#pre apocalypse

The sun has barely made it past the horizon, peachy-pink light slipping through the cracks in the blinds and painting stripes across the tiled floor of the kitchen. The house is quiet, miraculously so, and you’re standing barefoot in front of the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand and nursing a cup of coffee in the other.

You’ve always liked the mornings. When the world’s still quiet and nobody needs anything from you yet. The house smells like coffee and butter and the faint trace of the laundry detergent Joel likes, the cheap stuff, fresh as mountain air or something corny like that. The pan sizzles as you pour the next circle of batter.

You don’t hear him at first, he’s too quiet for a man his size, but you feel it. The warm shape of him sneaking up behind you, arms sliding around your waist like nothing new. His chest presses into your back, solid and familiar.

“Mornin’ baby,” Joel mutters, voice still thick with sleep. “smells good in here.”

You smile without turning around, leaning into him just enough to feel how he exhales, slow and content. “Good morning to you too.”

“Was good ‘til I woke up alone,” he says, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand before tucking his chin over your shoulder. “Didn’t even leave a note.”

“You were snoring when I left,” you say, nudging him gently. “I figured waking you up would’ve been dangerous.”

Joel snorts. “I don’t snore.”

“You do. Loudly.”

“Mm..” His hands slide a little lower on your hips. “Can’t prove it.”

“I should start recording you.”

He huffs a laugh against your neck.

You set the spatula down and glance at him over your shoulder. “I love you. Even when you sound like a lawnmower in your sleep.”

That earns you one of his dry, lopsided smiles, the kind that pulls more on one side and softens the edges of him. He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then behind your ear, unhurried.

You roll your eyes. “Joel. I’m trying to cook.”

“Yeah? Feels like you’re tryin’ to kill me,” he says, voice low. “Standin’ here wearin’ my shirt, smellin’ like coffee and sugar and whatever it is you put in those pancakes that makes em’ taste so good. It’s cruel.”

You glance down. It is one of his shirts, soft with age, oversized, and hanging low on your pajama-covered thighs. You stole it a long time ago and never gave it back.

“Pretty sure it’s just flour and butter.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, kissing your neck again, “I’d do anything to keep you right here.”

You’re about to make a sarcastic comment, something snarky, maybe flirtier than it needs to be, but then—

“Seriously?” Sarah’s voice cuts through the moment like a knife. “Do y’all have to be gross before 8 a.m.?”

Joel doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t let go, either.

“Mornin’ to you too, sunshine,” he drawls, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

Sarah stares him down from the doorway, hoodie swallowing her frame, hair a frizzy mess. “You’re disgusting.”

Joel raises his brows like it’s the greatest compliment he’s ever received. “Good. Means I’m doin’ my job.”

You stifle a laugh and slide a pancake onto a plate. “Pancakes?”

She trudges over like she’s doing you a favor. “You encourage him,” she mutters to you, grabbing a fork.

“I heard that,” Joel says, finally letting go of you as he makes his way to the coffee pot. “And I’m hurt. Deeply.”

“Yeah? You’ll live.” Sarah says, slumping into a chair.

You hand her the plate and slide into your seat, watching as Joel pours himself coffee with all the grace of a man who’s half-awake and irritated that he’s not still in bed.

Sarah’s gaze flicks to him and then back to you.

“Did you sleep okay?” you ask her.

“Would’ve been better if I didn’t hear Dad talking in his sleep through the wall.”

“I don’t talk in my sleep,” Joel says flatly, sitting beside you with a groan as he lowers himself into the chair.

Sarah doesn’t even look up. “You said ‘cordless impact driver’ four times. Real intense, too.”

Joel just shrugs, takes a sip of coffee and you snort, almost choking on your drink.

He shoots you a sideways glance and casually drops one hand to your thigh under the table, thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin. Always touching you, even if it’s just that.

The kitchen settles into that kind of soft, sleepy quiet, just forks on plates, the low hum of the fridge, and the comfort of shared space. You love mornings like this. Safe. Familiar.

Joel reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, giving you his full attention.“You doin’ okay today?”

You nod, leaning into the touch. “Yeah. You?”

He grunts. “Better now.”

Sarah makes a dramatic gagging noise. You nudge her under the table with your foot.

“What?” Joel says, unfazed. “I can’t be sweet?”

“Not before breakfast,” Sarah mutters, but she’s smirking into her glass of juice.

Joel leans over and kisses your cheek. “Look away then. This is grown folks’ business.”

Sarah rolls her eyes so hard you can hear it. “Disgusting.”

You smile and curl your fingers around his on your leg. Joel gives you a look, half fond, half long-suffering. You lean in, whispering just loud enough for him to hear. “Just wait til she brings someone home.”

The old porch swing groaned and creaked with each gentle sway. The thing was older than you were, installed on the doublewide’s too small porch, damned to be more of an eyesore than an amenity. Your dad had never painted it to match the trailer, though he’d have needed several shades and a patience he didn’t possess to conquer that feat. The wood was splintered and slivers dug into the back of your legs below your denim shorts as you enjoyed the final tingling sensations of a nicotine buzz.

The grass was overgrown, the warm breeze inspiring the rolling waves of a dark tide in front of the house with lightning bugs acting as stars on a coastline horizon. You were loath for management to enforce the ordinance that lawns must be maintained no higher than five inches, lest they strip you of your late night escape. For someone who had never left Georgia, you had seen your own ocean. 

You always saw him during those hours spent in your little paradise, skulking around in the dark on the heels of his brother, likely traipsing in after a long night of drinking, drugs, and women. While the older of the two staggered and hollered, the younger walked quietly behind him with unsure strides not born of alcoholic influence. Maybe he had a few drinks in him, but living in that trailer park all your life had shown you the difference between drunk and damaged. 

You knew of the Dixon brothers. Hell, there wasn’t a person in the whole park who hadn’t been scorned by Merle in one way or another. The men were threatened, the women degraded, and the children scared. The man had a remarkable lack of decorum. His younger brother, Daryl, was an entirely different enigma. He had a mouth on him that was usually reserved for defending his sibling in situations of the elder’s own making. Otherwise, he was quiet, his face decorated in a permanent scowl. 

You rarely saw one without the other and had never spoken to either of them, allowing your silence to be your defense in the face of Merle’s advances. Daryl’s gruff  leave ‘er alone, man never fell upon deaf ears. He wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor but you appreciated his attempts at granting you a reprieve nonetheless. 

You heard the uncoordinated cadence of boots on the gravel-ridden pavement before you saw them on their usual path, the pale illuminance of an old street lamp barely enough to light their way. Merle had a half empty bottle of Jack in his hand, waving it like a conductor’s baton as he slurred the lyrics of some song you’d never heard. Daryl was behind him, his gait steadier than that of his sibling. His head was down, his arms swinging at his sides. His stiff shoulders suggested he had little interest in being privy to Merle’s escapades. Come to think of it, you weren’t sure you had ever seen him without that coil to his demeanor: quiet but ready to strike should the need arise. 

Placing another cigarette between your lips, you never considered how the glow of your lighter would give you away. Your eyes were focused on the flame, the blurred silhouette beyond it coming to a halt as your gaze lifted a fraction of an inch. Your thumb released the fork to extinguish the light, leaving Daryl’s still form in your sights. You didn’t need to see past the shadows that blanketed him to know he had seen you, and Merle was too inebriated to take notice, continuing his trek toward their trailer at the far end of the park. 

The high-pitched buzz of a mosquito by the shell of your ear was all that could be heard beyond the older Dixon’s bellowing and even that was filtered into white noise as you and Daryl maintained your stances. He didn’t move for moments that passed like hours, the stretch of time not exactly uncomfortable though the logical part of your brain said it should have been. You didn’t know him. 

With your vice balanced between your lips, you tapped the cigarette pack against the side of your hand to urge one forward and, before you could take even a second to rethink the decision, you plucked it free and held out the offering toward the man across the way. You briefly considered that he likely had his own, embarrassment blooming as a tight twist in your gut before fizzling out when he took that first step toward your porch. 

A sudden unease sparked to life within you, exacerbated by each tread of Daryl’s boots. What if your daddy woke up? Finding a Dixon at his door would be bad even before you took into account the copious amounts of beer he had ingested before passing out in his Lazy Boy. The ball of your bare foot pressed against the porch to halt the swing as it leveled out. Using that momentum, you pushed off the seat and padded over to the two crooked steps, intercepting Daryl before he could ascend. 

The cigarette was accepted in continued silence. He didn’t ask for a light, but pulled his own from his pocket. When the flint ignited, it was the first time you had seen his face up close. The flame danced in his irises before it was douted, filling you with a foreign disappointment at not seeing their color. 

And so it continued: periodic draws and billows of smoke dancing through the umbrage over your bowed heads. Flicking ash, you drew your bottom lip between your teeth and gnawed at it. Surely he hadn’t walked all the way over just to smoke and stare at his boots. It certainly hadn’t been your initial intent to invite him in the first place. 

You flinched when he cleared his throat, eyes coming up to find him staring at his cigarette, the stick rolling between his forefinger and thumb. “Name’s Daryl.” His voice was a quiet rasp. 

“I know.” You caught his gaze when he glanced at you, eyes narrowed. It shouldn’t have come as a shock that you knew, but his expression was telling. He had to be aware of the reputation the Dixon name carried. When he looked away in the direction of his trailer, the moonlight carved out a section of his face. Blue. His eyes were blue. “I’m Y/N.”

“I know.” He commented without looking back. 

He knew your name? It shouldn’t have been a surprise to you either. Your father had solidified a reputation of his own, instilling in the neighborhood that you were poor, pitiful Y/N. You kept to yourself but the bruises were always dark and profound and your swing was your refuge, leaving the mars on your skin to be public knowledge. No one could begin to understand why you stayed. You weren’t a child. But your father couldn’t care for himself. Right? 

“Daddy’s a drinker.” You weren’t sure why you volunteered the information. It wasn’t his business and he likely didn’t care. Still, maybe he would get it. He was no stranger to the unbridled anger of an alcoholic parent. 

“I know. Mine was too.” When Daryl’s father had passed away, it had been a relief to most of the residents. Will Dixon was worse than Merle in his own way. Their first trailer had been further away from the rest of the park, the fire that had claimed it, along with Daryl’s mother, not reaching the other homes. 

Another trailer had been brought in only days later, placed in a closer lot and away from the pile of debris that remained even all those years later. You had been a child but you could still remember seeing the brothers run down the street toward the blaze only to be stopped by officers already on the scene. Will had been at the bar and appeared more inconvenienced than grief stricken when he had finally dragged himself to what was left of his home. 

“I know.” You hated to admit it but hated the thought of lying to him even more. When your existence sought out the kindness in others in order to sustain itself, honesty was empowering—even if it hurt. 

Daryl nodded and sniffed, but didn’t turn your way. It was if he was waiting for something, but what came had his shoulders sagging. 

“Darylina!”

He stared in the direction of his trailer, the stumbling shadow of his brother silhouetted behind the ragged blinds. Clearing his throat, he held up the cigarette. It was nearly down to the filter. “Thanks, uh—thanks for the smoke.”

“You’re welcome.”

You watched him walk away, the street lamp flickering as he walked beneath the pale halo. As his shadow disappeared and you heard the chaos erupt from the Dixon singlewide, you felt a twinge in your heart of something foreign. 

“Y/N!”

Wincing at the slurred holler of your name, you turned toward the door, casting one last glance over your shoulder. 

“Coming, daddy.”

“It’s easy,” you smiled coolly. “You just make a loop and interlink it.” You held up the partially constructed pattern for his inspection. “See?”

Daryl squinted. “Nah.” He flicked the ash from his cigarette and placed it back in his mouth to dangle loosely from his lips. “Got no idea what m’supposed to be lookin’ at.” He shifted his focus back to the object on his lap. 

Over the last few weeks and several silent smoking sessions, activities such as these had become recurrent: you sitting just beside the railing on the porch with Daryl below. He had never ventured further than the bottom step, but that seemed to be just fine for the both of you. 

Pursing your lips, you continued crocheting, glancing over to watch his hands work. “What’re you working on?” 

“Hmm?” He hummed, apparently completely absorbed by the task at hand. When you remained quiet, he glanced up and back down, then up again. “Oh. Uh, tuning the carburetor for Merle’s bike.”

“Ah.” You both resumed your individual pursuits. “Why isn’t he doing it?” You queried, keeping your eyes on the yarn, skillfully weaving the tight, red stitches. 

Daryl huffed, the sound approaching something spiteful, as he stubbed out his cigarette on the narrow walkway. “Cause he’s prolly four beers in on a tab he ain’t gonna pay.” 

You smiled down at your work. “I must be more fun than drinking if you’re not with him.” You teased lightly. 

He snorted. “Yeah, you an’ your knittin’.”

You feigned offense, dramatically dropping your current project onto your lap. “How dare you. It’s crocheting.” When he shot you an exasperated scowl, you smiled, all teeth and sparkling eyes. Shaking his head, he went back to his tinkering. 

“Whatever.” 

“Whatever.” You clapped back in a mocking tone. 

When the silence ensued, it was never uncomfortable. It hadn’t been from the start. Despite his rough exterior, Daryl was easy when it came to companionship. There were no expectations. Just two people enjoying the stillness of the trailer park after the sun was low enough in the sky to send the youngsters inside for the evening. 

The rickety step creaked when the younger Dixon pushed on it to get to his feet, bike part and tools in hand. You never said goodbye or even goodnight, always parting like the next meeting was simply a continuation of the one before it. 

“Hold on.” You interjected, seeing him still out of the corner of your eye. He didn’t show any symptom of impatience as he waited, something you took as a compliment with how he would always rush his brother when in his company. Once you fastened off the yarn, you placed the supplies aside and held out the finished product. “For you.”

Eyeing the thing suspiciously, Daryl piled everything into the crook of one elbow so he could accept the offering. “What is it?” He turned the thing over and back, his knitted brow something approaching comical. 

“It’s a hat, stupid.” You punctuated the final word with a dramatic roll of your eyes.  

A ghost of a smile played at one corner of his mouth, disappearing before you could marvel at the rare glimpse. “What m’I supposed to do with this?” 

You knew he was teasing in his own way, an act you had picked up on after a few times of mistaking it for dismissal. “Put popcorn in it and go to the movies. What do you think you’re supposed to do with it, Daryl Dixon?”

“Sure as hell ain’t wearin’ it.” He griped, spinning on a heel to start the journey up the vacant street. 

Standing and stretching, you dusted off the back of your shorts and leaned against the tottering pillar to cross your arms. He was just past the illuminated patch of pavement when you saw him stretch the material over his head. “I knew you liked it!” You called.

You saw his middle finger raise above his head before he circled around to the back of his trailer and out of sight. 

“I’d hate to see the other guy.” 

“What?” Daryl looked up as you descended with your first aid kit in hand. When you took a seat next to him, it was as if he had seen a unicorn, his mouth hanging open with his eyebrows rising toward his hairline. Just as he had never ventured beyond the bottom step, you had never left the porch. 

“You trying to catch flies? Close your mouth.” You teased while opening an antiseptic wipe. You reached for him and he reeled back, giving you pause. You didn’t question it, didn’t push him. “You wanna do it yourself?” Flipping your hand, you waited for him to accept the small square. 

Daryl’s eyes darted between your face and the wipe. After what appeared to be careful consideration, he dropped his head and fumbled with a pack of cigarettes. “Nah. It’ll keep.”

“Daryl.” You gave him a look, holding it in silence until he finally turned your way. He had a smoke halfway to his lips but lowered it with a sigh. Victory. 

You were gentle when grasping his chin, gentler still when dabbing the cut across the bridge of his nose. His eyes were lingering toward the right, seemingly avoiding your gaze at all costs. Eye contact wasn’t your strong suit either. 

“What happened?” You asked, shifting your focus to a similar injury on his cheek with a light urging to turn his head. 

“S’it look like?” He had barely moved to scowl at you before you used your grip to correct him. Daryl huffed a breath but made no move to try again. 

“Looks like you were fighting Merle’s battles again.” 

You’d known of nights like this before, though it was the first time you had witnessed the aftermath of such altercations up close. Why he had come to you that night would likely remain a mystery. 

You watched his eyes lower with no reply but you didn’t need one. Daryl was always in some sort of trouble that wasn’t of his own making. The only time he hadn’t followed Merle was when the older of the two had gone to prison. 

Your benign touch returning, you guided him to face you once more before trading the wipe for a fresh one. “Why do you follow him?” You hadn’t meant it any sort of way other than genuine curiosity. Dabbing the split in his lip, you flinched when he lurched backward, his arm coming up between you. 

“Ow, fuck!” He inadvertently licked the area, spitting the antiseptic tinted saliva onto the concrete. “He’s my brother!” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was the first time that any level of harshness had been directed toward you.

“I just don’t understand—”

“Ya don’t gotta!” He yawped, sobering almost immediately without even sparing you a glance. “Ya don’t gotta understand.” He repeated glumly. 

Your hands had lowered to rest on your thighs as you assessed him, unsure whether or not you should continue to engage at all. You settled on a muted “okay.”

Neither of you moved after that. Neither of you spoke. Marking its inception was a feeling of palpable unease. The tension was stifling by the time he rose to his feet with the unlit cigarette still between his fingers, his boots carrying him in heavy steps past the sanctum of the old street lamp’s glow where he disappeared into the shadows. 

The night had never felt more despondent.

Where is it? You stared at the word search, the diluted lambency of the crooked sconce by the front door not doing you any favors when seeking out the elusive string of letters that amounted to locomotive. Your pen and puzzle book balanced in one hand, you lifted your cigarette to your mouth with the other and indulged in a generous draw, letting the smoke billow from your lips before forcing the remainder out through your nose. 

The rhythmic drumming of the rain on the tin roof was an adequate replacement for your customary moonlight and wind-blown sea of greenery. Never one for The Weather Channel, the storm had been unexpected, but you found solace in the lightning and claps of thunder all the same. The boisterous sonance drowned out your thoughts and veins of luminosity burned away your pensiveness. 

You had seen Daryl since the night you had tended to his injuries. Each time, he had been doing his customary trailing on Merle’s heels, never sparing you a glance even when his brother cat-called you with a string of degrading expletives. The intentional avoidance hurt. You weren’t exactly sure that you could call the thing between you a friendship but it was something. It was tangible and assuaging and you missed it. 

That train of thought derailed within a peal of thunder. You placed your book next to your hip and leaned to look up at the sky, the old swing creaking beneath your shifting weight. Rivulets of rainwater trickled from the malleable metal and dripped onto your face, your eyes squinting and blinking in defiance. 

“S’really comin’ down.”

Your head snapped around to find Daryl standing in your walkway, his hair matted to his head and his clothes clinging to his broad frame. His shoulders were drawn up near his ears. You could only make out his face when pencil strokes of lightning blazed overhead. Standing, you ambled over to the pillar just beyond the railing. 

“What’re doing out there?” You called, your voice lost in the downpour. Daryl angled his head as if straining to hear you. His knee bent slightly, boot lifting as if he were considering a step, but placed back on the ground. “Daryl, you’re drenched!” With a glance over your shoulder, you could see your father still passed out in his chair. Your tongue ran across your lips as you considered your next words carefully. His name was already rolling off your tongue as you turned back to him. “Daryl, come on! Get out of the rain.” He made no move to follow your command. “Get up here or go home!” 

He looked over his shoulder then. You weren’t sure what was happening inside his head, but the way he looked up toward you before he strode forward to stop at the bottom step, you gathered that there were things happening in his home that he wanted no part of. 

You looked up as if unable to remember if your porch covered that step. It didn’t. “Daryl, get up here.” His hand came to rest on the railing, but he hesitated. “Please.” You added, watching his fingers bend to press down against the wood. You had to sidestep out of his way when he darted upward, stopping at your side to stare at you down the ridge of his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. “What, uh—” You fidgeted under the weight of his gaze. “What’re you doing here?”

He seemed to rethink the entirety of the last five minutes, his eyes darting between you and his singlewide. Your throat tightened at the blatant discomfort he was displaying, and for a moment, you thought he would run. He dug through his pocket instead, the pressure of the action wringing water from the fabric. A pack of cigarettes emerged, the outside decorated in thick droplets.

“Do you want one of mine?” You asked, eyeing him as he pulled one free of the pack. Beneath the dim lighting, the paper seemed to be dry, protected by the branded foil. 

“Nah.” He offered it up, watching you place it between your lips. The filter was damp and cool, but not ruined. You turned to fetch your lighter where it was sitting neglected beside your puzzle book. A repetitive grinding click and soft glow of a flame gave you pause, your eyes sliding back before your head turned to position the end of the cigarette over his lighter. 

“Thanks.” The word was accompanied by a thin gray cloud. Daryl nodded, having at some point placed a cigarette of his own in his mouth. He lit it quickly and shoved the lighter back in his pocket, scowling as if offended by the wet feel of his pants. 

You took a heartbeat to consider his intentions, the silence lingering in the air as you smoked, periodic drags taken in unison, though his were substantially longer. He was wearing anxiety like a heavy cloak, his shoulders tense as if he were battling the weight of it. 

“You don’t have to, you know.” You sniffed, crossing your arms but holding your cigarette away from you. You looked down toward that street lamp but could feel his eyes on you. 

“Don’t hafta what?” He asked gruffly. 

You took a heavy draw and exhaled. “Apologize.” You heard him huff something akin to a laugh through his nose and pinned him with your gaze just as he looked down at his boots. 

“Wasn’t gonna.” The way his brow furrowed, his weight shifting from foot to foot, told a different story. 

Satisfied with that mere assumption, you smiled and allowed the shared quiet to enclose your porch once more. The rain had never ceased its onslaught, puddles spreading into dark vibrating pools on either side of the walkway. 

Your cigarette was nearly down to the filter when Daryl flicked his off the porch, the cherry extinguishing with a hiss that went unheard. He turned from you, looking down the steps, his intention to descend clear.

Your fingers were barely touching his hand, a ghost of a caress that spoke the word you dared not give voice to. 

Stay. 

You watched as his forefinger moved, a twitch that was perhaps out of nervousness rather than intent. Daring to raise your head, you found him mimicking your actions, your eyes meeting, gazes saying everything and nothing. 

“Y/N!” The front door bounced off the inner wall as it was flung open, your father’s anger worn as a red face and wild eyes, his shotgun in his hands. “S’a fuckin’ Dixon doin’ on my porch?!”

“Nothing, Daddy!” You intercepted him at the screen door, sliding inside to place your hands on the gun, your cool touch covering his knuckles in hope that your gentleness could persuade him to stand down. Glancing over your shoulder, Daryl hadn’t moved, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Go.” You mouthed. 

There was the smallest, almost imperceptible shake of his head, the lightning painting his eyes a haunting glow of silver. 

“Go.” You tried again, your expression pleading. You knew what awaited you, but Daryl’s fate could be so much worse under the assault of your father’s rage. “Please.”

Daryl’s jaw worked back and forth, his hands now curled into tight fists that trembled next to his hips. Finally, thankfully, he moved off the porch, glancing back and pausing frequently as if it physically pained him to walk away. 

Maybe it did. 

And when the first hit struck, you knew he had seen. 

“It’s not that bad.” You winced in anticipation of a touch that never came. Daryl’s hand hovered next to your face. You could feel the heat of his skin, almost leaned into it but the lingering ghost of violence from your own flesh and blood had left you fearful. As if a single trace of Daryl’s fingertips against your bruised cheek would summon your father from thin air. 

“Sonuvabitch.” His fingers curled into a fist as he lowered his hand, a muscle twitching in his cheek while he looked away at nothing in particular. 

“I’m okay.” You lied. The sidelong scrutiny he gave you made it clear that he knew better. Dropping your head, you kicked at the rocks with the toe of your sneaker. It was the first time the two of you had interacted away from your porch. What should have felt like a milestone in whatever this was between you and Daryl only felt like a force of hand.

“Ya can’t—” He began, looking over his shoulder toward his own trailer, a man you didn’t recognize loading gear into the back of Daryl’s truck. “Let’s get outta here. You an’ me.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide, but he kept his head down when he turned back. He was waiting for your rejection. 

“You mean, like a ride?” You queried, ducking and angling your head to try and catch his eye. His hand came to his mouth, his teeth worrying the side of his thumb. The skin there was already red. 

“Nah.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

He couldn’t possibly be suggesting—

“Leave?” You asked, a note of caution in your tone. Daryl dropped his hand, even as he continued to pick at the irritated skin with the nail of his index finger. He nodded, shifting from foot to foot. 

It was your turn to look over your shoulder, envisioning your father in his chair. You could already feel the next punch, the next kick to your ribs. 

“Okay.” You said quietly. “Okay.” You repeated a little louder. When you turned back to him, he was already searching your eyes, squinting as if he didn’t believe you. “Where will we go?”

He arched a brow. He hadn’t put thought towards anything past the point of asking you to go. Perhaps the offer wasn’t even something he had truly considered until he saw the state of you. 

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “Anywhere.”

You smiled in spite of yourself. “But what about your brother?” The question was genuine though you felt asking it would bring upon some epiphany that would result in a rescinding of the offer. 

Daryl shrugged again. “Can fuck up just fine without me.” 

Not the answer you had expected, but you nodded anyway, considering where exactly you were supposed to take the conversation from there. You couldn’t just up and leave, could you? But exactly was keeping you there? Some twisted sense of responsibility for a man that hadn’t really made any attempt to raise you? You should have said that you would think about it. You should have smiled and thanked him before rejecting the offer. But when you looked at him—really looked at him—you could see the concern, the sincerity, the hope. “I guess daddy could get his own beer.” You shrugged. Had you just made up your mind? The implication both thrilled and terrified you.

Daryl stepped into your space, his movements slow and calculated. His hand came up again to hover next to your cheek. He was giving you a chance to pull away. You didn’t. The first brush of his rough fingertips had your eyes dancing between his, your head tilting to press into his warm palm when he finally rested it against your skin. “Goin’ huntin’ with my uncle. Ya be ready by ten tonight. Meetcha right here. Merle’ll be at the bar an’ your daddy’ll be passed out.” “I’ll be ready.” You nodded, the calluses on his hand scraped minutely over your cheek. 

For a moment, you thought he would kiss you. Maybe that’s exactly what he intended to do because when you stepped back, you saw the glimmer of disappointment in his expression. “Not yet.” You teased, watching his brow furrow in the face of your coy smile. “I wasn’t gonna—” Daryl’s cheeks flushed, his head ducking and tilting so he could glance at you, his thumb traveling toward his mouth for him to gnaw on the side. You’d need to get him out of that habit and apparently, you’d have time for that. “Liar.” You walked backwards toward your doublewide. You had some packing to do. The man you now surmised to be Daryl’s uncle was moving around the truck at Daryl’s place. 

Daryl’s eyes narrowed, but there was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “When would ya—” When would you let him kiss you? The thought alone sent a thrill up your spine. “I don’t know.” You grinned, holding your arms outstretched as you spun around, your spirit unburdened for the first time in as long as you could remember. “When we’re halfway to anywhere.” Daryl watched you, his expression unreadable, but there was a certain something in his eyes. A promise. A promise of adventure, of freedom, of things you couldn’t fathom to name at that moment. “M’gonna hold ya to that.” He nodded, taking a step back. “See ya tonight. Be ready.” “I’ll be ready.” You watched him go, smiled as he looked over his shoulder one last time before he climbed into the driver’s seat of his truck. The man in the passenger seat was grinning as they pulled away from the singlewide, likely teasing Daryl if the scowl that soured his expression was anything to go by. You watched the truck until it was out of sight. “I’ll be ready.”

Merle had left around 8:30 on his motorcycle. You had watched him from the porch swing, thankful he hadn’t seen you. You had wanted to enjoy that last cigarette at your childhood home, your feet languidly kicking as the chain creaked and groaned while you swayed. 

You had discovered around 9:03 that your upright suitcase did not make for a good seat with the handle digging into your left ass cheek. It had been your mother’s, a vintage leather briefcase style trunk with the lockable hasps. If Daryl didn’t tease you about it, then you’d be shocked. 

You had packed your meager belongings early in the day, just after Daryl had left, hiding your suitcase until your father had passed out. You took only your clothes, toiletries, your favorite yarn, and a 5mm hook. Everything else was trivial and could be replaced. 

When Daryl wasn’t home by ten, you didn’t panic. You really didn’t think much of it at all. If his uncle was anything like Merle, Daryl was likely still trying to coerce him into the truck while a can of lukewarm PBR was being waved in a careless fist. 

By eleven, you were bouncing your feet and chewing your nails. Maybe they had come across some game, bagged a nice buck. They would need time to field dress and load it up. Daryl was always in a better mood when he’d visit you after a successful hunt. 

Your eyes flicked over to movement down the lane. A middle aged couple hurried from their trailer, the slams of their car doors loud in the quiet park. A loose belt whined as they accelerated out of the neighborhood before even turning on their headlights. They hadn’t even closed their front door. 

“That was weird.” You muttered. 

The night wore on, but still you waited. It was 1:26 when you began to pace. Maybe his uncle had insisted they went to the bar. That would mean corralling both older Dixons into the truck and loading Merle’s bike. It made sense. 

And it kept you hopeful. 

Until 5:42, when the birds started to sing and the vast darkness above you began to lose the stars and shift from black to a deep blue. Soon it would be burnt orange but as long as you could still see the moon, you could keep believing that it was still the night you were supposed to run with him. 

What if something had happened to him? Over your time spent becoming friends, becoming whatever it was you were, you had grown so accustomed to his presence, to his silent support. The mere thought of that being torn away from you made your heart ache and your throat tight. 

But what if he had intentionally stayed away? 

No. He wouldn’t. And you’d accept no other answer. That was that. 

Something had kept him away. 

At 7:13, you placed your suitcase inside your closet. There was no need to tip toe. Your father kept the television so loud that you were sure half the park knew the weekly forecast without access to cable or radio. 

You blinked aggressively at the sting behind your eyes while you moved around the kitchen, forcing yourself into the routine you had thought you would be leaving behind. Dishes before cooking hot food for your father and a bowl of cereal for yourself. 

“Strange behavior and aggressive encounters reported in urban areas…”

You glanced at the tv as you scrubbed last night’s dinner dishes, your eyes narrowing. A female reporter was interviewing a woman with a thick white bandage on her upper arm. 

“…came outta nowhere and he—he bit me! He didn’t look right, y’know? Like he was sick…”

Suds dripped from your hands as you approached the area behind your father’s chair, his snores nothing more than background noise as you watched the report. Water dripped onto the leather of the Lazy Boy when your hand wrapped around the remote, your thumb pressing the button to scan the channels.

“…hospital is in chaos as the bodies of patients earlier pronounced dead roamed the halls..”

“…vicious attacks…multiple deaths reported…”

“…cannibalism…”

“…officials advise people to stay inside…”

You flinched when a scream from outside seemed to reverberate down your spine, the remote slipping from your fingers to bounce on the thin brown carpet. You opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch, watching the scene unfold. 

Your neighbors ran, children and bags in their arms, ducking into their cars. On the sidewalk was Mrs. Haley, her body jerking as two men bowed over her. You had never seen so much blood as the men began to disembowel the poor old woman. 

Your hand went to your mouth as you listened to the screams. Some people moved with haste while others were slow, their actions jerky and the worst sounds coming from somewhere in their throats. 

So. Much. Blood. 

“Y/N!” 

You jerked when your father grabbed your shoulders. “Daddy, I—”

“Get in the damn truck, girl!” He barked, giving you a shove off the porch. You nearly tumbled onto the walkway. 

When you were close enough to reach for the door handle, you found yourself still moving, crossing the pavement beneath that old street lamp. You could  imagine Daryl’s silhouette way back on that first night, just before that initial shared cigarette. 

Climbing the steps of Dixon porch, the bottom piece of wood wobbling beneath your feet, you smacked your palm against the door. “Daryl!” You called desperately. His truck wasn’t there. Neither was Merle’s bike. But your heart wouldn’t believe it. “Daryl, please!” 

“Y/N, what the fuck’re you doin’?” Your father cried out. You could hear his boots on the pavement. 

Your fingers folded into a fist against the door, a single tear sliding down your cheek as a rough hand wrapped around your upper arm, your father’s angry voice in your ear as he pulled you away. 

Your eyes roamed the trailer, committing everything you could to memory. Everything that would remind you of the man who almost set you free, the man who had wanted to run away with you to anywhere. The sideways shutter on the living room window. The motorcycle headlamp on the porch’s faded plastic chair. The crocheted red hat lying on the dresser you could see through the broken blinds. 

With a smile that was just as broken as your heart, you took in a shaky breath, your hand pressing against the glass when your father slammed the truck door. “Goodnight, Daryl.”

Most of your nights were spent working, serving, and making drinks for the regulars. Occasionally you’d see a few professors or people that would attend your classes, but for the most part it was strangers every night, each one more interesting than the last. Tonight was just like any other night. It started by serving your regulars before a group of young men, no doubt freshly 21 and celebrating their right to drink.

Their rowdiness gave you a headache, but you knew—and hoped—that they would tip well if you had played your cards right. The first one that walked in had a head of thick, slightly curled hair; he had a fresh cut on his nose accompanied by a nasty-looking bruise, mostly from some sort of altercation. The second one walked in and sat down at the bar, right in front of your work station.

“Well aint you a pretty thang.” He smirked, his southern drawl surprisingly thick in comparison to his outward appearance.

You raised your eyebrow, watching his two other friends sit down on either side of him and let out a little snicker at his attempts to charm you. “Can I get y’all somethin’?” you asked, trying to sweeten your voice.

“A number and a drink,” the young man smugly replied, his friends once again laughing at his attempts.

“I’m workin' honey; if yer want my number yer gonna have to wait til i get off.” You quipped, resting your hands on your hips before responding. “But I can get you a drink. What would yer like?”

“Budweiser, please,” he ordered, to your surprise respecting what you had said. Most guys would continue to pester you until you threatened to have them escorted out. “Is that alright?” he asked, pulling you from your train of thought.

You quickly nodded before asking, “anythin’ else?”

“Two more, please,” his friends added.

The rest of the night had gone by quickly. The normal bustle of the bar had quickly ramped up after the local football game had finished and everyone had come in to celebrate the home win. Halfway through your shift, you had lost sight of the guy and his two friends.

By the time your shift had ended, it was close to three in the morning. Your feet hurt and your back ached, but now all you wanted to do was eat some greasy food and go to bed. But as you slung your bag over your shoulder and locked up the bar, you noticed a familiar face waiting just outside.

“I can’t believe you waited.” You scoffed, locking the doors to the bar before throwing the keys into the bottom of your bag.

The man let out a weak laugh, standing upright from his slumped position. “Yes, ma’am,” he smirked, standing a few feet away from you.

A silence fell between you. It felt like you were the only two people in the world as he took in every inch of you. “Where are yer buddies?” you asked, your voice as soft as a whisper.

“They went home hours ago.” He shrugged. “You never told me your name.” He noted after a brief moment of silence that boyish smirk still plastered on his face.

“y/n.” you spoke sweetly, amused by his charm.

“Rick,” he copied, dipping his head slightly. “Look, I know it’s late, but can I take you out to eat? or for a drink?” He asked, rubbing the back of his neck as he became nervous you’d decline his offer.

You shrugged, “I could go for a bite to eat.” You smiled, “There’s a Denny’s just down the block.” You suggested causing Rick's smile to grow.

“It’s on me.” Rick smirked, his devilish smile growing on you with every passing minute. Together you began walking in the direction of the nearby Denny's, comfortably close; you could almost feel his body heat. “You’re not a city girl, are yer?” he asked, looking down at you before returning his focus to the road.

“Is it that obvious?” you asked, the quiet jingle of your bag and jewelry echoing through the quiet night. “You’re a city boy, aren’t ya?” You giggled, giving Rick a quick look up and down to see how we had dressed.

Rick laughed with you, finding your laugh contagious. “So what brings you out here y/n?” he asked, ignoring your question, but your mind was quickly distracted by the way your name rolled off his tongue.

“School,” you answered simply after a heartbeat of silence. “I’m on a mentorship with some of the head scientists at the Atlanta CDC.” You continued, trying not to explain yourself too much, as people typically got squeamish with the line of work you wanted to pursue.

“CDC?” Rick furrowed his eyebrows. “What’s that?” he asked, seeming genuinely curious about your field of study.

“Center for Disease Control and Prevention,” you explained. "Don't worry, I can't get you sick." You quickly added, causing Rick to erupt with laughter.

The glowing red and yellow light of Denny's finally came into view. You slipped into a corner booth at Denny’s just past midnight, the kind that creaked when you sat down and smelled like syrup and nostalgia. Rick sat across from you, and even though you’d only just met a few hours ago, it already felt too easy—like you'd done this a hundred times before in another life. You wrapped your hands around the cold milkshake he slid across the table, and when our fingers touched, something sparked. It was just a brush—barely anything—but it lingered, warm and electric, and you couldn’t help wondering if he felt it too.

You talked like we were trying to catch up on lost time. You told him about the worst date you’d ever been on, and he nearly snorted his drink, and then he told me about failing his driver’s test twice, and you laughed so hard you snorted. Every time you caught him looking at you, he didn’t look away. His eyes were so steady, like he was trying to memorize you—and God, it made your stomach twist in the best way. You kept reminding yourself that you didn’t know him, that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But it felt like something. Something real.

Outside, the air was cooler than you had expected, and without saying a word, Rick slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. Your chest ached a little at the gesture. You walked slowly, like neither of you wanted the night to end, your arms brushing until his fingers found yours and didn’t let go. You tried to act calm and casual, but every step closer to your apartment made your heart beat faster.

When you finally stopped outside your apartment building, the silence stretched between you and Rick—heavy and charged. He looked at you like he was trying to decide something, and you swore you stopped breathing. Despite just meeting, you didn’t want to say goodbye.

“I guess this is where we part ways.” Rick smiled sadly as the glow from the early morning sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon.

You smiled, your mind still buzzing with energy despite the extensive amount of time you had been awake for. “I suppose so.” You frowned, briefly peering behind you to look at the elevator that went up to your apartment. “Unless you wanted to come in for a drink?” you shyly suggested.

Rick's sad smile had turned into something of a devilish smirk. “It would be rude to say no.”

You both take the stairs to the second level, hearts racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the climb. There’s a quiet urgency in every step, in every glance stolen when you think he isn’t looking. Neither of you says much, but the silence between you is thick—charged with everything that’s been building all night. When you finally reach your door, your hands fumble with the keys just slightly, your pulse loud in your ears.

The door creaks open, and you step inside first, the familiar scent of your apartment grounding you just enough to stay upright. You lean back against the kitchen counter, pretending to be casual, but your breath is shallow, your fingers gripping the edge a little too tightly. Rick stands just inside, his eyes slowly sweeping the small space—your bookshelf, the throw blanket half-folded on your couch, the single mug on the sink. He takes it all in like it matters, like you matter.

Then he looks at you, and everything shifts. The space between you tightens. His eyes linger on your face, drop to your lips, then meet yours again—this time darker, heavier. Your stomach flips. You don’t move, don’t speak. You just hold his gaze, wondering if he feels the same pull, the same heat crawling up your spine. He takes a slow step toward you, then another, and you stay right where you are—waiting, wanting, daring him to close the space. And when he does, there’s no more pretending.

He closes the distance in two slow, deliberate steps, and before you can say a word, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in against the counter. His mouth finds yours like he’s been holding back all night, and the moment your lips meet, everything else blurs. His kiss is hungry—desperate—with a tension that’s been simmering since the moment you met. Your fingers grip his shirt, pulling him closer as his hands slide to your waist, anchoring you to him. The countertop digs into your back, but you don’t care; all you can focus on is the way his breath hitches when you press your body against his.

There’s a heat between you now, rising fast and wild, and when his lips move to your neck, you let out a soft sound that only makes him bolder. The kitchen fades away—walls, dishes, time—until there’s nothing but the feel of him, the taste of him, and the way he makes you forget everything but this.

His hands roam your sides with growing confidence, fingertips brushing beneath your shirt, leaving a trail of fire against your skin. You gasp softly against his mouth, and he pauses just long enough to meet your eyes—checking, asking without words. You nod, breathless, and that’s all he needs. His lips crash into yours again, rougher this time, like he’s been starving for you. You arch into him, your hands sliding beneath his shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his back, the heat of his skin under your palms.

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you on the counter like you weigh nothing, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, holding him there, keeping him close. The cool surface beneath you contrasts with the warmth radiating off his body as he presses himself between your thighs. Every movement is laced with need, every kiss deepens the ache already building low in your belly. You feel his breath stutter against your collarbone as he mutters your name—like a prayer, like a promise—his voice rough and low and barely holding it together.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, your throat, and every inch of you feels claimed, worshipped. The world outside your kitchen might as well not exist. Here, it’s only him—his touch, his weight, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

His hands are all over you now—possessive, reverent—as if he’s still not convinced you’re real. Your breath catches when his lips graze the hollow of your throat, and you tilt your head to give him more, needing him like oxygen.

“God,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough and low, “you drive me insane.”

You smile, dizzy from the heat curling in your belly, your fingers tugging gently at the hem of his shirt. “Then don’t stop,” you whisper, barely recognizing your own voice—soft, needy, trembling.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, breathing hard. “Tell me if you want me to slow down,” he says, and there’s a hint of restraint in his voice that makes your heart clench.

You shake your head, lips brushing his. “I want all of you.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time there’s no hesitation—just the wild, aching need you’ve both been trying to outrun.

[ MASTERLIST ] 𖤐

And if she left now, with those stupid words still in her head, she was gone for good. She wouldn't come back to the tree. She'd just disappear into the same sad nowhere her mom lived in, and he'd be stuck here with nothing but a blood-stained piece of fabric and a drawing he didn't know how to look at. That was worse than any beating. Worse than his old man's belt, worse than Merle's constant bullying. It was a different kind of beating, one that didn't even leave a bruise you could point to.

Daryl was moving before he was thinking straight, pushing off the rough bark of the tree. Ilyana wasn't far, but she was quick, so he had to run, even though the pain of his injuries was still hurting him. He could've called her name, sure, but calling was for people who had time, for people who weren't about to lose the only thing that made the ache mean something.

So he ran.

Once he reached her, Daryl put his arms around her shoulders, and he pushed forward with all the strength he had left. They went down together, landing hard in the dead grass behind the remains of a rusted-out car in their backyard.

Ilyana let out a gasp, and then it turned into a muffled scream as his hand clamped over her mouth.

"Shut up!" Daryl hissed against her ear. "Goddammit, shut up! They're gonna hear ya! Just shut up!"

Feeling the warmth of her breath against the palm of his hand, ragged and fast, he held her there, waiting for her to understand he wasn't trying to hurt her. Daryl was only trying to keep them from being found. The world outside their hollow tree was full of listening ears—his father, her mother, or any neighbor who'd love nothing more than to see a Dixon kid get dragged away for causing trouble.

Soon, Daryl felt her body go still under his, but he waited another second to make sure she was calmer now before he slowly pulled his hand away from her mouth.

"We ain't goin' back," he said before he cleared his throat. "Not yet."

Ilyana didn't say anything at first, and Daryl could hear her sniffling, trying to get her breathing back under control. When he finally turned his head to look at her, his gaze landed right on the side of her face. A handprint was there, clear as day, but he didn't address it, despite wanting to.

"You're such an asshole," Ilyana whispered, choking on the words a little and staring straight up at the car frame too, like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"Yeah," he grunted.

No point denying it.

"I was just gonna go home!"

"Home," he repeated, shaking his head. "To what? Her? You heard her. You saw her!"

"So what?" Ilyana shot back, her voice cracking when she pushed herself up on her elbows, finally turning to look at him. "Where else am I supposed to go, Daryl?"

He flinched at her reaction. "Don't be stupid..."

"I'm not the one who pushed somebody for trying to leave!"

"You were runnin' off 'cause of what I said!" He hissed back, pushing himself up on an elbow as well. It hurt, but he ignored it. "I—I didn't mean it like that, alright?"

"Didn't mean it like what?" Ilyana asked, wiping a dirty hand under her nose. "Like we aren't friends? Because that's what it sounded like. It sounded like you thought the whole idea was a joke…"

"But it ain't a joke," he grumbled back, looking away. The words felt stupid and too useless coming from his mouth. "It's just that nobody's ever... I ain't ever… Guess I don't know what I'm supposed to do, okay!"

"But my mommy says that you don't care," she answered, quieter now. "She says you're just like all the other guys. That you're just waiting."

"Yeah, that's what ya told me, I know! But what do ya mean? I'm waitin' for what?" Daryl asked, though a part of him already knew what her mother meant with those words.

Ilyana just shrugged. "I dunno. To get something. To leave. She says everybody leaves. And she's right. You'll leave…"

"But I ain't left yet, have I?"

Blinking quickly with her eyes, Ilyana still tried to fight back. "But—but you just told me to get lost a few minutes ago!"

"I didn't tell ya to get lost! I said that I didn't know we were doin' the friend thing! That's different!" Daryl was getting frustrated now, feeling a little angry. Talking about this stuff was like trying to catch a tool with greasy hands—slippery and pointless. "You're the one who took the food I left for ya! You're the one who drew that... that picture. You started it!"

"So it's my fault you don't wanna be my friend? Is it because I'm a girl and not a boy?"

"No! That ain't even what I'm sayin'!" He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly at it. "I'm sayin'... I kept it, alright? The drawing. It's still in my goddamn sock. Where else should it be? I ain't done anythin' like throwin' it away, only 'cause ya were runnin' off. So just—just stop assumin' you know what I'm thinkin'. 'Cause ya don't."

Half a sob and half a hiccup that might have been a laugh, if either of them knew how to laugh anymore, escaped her throat. "That's dumb. It's gonna get all sweaty and torn."

Ilyana went quiet then, looking down at his ankle like she could see the folded paper through his sock. "Why'd you keep it? You could've just left it by the tree. You could throw it away… Or burn it."

"'Cause," he responded, like that explained everything. Maybe it did. "Why'd ya draw it?"

Ilyana was now sitting in her usual position, the one that made her feel safe, with her knees pulled up to her chest, and she buried her face against them, muffling her voice. "I dunno… Seemed like you needed it."

Daryl didn't have an answer for that. What was he supposed to say? Thank you? Or that he was sorry? No, he didn't want to say he was sorry. The word didn't exist in his world, not for something like this. It would've sounded ridiculous anyway.

Instead, he just let her talk further.

"You… you really tackled me."

"Yeah," Daryl grunted, looking back at the old car frame. "You was runnin'."

"But you—you just made it all sound like I was stupid. For thinking we are friends."

"Told ya. Didn't mean that. And it still ain't a joke," he said, finally moving his gaze from the car to look down at the dead grass beside her feet. "Just… it ain't a thing people say to me. 'S only sounding stupid."

"Why's it sounding stupid? Because Merle says it's stupid? Your older brother?"

That got to Daryl. His head moved toward her. "Don't talk 'bout my brother."

"Why? You gonna tackle me again?" She moved her chin up, a defiant, but scared little gesture. "He's so mean to you! He's mean to everyone! And I don't want a friend that's like him! He's old and mean!"

"I ain't like him," Daryl snarled back, not in an angry way but in a slightly hurt way. "And he's only a few years older than us—than me."

"But you..." Ilyana's voice dropped, sounding tired. She didn't know why she couldn't stop talking about what had happened inside their hollowed-out tree, but she felt like she had to make sure to—to what? To understand, maybe. To understand that she might really be enough as a friend. But she was also scared, scared of destroying this possible friendship. "You made me feel dumb. For drawing that picture. For… for thinking you maybe didn't hate me."

"I don't hate ya."

Wasn't that the truth? Who needed to say the stupid word out loud? Friend…

Saying it made Daryl feel like a target. Made it something his old man or Merle could take away from him.

He gestured around helplessly. "Ain't gotta put a name on it."

"Yeah, you do," Ilyana insisted, not giving up. "Otherwise it's just… nothing. And I got enough of nothing."

Daryl then looked at her again—really looked at her. The dark, dirty hair, the too-big shirt, and the sad eyes of a twelve-year-old kid who'd already given up on most everything. He hadn't tackled her to be mean. He'd tackled her because the thought of adding to that 'nothing' scared him, too.

"Ain't nothin'," he said, quickly staring straight ahead at the fence in the distance. "It just… is. I come to the tree. You come to the tree. We sit. That's it. That's the thing. Don't need a damn name."

Risking a glance at her, he saw that she was chewing on her bottom lip, staring at her own knees. She didn't look convinced.

"So I can still come to the tree?" Ilyana asked after a while.

"'Course ya can," he answered, like it was the dumbest question he'd ever heard. "Ain't my tree."

"But you're there."

"Yeah. I'm there." He didn't know if they'd fixed anything. He probably just made it worse, he thought. But she wasn't running anymore. And the drawing was still safe in his sock.

Tossing away a bolt that was halfway buried in the ground, Daryl watched it clink against a rock before speaking again. "So yeah, we ain't goin' back yet. We're gonna do somethin' else first."

"Like what?" Ilyana asked with suspicion and a bit of curiosity in her voice.

Daryl looked at her again. He had an idea. A stupid, probably bad idea. But it was better than sitting here in the dirt talking about something he didn't have words for.

"Lemme ask…" He cleared his throat. "Where'd you get that sandwich? The one you took."

Ilyana shrugged. "Amoco, I think? That's the name of the gas station, if I remember correctly."

"The one with the broken window?"

"That's the one. The man working there looks like the guy on the Marlboro cigarettes my mom likes so much."

Daryl smirked. He'd thought the same thing many times. "How'd ya do it? He's a mean bastard. Catches ya, he'll call the sheriff for sure."

"I just took it. He was in the back, and there was a radio on. I knocked over a rack of gum trying to hide the sandwich. Thought for sure he heard."

"That's 'cause you're loud." Daryl snorted.

"I am not! I was trying to be quiet!" She grumbled, confused because… why would Daryl say that?

"You are. Ya think too much. You get all…" He waved a hand in the air, trying to find the word. "I dunno. Ya knock shit over. You almost get caught 'cause you're busy thinkin' about gettin' caught."

She glared at him, but she wasn't angry. "So what?"

"Hey, I ain't been caught yet." He pushed himself up further, wincing quietly as his ribs started to hurt again. "C'mon."

"W-why? Where?"

"I'll show ya how it's really done," Daryl insisted.

She hesitated, looking back toward the house with concern in her eyes. "B-but my mom…"

"Told ya, we ain't goin' back there yet," Daryl answered, the tone in his voice leaving no room for argument. It was a fact he spoke out loud to keep her from running. They weren't going back. Not until they really had to. "Ya still hungry or not?"

Ilyana was, but Daryl knew she would lie about it. He could see it in the way she finally nodded, slow and unsure, before she got to her feet, brushing dead grass off her clothes.

Following her movements, they soon started walking. Not toward the main road, but along the tree line that marked the edge of their shitty neighborhood, where the pavement gave way to dirt and leaves. It was the longer way around to the gas station, but it kept them out of sight. For a while, they didn't talk. The only sounds were their footsteps crunching on dead leaves and the distant sounds of a brown thrasher singing its song.

"Saw a dead possum yesterday," Daryl said after a while, but he didn't know why he said it. It was just something to fill the quiet. "By the creek. All swollen up like a balloon."

Ilyana made a face hearing those words, and she couldn't help but imagine it. "That's… gross."

"Had maggots all in its eyes."

"Daryl!"

He glanced at her, seemingly unbothered. "What? It's just a dead thing."

"It's nasty, is what it is!" Ilyana kicked a rock, sending it flying into the leaves. "Why'd you even look at it?"

"Dunno. Wondered what killed it, I guess. Maybe some stray dog. Maybe a truck. I bet it's roadkill."

"Or maybe it just died," she answered softly. "Maybe things just die out here for no reason."

Walking a little further, the silence came back, but it was getting easier to not feel uncomfortable anymore.

"Have you ever seen a deer up close?" Ilyana asked after a minute. "Alive, I mean…"

"Course I have. Sometimes, Merle used to—" Daryl stopped. Merle used to show him a lot of things already.

But Ilyana pressed further. "Used to what?"

"Nothin'. Just… seen 'em. Why?"

"I've dreamed about hugging a deer once. Because sometimes, from the tree, I could see one in the distance here by the woods." She sounded far away, like she was talking about a story she'd read in a book, not about her own life. "I remember how it walked toward the house, and then it stopped. I think it saw me looking at it. But it didn't even run away from me. It just… looked at me and I looked back into its eyes."

Daryl tried to picture it. A deer not running away once it notices you. Just standing there, staring at you. It seemed impossible. Everything around here ran away, one way or another.

"Probably outta confusion," he responded. "Or maybe outta curiosity. Who knows?"

"Maybe." She didn't sound convinced. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it. "Do you think there are still places like that? Where animals aren't scared?"

Looking out into the woods, Daryl thought about the possum, bloated and rotting. He also thought about the rabbits Merle had hunted once, to show him how, their eyes going wide with terror. "Nah," he answered after a while. "Doubt it..."

The conversation turned silent again. It was hard, talking like this. They weren't used to just talking. Talking was for fighting, or lying, or begging. Not for this. Not for possums and deer and long-gone dead animals.

But they kept walking, and through the trees up ahead, the Amoco gas station came into view at the end of the road.

The gas station's flickering sign painted the parking lot in sickly yellow. As they crept closer, keeping to the tree line, Daryl's eyes scanned the lot—not just for people, but for movement. Old habit.

Then he saw it. Again.

Chained in the bed of a rusted Ford pickup, parked near the dumpster, was a dog. It was mostly skin, with its ribs standing out. It didn't bark, watching them with its head held low.

Ilyana froze beside him. "N-no…"

He'd seen this dog before. Last week. The week before that. Twenty 'til midnight, sometimes later, when he'd slip out to walk the back roads just to be away from the house. The dog was always there, sometimes near a different truck, but always with the same empty bowl.

Ilyana took a half-step forward, her hand lifting slightly toward the truck. It was an instinctive movement—like she could help from all those feet away.

"It's so skinny," she whispered. Her voice wasn't just sad. It sounded confused. "Why doesn't anybody feed it?"

Daryl just stared. He'd asked himself the same thing the first time he saw it. Then he'd stopped asking after a while.

"C'mon," he grumbled, turning his face away from the truck. "Ain't our problem."

But Ilyana didn't move. Her hand was still out, like she was offering something the dog would never reach. Her lips trembled, soundless at first, but then she let out a whisper directed at the dog so quiet Daryl almost missed it.

"I'd pray for you if I thought it'd do any good. I'm so sorry…"

Daryl stopped breathing. He looked from her to the dog, then back to her face—the dirt on her cheeks, the stubborn hope still somehow alive in her eyes. Daryl didn't believe in God. And he wasn't sure Ilyana did either, not really. But her words hurt. Deeply. Not because of the dog. But because she could still look at something that was broken and think of something like a prayer. Because he'd looked at that dog a dozen times and never done a damn thing but walk faster away from it, especially if it winced in his direction.

"H-hey," he said, his voice coming out rougher than he meant it. He didn't touch her, but he leaned into her line of sight, blocking her view of the truck. "We gotta be careful. Remember?"

Ilyana blinked, her hand dropping to her side. She looked at Daryl, then back at the dog one last time. The dog had its chin on its paws now, still watching.

"Yeah," she answered quietly. "I remember..."

Daryl gave the dog one final, sidelong glance as he nudged her forward. Maybe next time, he thought, but then immediately killed the thought. There was no next time. There was only now, the gas station, and the food they needed. But the image of Ilyana's outstretched hand? Somehow, it made him want to scream in pain…

The building itself was still the same as the last time he'd been there, the paint peeling away from too many Georgia summers. The red, white, and blue Amoco sign on the pole also wasn't as bright anymore—it was sun-bleached, and one of the lights behind the first 'O' was flickering. Even the two lonely pumps were old, mechanical ones with rolling numbers.

Daryl's eyes went straight to the window with the cardboard and duct tape as a weak point. A weak point was a point of entry or a sign of an owner who didn't have the cash or care to fix things properly. That was useful information.

Looking around, he noticed an old truck parked sideways, which would work as a cover for them both. It blocked the line of sight from the road to the side of the building, and no one would notice them.

"That's it," Daryl said to Ilyana, nodding toward the gas station. "C'mon now."

He led them not to the front door but around the side, through the tall grass that scratched at their pants, approaching with as much silence as possible.

From the side, he pointed with his chin once more. "See the door? The screen one."

It still hung crooked, one hinge begging for oil. The main door behind it was propped open with a brick, letting out the faint sound of a radio.

"Forgot that guy's damn name," Daryl said in a low voice. "He's gotta be fifty if he's a day. Deaf in his left ear. Sits on a stool behind the counter, right next to the lottery tickets. Smokes a lot, reads those weird magazines, or watches TV. He don't look up unless the bell on the door goes, and even then it takes him a minute. But it's one of them new bells, those—those things that track movement even if the door's open. Got a sawed-off shotgun under the counter, too. But he's slow to get it." He nodded toward the propped-open door. "The brick's the thing. Means he's feelin' the heat. Building holds the day's warmth. He'll be sweatin' his ass off. And the radio's on 'cause he usually hates the silence."

Daryl could see the Marlboro Man already, leaning on the counter, watching some program on a little TV with the sound turned down, but listening to a radio at the same time. Why? Daryl had no idea. And a cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash about to drop.

He paused, letting Ilyana think about it. But his eyes had already scanned the back of the lot: a dumpster overflowing with cardboard boxes, a stack of old tires, and another flickering light over a door marked 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' that had been kicked in once and never fixed right.

"Guess ya went for the front cooler," he then stated, thinking back to her story. "Bad move. He faces it. He might be half-dead already, but movement in front of him'll still catch a corner of his eyes." Daryl then pointed to the side of the building once more, near the broken window. There was a long, horizontal cooler there for sodas and beer, humming loudly. "That's one of his blind spots. He can't see it from there. Motor's loud, too. Covers sound. Now take a look. There… Look inside."

Daryl knew what was inside. He could already almost smell it: the nicotine and gasoline that always stayed no matter what, the old grease from the rolling hot dog machine that probably hadn't been properly cleaned since Richard Nixon was president. It was the smell of carelessness. And carelessness was something you could use.

He looked down at Ilyana. Her face was looking toward where he told her to, listening. Good. She nodded slowly, her eyes wide, chewing on her thumbnail.

"Remember. Quick. Like it's yours. And if it goes south, ya run that way." He jerked his thumb toward the tree line behind the dumpster, not back toward the open road. "Not home. Away. Okay… He's lookin' at the TV, but he'll hear the bell if you open the front door. So ya don't go in the front."

"I—I understand! But then how—"

"Around the side. The broken window. You push it in, you climb through. You'll fit." He'd done it himself, once, when he was ten and desperate for a pack of beef jerky. Merle had laughed his ass off.

In the meantime, Ilyana looked at the other side of the building, then back at Daryl. "What if he sees me?"

"He won't. 'Cause I'm gonna give him somethin' else to focus on. You get in, and ya grab two of them sandwiches. Not the tuna. The tuna's always old. Get the ham. And…" He took another glance around, making sure there was another possible customer in sight for his plan. "Get a pack of them cheese crackers, too. And whatever candy you see. But be fast. As soon as you're back at the window, ya whistle. Like this." He made a low, two-note sound, like a bird.

Ilyana swallowed hard. "O-okay… I think I can try!"

"Hey, Ilyana..." Daryl nudged her shoulder with his. When she looked at him, he suddenly crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth, pulling a face so stupid and ridiculous it was nothing like the Daryl she knew. But it only lasted for a second; then he was back to being serious. "It's just some old, sweaty guy."

She nodded again, still a bit confused by the face he just made, but more sure this time.

"Go!"

She went, running across the open lot as fast as she could, disappearing around the corner of the building. Daryl waited, counting in his head. One Mississippi, two Mississippi… He had to time it just right, especially when it came to the new customer who was about to pump some Diesel. Then he stood up, brushing the dirt off his pants, and walked right up to the open front door. The bell jingled loudly when he entered, just like he'd said.

The employee didn't even turn his head. "Be with ya in a sec."

"Ain't in a rush," Daryl answered, immediately making his way to the back of the store where the inside drink coolers hummed. Opening one slowly, he stared at the rows of different sodas and beers like he couldn't decide which one he should even take. And soon, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a bit of movement.

Ilyana.

She took one sandwich. Then another. Stopping, her eyes were looking through the closest shelves. Then, as quickly as she could, she snatched two king-sized candy bars, as well as the cheese crackers that Daryl had talked about, and shoved them into the front of her waistband. Her movements were faster and quieter than before. She was learning.

In the meantime, Daryl didn't grab a soda, not even two, to steal. Instead, he did something else. He reached into the cooler and picked up a single bottle of Budweiser, hiding it innocently behind his back.

Then, with a quick move of his wrist, he tossed the beer bottle as gently as possible toward the stack of cheap motor oil cans near the customer who was about to walk in next. It wasn't meant to break. It landed with a quiet sound and rolled behind the display, out of the employee's direct sight but perfectly in the path of the new customer.

Daryl didn't even look at it. He just walked slowly back toward the counter, which finally made the Marlboro Man look away from the TV.

"Yeah?"

"Just lookin', sir." Daryl leaned on the counter, putting himself directly in the employee's line of sight to the side of the store.

"If ya won't buy anythin', just leave me the hell alone and get your scrawny ass outta here, you little shit."

Daryl didn't answer him, dragging it out. He continued to stare intently at a rack of beef jerky next, picking up a pack and squinting at it like he was reading the fine print.

The employee glanced over once more, his eyes showing the usual suspicious disdain he saved for the Dixon kids. Or rather, for Merle Dixon in particular. "So what? Ya gonna buy that at least, or ya just starin' at it now?"

"How much is it?" Daryl asked with a shrug, watching as the man turned his attention back to the TV.

"Price is on the tag, boy. You learn to read yet?"

Finally, the bell over the door jingled again. A man walked in, big and hairy, in a coffee-stained shirt, and he looked pissed off, which made Daryl's heart beat a little quicker. Probably a trucker, Daryl thought. And the way he looked suggested he just had a long, bad day.

"Help ya?" The Marlboro Man grunted, his eyes narrowing. This guy wasn't a regular.

"Just gettin' a six-pack of Bud," the man responded to the employee, not looking up.

And that's when Daryl saw Ilyana again. She was already back at the side window, one leg out, and with some of the stolen food still in her hands. The rest was stuffed inside her pants. But the new customer was getting closer to standing between her and the open cooler, and if he turned around, he'd see her clear as day. So Daryl hoped his plan would work out.

But this was also a chance for him, too. While the employee was staring at the back of the customer's head, walking slowly in his direction, Daryl took a few steps sideways, putting the employee's line of sight fully on the new guy. His hands, moving as fast as Merle had drilled into him, slid right over the counter next to the register. Daryl's fingers closed around two packs of Camel cigarettes, putting them instantly into the waistband of his pants and letting his shirt fall over them.

That's when the new customer finally reached the beer cooler. Thankfully, he didn't see the bottle Daryl had rolled. His boot had kicked it, sending it rolling across the floor with him, which made the employee's head snap up.

The Marlboro Man's eyes went from the rolling bottle to the customer now standing by one of the open coolers and back to Daryl's innocent face. The math in his head was simple and wrong: the Dixon kid is up here bothering me. A strange man is by the coolers. A bottle is on the floor. Thief.

"You need a bag?" The employee then asked, leaning forward a little.

"Nah." The customer finally turned, with a six-pack in hand, and took a step toward the counter.

But the employee's finger pointed toward the other open cooler. "You gonna shut that as well, or you just plan on lettin' all my cold out? Costs money to run that shit."

The customer's face turned slightly red at his words. "It was already open when I got here! Ain't my fault!"

"Yeah?" The employee smirked. "Funny… Only folks who come in here leavin' coolers open are the ones tryin' to distract me while their friend cleans out the rest. You got a friend hidin' in here somewhere?" His eyes looked past the man, all along the aisles—missing Ilyana's shadow by inches.

"The hell is your problem?" The customer spat back at him, his voice rising. "I only want my damn beer!"

"My problem is I'm tired of gettin' robbed blind!" The employee shot back, already making his way back behind the counter. "Now, are you gonna pay for that, or are you just plannin' on walkin' out like the asshole you are?"

Daryl didn't wait to hear the rest. His ears caught Ilyana's shaky bird whistle, and he didn't need another signal. He slipped toward the door just as the trucker slammed the six-pack violently onto the counter.

​"You callin' me a thief, you fucking bastard?" The trucker yelled, taking a beer can out of the six-pack and opening it.

​"I'm callin' it as I see it!" The employee snarled at the man, with his hands slowly disappearing under the counter, but turning his gaze from the customer all of a sudden toward the door, right as Daryl slipped away as quietly as he was able to.

​And Daryl didn't look back. He sprinted out and rounded the corner of the building just as Ilyana was stumbling away with wide eyes from the window, her pants full of the ham sandwiches, cheese crackers, and candy bars.

​"Run!" Daryl hissed in her direction, grabbing her upper arm.

​They stumbled toward the tree line and were halfway to the safety of the woods when it happened.

​BANG.

BANG.

​The noise was loud. Close… And it was the heavy sound of a 12-gauge sawed-off shotgun that just fired.

Time didn't stop, but it slowed down.

And then it came—a hard, quick gush of wind that flew across the back of Daryl's neck, right through his dirty hair.

That ain't wind.

His blood turned cold.

She's hit. She's hit, and I'm still standin'.

Daryl's body moved before his mind could catch up. He felt the turn of his shoulders and the movement of his neck muscles, as his gaze, wide with a fear he'd never known, began to drag itself toward Ilyana. Toward the neighbor's girl and the only person that ever gave him the feeling of being worth much more than 'nothing' in this world.

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𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋮ 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨 ⋮ 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋮ 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭