just might be doing that.

“I think you have to hope there’s a safe place out there. If we don’t hope for it, then we won’t get it. Hope is all we’ve got.” You patted his chest, before walking by him. He watched you, before slamming the rusted tailgate closed.

-

The wind blew through your hair, cooling your face. Daryl drove, one hand on the steering wheel, the other near his mouth as he nipped at his fingernails. The leg that was not being used for the gas and brake pedals slightly shook, a trailer to his nerves. You rode in silence.

“”M sorry–‘bout yesterday.” He spoke up first, biting his thumb nail. You turned your head, looking at his side-profile. He didn’t dare to glance at you.

“I know. I am too. We were both on edge; said some things. It’s alright.”

He nodded, pulling his thumb from his mouth. “Ya think Merle’s alright?”

You thought about it. Daryl had told you what they found on the roof and what they had run into.

“I think he’s a tough fucker to kill.” Daryl let out an entertained huff, “He had enough energy to steal the van, so there’s a high chance he’s okay…maybe.”

Daryl let your words marinate. Letting out a deep exhale, he swapped hands on the wheel, placing his right one of your knee. You moved closer to him, placing your hand over his.

-

Guilt was eating at you.

You had all left Jim under a tree. Sure, it was per his request, but that didn’t stop the shame bubbling in your gut. Even miles from where he sat, you had a frown on your face, thinking of him. The turning was inevitable. But the thought of him having to sit there and deal with the feeling of his bones being made of glass, cutting into him with the slightest move, having to deal with that all on his own, hurt you.

Daryl felt the tension in the truck. You sat closer to the door, hands in your lap.

His hand moved toward the radio, before cursing himself. That wouldn’t work in the apocalypse

Grumbling, he leaned over, opening the glove box and blindly digging through. Pulling a cassette tape out, he plucked it into the truck, twisting the volume knob.

It’s what Jim wanted, you kept reminding yourself. But it didn’t make you feel any better about yourself. You just hoped he wasn’t in pain for much longer.

-

Daryl tapped your arm, watching you blink awake. The melody had settled you to a light slumber. Still groggy from sleep, you took in your surroundings. For a moment, you forgot that the world went to shit. The sky was turning a dark orange, sun setting in the distance. But as you sat up in the seat, you could see the bodies on the ground, bugs buzzing above them.

“Wanna get out?” Daryl stared at you as you looked at the huge building through the windshield. Even more bodies laid in front of the building, flies swarming them. Some bodies were mindlessly wandering around.

This was the C.D.C?

Without giving a response, you opened your door, jumping out. Daryl followed, grabbing his crossbow and a shotgun from the floorboard. Walking around the truck, he pressed the gun to your side, getting your attention. You grabbed it and began following everyone to the building.

The stench alone almost had you hurling.

“Alright, everybody,” Shane began whispering, “Keep moving. Go on. Stay quiet. Let’s go.”

The constant buzzing of flies and the horrible smell of decay just might be your own personal hell.

Finally, you were a few feet from the building. Rick and Shane beat on the roll-up doors.

“There’s nobody here.” T-Dog swayed on his feet, turning to look over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Then why are these shutters down?” Rick was holding onto hope; he had to.

“Walkers!” Daryl pulled you by the arm, putting you behind him.

Children screamed, guns cocked, feet shuffled.

“You led us into a graveyard!” Daryl turned, making his way toward Rick. His nostrils flared. Fury behind his eyes.

You stepped in front of him, separating him and what he wanted to do out of anger and frustration.

“He made a call!” Dale interjected.

Daryl rounded you, “It was the wrong damn call!”

Shane stopped Daryl. “Just shut up. You hear me? Shut. Up. Shut up!” He pushed Daryl back, pointing at him.

You quickly walked over, grabbing Daryl’s shoulder before the whole thing could escalate.

Shane turned, walking back to Rick, who still stood at the shutters. “Rick, this is a dead end.”

“Where are we gonna go?” Carol held onto her daughter, but was ignored.

Night was blanketing the sky–fast. You could barely see where the cats were parked from where you stood.

Shane continued, “Do you hear me? No blame.”

Lori acknowledged Carol, “She’s right. We can’t be here, this close to the city after dark.”

“Fort Benning, Rick-still an option.”

“On what?” Andrea stepped forward, glowering. “No food, no fuel. That’s 100 miles.”

“125. I checked the map.” Glenn corrected.

Carl clung to Lori’s legs. She stared at her husband, “Forget Fort Benning! We need answers tonight, now.”

“We’ll think of something.” Rick tried, not meeting his wife’s eyes.

“C’mon!” “Let’s go!” “Let’s get out of here!” Everyone began to make their way back to the vehicles, “Alright, everybody back to the cars. Let’s go, move.”

“The camera– It moved!”

“You imagined it.”

“It. Moved.” Rick didn’t think anything of Dale’s words, walking closer to the camera near the doors. “It moved.”

“Rick, man. It’s an automated device. It’s gears, okay? They’re just winding down. Now come on. Man, just listen to me.” Shane grabbed Rick by his upper arm, trying to drag him away. “Look around this place. It’s dead, okay? It’s. Dead. You need to let it go, Rick!”

Rick pushed Shane off, going to the shutters and beating against them again. He stared up into the camera.

“Rick! There’s nobody here!” Lori yelled.

Rick ignored her, “I know you can hear me!”

Shane began ushering everyone back to the cars. “Everybody get back to the cars, now!”

Rick didn’t budge. “Please, we’re desperate. Please help us.” He begged, “We have women, children, no food, hardly any gas left.”

Lori thrusted Carl onto you, seeing as you were the closest to her, and ran over to Rick. She grabbed him. “Rick-”

“We have nowhere else to go-”

“There’s nobody here.”

Rick continued to pound on the doors.

Carl clung tighter to you.

“Keep your eyes open.” Shane ordered.

“If you don’t let us in, you’re killing us! Please!” Rick yelled at the top of his lungs.

Shane went over, pushing Lori away and grabbing Rick by his shoulders. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”

Carl pushed himself closer to you, hearing his father so desperate but to no avail.

Rick fought against getting dragged back, still staring into the camera, “Please help us.”

People shouted. Carl’s tears soaked into your /Daryl’s/ pants.

“You’re killing us! YOU’RE KILLING US!”

Shane shoved Rick away, watching his face crumble.

“You’re killing us.”

Your eyes widened, holding Carl closer, as a bright light nearly blinded you. The shutters opened, rolling up slowly. A hissing echoed. Everyone gawked, not knowing what to do.

“Daryl, you cover the back.” Shane ordered. Carl let go, running to his mother.

You cocked your gun, joining Daryl. He glanced at you, a questioning gaze set on you. You simply blinked at him, in shock.

Everyone walked toward the light, looking around and gawking at the interior. It smelt clean, a contrast to the horrid, rotting smell outside.

“Hello? Hello?!”

“Close those doors.”

“Watch for walkers.”

“Hello?”

A gun cocking had the group readying themselves, wildly looking around for the source.

A man stood in the shadows, gun in hand. “Anybody infected?”

“One of our group was. He didn’t make it.” Rick answered the unknown man.

“Why are you here?” The man stepped forward, “What do you want?” He put the gun down, looking at all of your grime-covered faces.

“A chance.”

Part 4 (TBA)

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