Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go…”
~The Impossible Dream from Man of LaMancha, lyrics by Joe Darion

Part 1

The fire seemed to burn forever.

There was at first the roaring in Daryl’s ears, as he helplessly shot walker after walker, striving from a distance to save Rick’s life. Rick was staggering, bleeding, holding a hand to his side, seemingly unfazed at first by the approaching herd.

What had happened when they parted? How had Rick been hurt? How bad was it?

The questions swirled in Daryl’s mind, but there was no time to ask them, no way to shout across the chasm that separated him from Rick. All he could do was fire bolt after bolt after bolt in a vain attempt to keep Rick alive.

He could hear the others approaching, hear them yelling ideas and instructions as they frantically attempted to divert the herd from Rick’s path. But Daryl couldn’t spare them a glance, his entire attention focused on the man on the bridge that had been so important to him, a symbol of the joining of the communities and putting a true end to the war they had fought and won, despite so many losses. None of that mattered now. He and Rick had talked when they’d fallen into that pit while fighting over who was right about Negan’s fate. None of that mattered, and deep down, Daryl knew that it never, ever would matter again.

Rick turned toward Daryl, and their eyes met across the space that separated them. It was nothing, Rick’s eyes said.

I understand, Daryl’s said back. I’m with you, Rick. I’d die for you.

There was that one moment of perfect comprehension and mutual regard, breathless, silent amid the screeching horror, before Rick’s eyes left Daryl’s and Rick peered toward the construction supplies piled on the bridge, his head tilted in that old familiar way that indicated Rick was about to make a decision, to abruptly go all out, to end the fight on his own terms.

And then, Rick was drawing his Python, raising it in an arm that no longer shook from pain and weakness, his hand steady and his aim true. And Rick fired.

The world exploded.

The fireball kept going, building, booming, reaching for the sky.

The bridge blew apart.

The walkers were falling into the swirling river.

And Rick was gone.

Daryl’s heart clenched, twisted inside him, and his soul let out a silent scream. His eyes filled, his chin trembled, his bow hand faltered.

He could do no more.

He could only watch, his heart frozen between terror and hope. His entire being went silent, encasing Daryl in a sphere of pain, while beyond he could hear the screams of Michonne, the yells of the others, their anguish loud and battering Daryl’s silence as his life ticked like a run down clock and stopped.

And then, like a bandage being ripped from a wound, the world rushed back and Daryl could breathe again, could hear again as reality expanded once more and he knew he couldn’t stand there and mourn.

He had to try.

Rick had been wounded somehow. Rick had set off the explosion, destroying the bridge he’d fought so hard for to save his people from the approaching herd that would tear them apart and turn the peace they had achieved into inexpressible loss.

The fire was still burning, walkers still pitching forward, their mindless bodies dropping into the roiling water below as if they would do so forever. Voices slammed against Daryl’s hearing, their people rushed past him and then he was running too, heading for where the bridge ended on this side of the river.

Rick would be there, Daryl’s mind insisted. He would have fallen too. Was he still somehow alive? Could Daryl find and save him?

When the bridge blew, Daryl had watched, knowing in every molecule of his body that Rick was gone. The explosion had to have taken Rick out along with the bridge. He was too close to it, already clearly weakened by the injury that must have happened after they’d parted hours before.

Daryl had looked, trying to see into the fire, beyond the tumbling bodies, hoping… and yet bereft of hope.

Nobody could survive a blast like that.

Not even Rick Grimes.

Rick, who had survived so much and always lived another day.

There had been a time, years before, when the prison fell and Daryl had been certain that Rick was dead and gone. He’d mourned even as he and Beth struggled to go on.

And then, one night, out of the darkness, he had found him again. Rick, along with Michonne and Carl, were seated by a campfire… and about to be killed by those hard men Daryl had found himself with a few days earlier.

Rick had been the man they’d been seeking. The sinking feeling that came with that realization crowded out Daryl’s thrill of surprise and hope when he laid eyes on Rick, when proof that Rick had survived made his heart leap and his soul dream.

But even when Daryl had offered his own blood to save Rick, it had looked like none of them would live through that night.

And then, miraculously, Rick had found a way, audaciously ripping out Joe’s jugular, killing him barehanded, using only his teeth and his own tenacious will to live. Realizing what had happened gave Daryl the strength to fight on as well and when morning dawned, he’d sat at Rick’s side, seeing the man’s bloody hands shake with adrenaline, meeting those bluer than blue eyes and hearing the words, “you’re my brother.”

From then on, Daryl had thought Rick just could not die. They’d escaped Terminus. Been reunited with Carol and Judith. They’d found Alexandria. They’d escaped the huge horde that had descended on the town. Carl had pulled through.

They’d felt indestructible.

And then proof came that even they weren’t going to always succeed.

But they were still alive. The war had ended. And even with Daryl and Rick being at odds, Rick was there. Rick was alive. Rick would always be alive.

Daryl shuddered as the reality sank in. He didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t imagine living in this world if it didn’t contain Rick Grimes.

And so he ran, following the others as they headed toward the demolished bridge.

What they would find, Daryl didn’t even want to imagine. If Rick wasn’t truly dead, did they have a way to save him, to pull him back from what surely was the brink?

Was he whole? Or had he exploded into pieces like the bridge, his beautiful body torn limb from limb?

Daryl had had moments of hope before it was ripped out of his grasp so many times. He had found Merle, and lost him. They had traded for Beth, and she’d been taken forever. He’d offered asylum to Dwight and Sherry, and they’d betrayed him. He’d relaxed his concerns about taking Denise out beyond the walls, and her life had been callously taken. And he’d followed Rick into the sucking vortex of hell one cold and unforgettable night where he’d watched Glenn and Abraham beaten into lifeless gore.

Daryl had never broken when he’d been Negan’s prisoner, one hope driving him, one thought giving him courage – he had to return to Rick. And he had, finally, finally, and Rick had taken Daryl’s trembling body into his arms, pulling him tight against him, held him while Daryl sobbed, stroked his hair and gave him hope once again.

“We’ve gotta find him,” someone shouted.

“He was hurt, he was bleeding,” another voice yelled back.

“He can’t have lived through that.” Michonne’s voice, broken and desperate as she ran harder than the rest of them.

Daryl knew. He knew the way they all knew that Rick was likely dead. He’d bled out from whatever was making the blood pour out of his side. He’d been blown to bits along with the bridge, battered and shattered with the logs and pilings and nails and tools. Daryl knew.

But they still had to find him, even if all hope was lost.

Because in their world, people didn’t just die.

They died and they came back.

And the one thing worse than dying was finding a loved one turned.

It would be the last thing Daryl could do for him.

They all seemed to get to the bank at the same time. They were hurrying, searching, hopeless yet desperate.

Daryl heard their voices but he was numb, aching, unable to meet anyone’s eyes, Michonne’s least of all.

There were sudden loud shouts when someone thought they’d found Rick’s remains.

Only to recede when it turned out the body was not their friend but a badly decomposed walker.

Not this body, then.

Nor that one either.

Over there?

No. That wasn’t Rick.

“Rick!” Michonne kept screaming. “RICK!!!”

Daryl’s voice had left him. He wasn’t breathing, he wasn’t crying. His heart wasn’t beating. He was a moving, living statue, searching and hoping when hope had turned to stone.

“Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” someone finally said.

They’d had a hard time convincing Michonne.

Nobody tried to convince Daryl.

The fire seemed to go on forever.

It burned the rest of the day and into the night.

And all night long, Daryl kept searching.

It was the last thing he could do for Rick. For his brother. For this man he loved above all others.

The fire seemed to go on forever.

Chapter Text

“To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star”
~The Impossible Dream from Man of LaMancha, lyrics by Joe Darion

The sun came up over the hills, gradually turning the world bright and glowing. The chill that had been in the air gradually receded, the dew on the grass evaporated, the night was over and a new day was begun.

Daryl stood up, stretching his back, eyes squinting in the distance. Another day. Another day that followed another sleepless night.

He hadn’t bothered going to bed. He’d eaten a little, just some squirrel meat, and then gone to walk down the river bank, scanning the bushes and rocks, searching. Always searching.

When it grew too dark, he’d sunk down on the damp bank, leaning back on his elbows, waiting for the moon to rise. Things looked different in the moonlight and he could see different angles, find niches that the brightness tended to hide from view. Everything looked different in the dark.

Sometimes, Daryl curled up near a rock or fallen tree and dozed for a bit. Other times, he just walked up and down the bank all through the night.

They still hadn’t found anything.

He walked down the slight incline to the edge of the water, leaning over to scoop some up into his hands, using it to splash his face, running his wet fingers through his hair.

“You’re up early.”

The clear voice rang out, coming from close behind him. Daryl didn’t bother turning around.

“Never went to bed,” he rasped, his voice as tired as his body.

Michonne moved forward, ending up beside Daryl. She stood there a moment with him, both of them taking in the view.

“It’s been a year,” she said finally.

“You been countin’?” He brushed the hair out of his eyes, squinting as the sun began to rise higher.

“Carol told me, last night.”

At the mention of Carol’s name, Daryl turned to look at Michonne, curious. He knew Carol was living at the Kingdom these days. Unless something else had changed.

“She came by to issue invitations,” Michonne said, her smile wistful. “To her wedding.”

“Finally going through with it,” Daryl nodded. He remembered when Carol had told him that Ezekiel had proposed and how reluctant she was.

“Yeah. I guess the King finally wore her down,” Michonne replied. She drew a deep breath. “But she said that since it had been a year, she decided it was time. She hadn’t wanted to… celebrate before.”

Daryl sucked in a deep breath of his own, nodding. “Good for her.”

“She told me to come find you. To see if you’ll come.”

Daryl hunched his shoulders, turning to head on down the bank. “Nah. She knows that kinda thing ain’t for me.”

“You could take a break,” Michonne said, coming along with him. “After all this time…”

“I ain’t quittin’.” Daryl quickened his pace, needing to get away from Michonne’s words, her presence. For most of the last year, she’d come out here to search along side him. But too often lately, there were days Daryl had searched alone.

At first, he’d been uncomfortable with her searching at his side. He couldn’t fully look her in the eye. She’d been Rick’s lover and Daryl was… only Daryl. He felt guilty enough for his part in Rick’s demise. They argued that last day – even though they’d resolved most of their issues when they’d had a chance to be alone there in that pit. But as much as Daryl felt guilty for not going back to Alexandria with Rick that day, he also felt guilty for his thoughts, his desires.

Sometimes, he thought he’d go nuts if he didn’t yell out the truth, if he didn’t grab Michonne by her shoulders and look into her eyes and tell her that he’d loved Rick too. He’d never resented Michonne for having what Daryl wanted. It wasn’t his nature to be jealous, to covet what someone else had. Long before the world had come to an end, he’d accepted that he’d never have what most people wanted: possessions, money, power… love. He had never thought he’d have a family, but at Rick’s side, he’d found one. He never thought he’d have children, but Rick’s were like his own. He never thought he would have someone who believed in him. And yet, Rick did.

So that had been enough.

He never spoke of how he truly felt. Yet Daryl worried that his feelings weren’t as hidden as he meant them to be. Sometimes, when the frustration of it all, of having watched the explosion take Rick from them, when the loss and anger and guilt was too much, he thought the depth of his love had to be obvious in his eyes when she looked into them.

But Michonne hadn’t said a word, not to question him, or acknowledge – though she did seem to appreciate his presence and his devotion. She neither seemed to blame Daryl or to push him away. It was as if she gained comfort from his presence, from his refusal to give up. So they had searched together. And as long as they didn’t find what they were looking for, Daryl was compelled to keep doing it.

Once before, Daryl had searched for someone lost. That was one of the first tasks that Rick had assigned to him and Daryl had been determined to see it through. Even when everyone else had given up, Daryl had not been able to let go.

He paused, eyes scanning the grasses that lined the bank he’d walked every day and every night for the last year. He did it almost without thinking now, automatic as breathing.

Was that a glint? Something metallic that the sunlight had bounced off of?

Before he could stop to think, Daryl was moving toward it.

His mind tried to tell him he was wrong. That he hadn’t actually seen anything. Or that he had, but it was nothing, maybe a discarded tin can or useless car part.

His mind said it couldn’t be anything, but that didn’t stop his legs from moving, going faster and faster until he stood over it.

Stood there staring in disbelief.

“What?” Michonne sounded breathless when she caught up to him. “Did you find something?”

Daryl dropped to his knees, his hands parting the tall straggly weeds.

And there it was. Unmistakably.

Daryl picked up the Colt Python, his fingers clasping it reverently, his heart pounding in disbelief.

“Oh, my God.” Michonne’s voice was breathless, amazed.

The weapon was caked with mud, wet and worn looking. Daryl grabbed a rag from his back pocket and wiped it off. There was some rust under the mud and his heart broke a little seeing the beautiful handgun in such a state of disrepair. Rick had always kept it gleaming, cleaning it with just a rag if they were out of gun oil, but if they had cleaning fluid, that Colt Python had shone like new.

Daryl stood up, holding it out to Michonne. Her hand reached, then hesitated.

She looked up into Daryl’s eyes. When she blinked, tears flowed down her cheeks.

Daryl was blinking back his own.

It was as if he held Rick’s beating heart in his hands.

“What’s it mean?” Michonne asked, her voice hushed.

“He was here,” Daryl said, his voice rough with unshed tears. Rick had been there. The explosion had thrown Rick – or at least Rick’s gun – to this side of the river, as Daryl had always thought.

“This survived,” Daryl said then, his voice firming with conviction. Others had insisted that nothing could have endured that blast intact, that if they found any trace of Rick at all, it would not be his body, whole and unblemished, but torn pieces that had been ripped apart by the force of the explosion.

If the gun had shown up all in one piece… there was a chance that Rick’s body was whole too. That they just hadn’t found it yet.

Daryl’s fingers tightened on the weapon, remembering so many times he’d seen it in Rick’s steady hand. It had ridden in Rick’s holster for as long as Daryl had known the man, like it was a part of him, noble and true, like Rick’s heart and, like an extension of his strength and bravery, it never let Rick miss.

“Here.” Daryl held it out to Michonne, feeling guilty for even holding the side arm that belonged to Rick.

“No,” Michonne demurred, “you keep it. He’d want you to have it, Daryl.”

Daryl opened his mouth to protest, but Michonne closed his fingers over the precious object. “He would. And you know it.”

“I’ll clean it up,” he said, neither accepting nor declining her offer. “By rights, it should go to Asskicker.”

“She’s five years old,” Michonne said, shaking her head.

“I’ll clean it up,” Daryl repeated. “She can have it when she’s ready.”

The Colt Python was not his to keep. Judith was Rick’s family, as was Michonne.

Daryl was just… Daryl. He’d loved Rick, with all his heart and all his soul, but that love had been and now remained always hidden away, his own priceless secret. Never revealed, never shared.

He would take care of Rick’s weapon for him… for Judith when she was old enough to carry it, to learn to shoot it.

And while the Python was in his care, Daryl would treasure it. It represented Rick. It represented hope.

Michonne squeezed Daryl’s hand between both her own. “You never gave up, did you?”

Daryl bit his lip and shrugged. “What else I gotta do?”

Michonne smiled at him fondly. “You’ve gotta come to the wedding. Today is Tuesday. The wedding is at the Kingdom on Saturday. Carol wants you there.”

“Pfft.” Daryl had never been to a wedding in his life.

“You know she’ll come out her herself to persuade you,” Michonne assured him.

Daryl sighed, knowing it was true. It had been awhile since Carol had paid him a visit anyway and he knew she wouldn’t accept him refusing the invitation through Michonne.

But for now, Daryl suddenly had an appetite when he hadn’t felt like eating in days. He shoved the Python into the back of his belt. “Gonna check my nets. Want some fish for breakfast?”

“No, thanks. I need to get back,” Michonne declined.

Daryl nodded. She never stayed long. Michonne had duties back home. She was running Alexandria now. And Judith and…

“I’ll be back.” Michonne’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “I thought we should stop, but now that we found this –“

“Never gonna stop,” Daryl said firmly. He’d made that promise the first night after the explosion. He would never stop searching for Rick. He wouldn’t quit until he knew what had happened to the man. He owed Rick his life. He couldn’t ever stop.

Michonne gave him a nod, then turned to leave.

“Thank you, Daryl,” she said then. “I know Rick would appreciate it.”

Daryl couldn’t answer her. He didn’t know what miracle had caused the Python to be revealed today. Why hadn’t it shown up before? Had it been buried in the sand and mud at the side of the river all this time? Did some animal dig it up? Did the sun simply choose this morning to reveal what had been hidden the whole time since Rick had been gone?

His heart ached, throbbing in his chest. Daryl had Rick’s gun. He had that much of him right here, real and solid. Daryl flashed back to the moment when he’d handed the weapon over to Rick after escaping from the Sanctuary – Rick looking at it as if he’d never imagined seeing it again. It had been one of Daryl’s proudest moments.

The gun was in his safekeeping once again. Daryl would clean and polish it, keep it unharmed. It was only in his care though, it would be given back to its rightful owner when the time came.

Daryl turned and walked back the way he had come, heading toward the nets he’d set out the day before. He would clean and eat the fish, then get some rest.

And then start looking once again.

He would never stop.

Chapter Text

"This is my quest, to follow that star
No matter how hopeless, no matter how far
To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march
Into hell for a heavenly cause"
~ The Impossible Dream, from Man of LaMancha, lyrics by Joe Darlon

For the first time in so long, Daryl was warm. He was comfortable. Secure. Safe. He was aware of no danger, no menace. He was wrapped in strong arms, his head pillowed on a familiar shoulder. Soft curls tickled his nose. His breathing was in sync with another’s, his heart beat was following the same pattern.

He opened his eyes, smiling softly when he confirmed that it was Rick who was holding him so close. They were twined together, sleeping under the stars, the night like a warm blanket over their naked bodies. They were finally one.

As Daryl watched the beloved profile, Rick’s eyes fluttered open, finding him, lighting up with recognition.

“You okay?” Rick asked, bringing up a hand to stroke Daryl’s cheek, smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

“Mmnn,” Daryl nodded, boldly kissing the soft flesh of Rick’s throat under his mouth. For so long, he’d only dreamed about being this close, now he had been granted access and he wasn’t about to deny himself any longer.

His lips made their way down from Rick’s collarbone, mouthing the soft dusting of hair that covered Rick’s chest until he found what he was seeking. Rick’s nipple hardened under Daryl’s tongue and lips and Rick groaned, his back arching, fingers tightening in Daryl’s hair.

Rick’s other hand trailed down Daryl’s back, skimming his ass, fingers seeking but not quite able to reach their goal when Daryl slid lower, licking and nipping his way down Rick’s torso.

There… Rick was hard and ready for him, slick and straining when Daryl opened his mouth wide to suck him in. Warm and woodsy flavored, thrusting into his throat as Rick abandoned himself to the pleasure Daryl gave. And then, Rick was spilling down Daryl’s throat, sighing his completion but waiting only seconds before he rolled over and reached for Daryl to return the favor.

The sensations rocked through Daryl, imprinting on his memory, fulfilling every dream he’d ever had. Rick was here with him, Rick wanted him.

Rick loved him.

Daryl woke. The sun was high, the air was cold. The ground was hard.

He was alone.

Actually, not quite alone. A solid form lay pressed tightly against his back, solid and patient. As Daryl stirred, a soft whine let him know his companion was awake and, as always, aware of him.

Dog pushed up and leaned over, licking Daryl’s face as if to say good morning.

Daryl petted the short fur, his throat tight with emotion. Dog seemed to understand, resting his big head on Daryl’s shoulder.

"I’d die for you."

He’d said those words to Rick, on that last day.

And yet, in the end, he wasn’t able to.

Daryl would have sacrificed himself on the alter of that bridge Rick had been so determined to build. Would have gladly been the one to fall into those roiling waters.

But he hadn’t been given the chance.

"Be safe.”

He’d said that too, yet Rick hadn’t been.

Why had he let the man out of his sight after what they’d said and shared in the pit? Why had he not remembered that in this world there was no safety, no sureness?

Daryl’s eyes burned with the grief that was always so close to the surface, even this long after. He’d done all he could – shot as many bolts into the approaching herd as he could. If he could have flung his own body toward Rick to save him, he would have.

He thought, maybe, that Rick knew.

That Rick understood.

Their eyes had met, the distance between them seemingly vanishing in that one last moment, speaking as they always had without words.

And then…

Daryl couldn’t hold back the sob when in his mind he saw that explosion once again. When Rick’s fate had been clear, when hope had died.

Dog pressed closer to him, whining in empathy.

Daryl’s fingers gripped the thick fur, crying in earnest.

Every time he’d thought his tears were gone, he’d learned it wasn’t true.

They were just dried up for a little while. Like a stream in the summer heat. After a time, with enough rain, the stream filled again. And after a time, Daryl’s tears came back.

Merle would have called him a pussy for crying.

But Merle was long dead.

So many were dead.

Daryl sometimes thought his tears were for all of those he’d lost.

But the truth was, though he missed and mourned them all, it was for Rick that his tears still fell.

He sat up, clutching the faithful dog close to his chest, sobbing into the animal’s shoulder. He had to let it go, holding in his grief never worked. Daryl had learned that in the last three years. It would build and build until he was seeing and hearing things in the night, until he was so distracted he’d make a near fatal mistake, or, like last night, he would dream of Rick.

In Daryl’s dreams, Rick was so real… so loving, so passionate.

Part of Daryl’s grief was for all the lost opportunities that now would never be. But most of it was just missing Rick, their partnership, their being brothers, the way they’d fought the world and always won.

Almost always…

That thought brought fresh tears to his eyes.

He clung to the patient dog, crying in the morning sunshine. He didn’t know how long, but finally, he was cried out once again.

At last, Daryl sat back. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he looked around his campsite.

Dog turned to gaze at him, as if asking if Daryl was done.

“Good dog,” he said, his voice gruff from tears and disuse. Daryl didn’t get many visitors these days. That was okay though. There was no one he wanted to talk to much anyway.

When the dog had come along, Daryl had been glad for the companionship. Dog was smart, taking to Daryl’s training readily, helping him to watch for walkers, letting him know when they’d been caught in Daryl’s traps.

Daryl brushed a hand over his damp face again, and awkwardly climbed out of the tent so he could stand up. Dog wagged his tail at this change, realizing food might be served soon.

Daryl walked over to the traps he’d set for small game and found a dead rabbit. He pulled it out and set about skinning it while Dog wagged excitedly. Soon, Daryl was finished that task. He tossed part of the rabbit to Dog while he added some kindling to the place where he made his campfire and got a small blaze going, cooking the rabbit meat in his old frying pan.

The meat was chewy and unseasoned but Daryl had had worse. It filled him up and gave him the energy he needed to function. Today, he was going to walk the opposite bank of the river yet again. He was still searching for Rick – and even though he knew deep down that most people would have given up ever finding even a trace of the man long ago, Daryl had no intention of stopping.

A year ago, he and Michonne had found Rick’s Colt Python. Daryl still had the gun in his tent. He fully intended to give it to Michonne for Judith one day, but he hadn’t left his camp in a long time, having no real desire to see people. If someone didn’t come here to see him, Daryl didn’t have contact with them. He had a few visitors, though Michonne hadn’t been to see him in months and it had also been quite awhile since Carol had visited. Daryl knew she was happy with Eziekiel and raising Henry so he didn’t mind. If Carol needed him, she knew where to find him.

Daryl had just cleaned up his personal space and was getting ready to go down to the edge of the river, when Dog started barking. At first Daryl thought some walkers might have been caught in his traps but then he realized Dog wasn’t leaving his side. Must be visitors instead.

Daryl turned to where the bushes and trees made a natural screen to shield his camp from passersby, telling Dog to “hush” just as the branches parted and two figures emerged.

“There he is,” Aaron said, nudging Jesus who was walking slightly to his left.

“Yes!” Jesus sounded enthusiastic. “Hi, Daryl! How’re you doing?”

Daryl nodded in response, while Dog growled at the strangers.

“S’okay,” he told the dog, patting his head. Dog sat down, bright eyes still on the strangers.

“Who’s that?” Aaron asked walking right up to Daryl and the dog. “Where’d you get the dog?”

“Came along awhile back,” Daryl answered. He wasn’t sure himself. It had been sometime after his last visit with Michonne. “He’s smart. Helps me keep the walkers outta camp.”

“Nice doggie,” Jesus said, his voice soft as he put his hand out for Dog to sniff. He glanced up at Daryl. “Mind if we visit for awhile?”

“It’s been awhile since we’ve seen you,” Aaron added. “Just wanted to come check up on you, Daryl.”

“Still here,” Daryl said. He’d never been one for small talk and felt even less equipped to handle it these days.

“What do you do with yourself out here, man?” Jesus asked, standing up from petting the dog. Daryl noticed that he stepped sideways, moving closer to Aaron in the process.

“Nothin’ much.” Daryl looked away from the two pairs of bright eyes that had. He glanced away, down the river, the need to go searching pulling at him.

“Don’t let us stop you,” Aaron told him. “We just wanted to check on you and hang out awhile if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Daryl shrugged. He strode over to his tent and picked up his crossbow, sliding over his shoulder. “Was just gonna take a walk.” He jerked his chin indicating that the two men could come along with him.

With Dog on his heels, Aaron and Jesus a pace behind, Daryl made his way down to the river bank. He used a stick to shove the underbrush aside, making no pretense that he wasn’t searching.

The three men and the dog walked in silence for awhile. Daryl was used to not finding any sign of Rick, but he kept at it nonetheless. Neither Jesus nor Aaron spoke for a long time.

Finally, as he turned around to head back toward his campsite, Jesus spoke up, his voice soft in the afternoon sun.

“Did you… ever find any sign of him, Daryl?”

They were near the spot where the Colt Python had been found. Daryl kicked at the wet earth, nudging the tall grasses aside.

“Found his gun,” he said finally, remembering both the thrill of seeing it and the disappointment at the realization that Rick must have not been able to hold onto it any more. How he’d taken it back to his tent, cleaned it, held it in his hands and pictured the last time he’d seen it, held high by Rick’s bloody hand as he aimed for the overturned box of dynamite on the bridge that day.

“You did?” Aaron moved close to him.

Daryl nodded. “Jus’ about here,” he said, indicating the bushes. “Musta washed up after some heavy rains. Gonna give it to ‘Chonne for Judith someday.” His throat seemed to close up at the words, his grief suddenly close to the surface again.

Jesus stepped up on Daryl’s other side. “But… no other signs of him?”

Daryl couldn’t look at either man. He shook his head.

He couldn’t explain why he still searched. Not that he believed Rick had survived – he knew that was the hopeless dream of a man who’d never expressed his love out loud. How could it be? Rick had been bloody from whatever accident had befallen him after he’d parted ways from Daryl – and then the bridge had blown up.

And yet… without a body, there was always that hope, hidden deep inside Daryl’s heart.

But if Rick were turned… Daryl couldn’t handle the thought of their brave leader walking with the dead.

Softly, Aaron spoke to him. “I know what it’s like, Daryl. I couldn’t bring myself to go look for Eric… after…”

Daryl turned on the man, glaring at him.

“Aiden Monroe found his mom months and months after, didn’t he?” Jesus put in, obviously trying to defuse the tension of the moment.

“Yeah, I heard about that too,” Aaron said, his eyes on Daryl, trying to let him know he’d meant no harm.

Daryl didn’t care. He’d never known that Aaron hadn’t searched for Eric after he’d turned… a part of him was appalled that Aaron hadn’t felt compelled to put his lover down, and another part of Daryl understood. He remembered all too well how it had felt when he’d seen Merle turned.

But the thought of Rick… out there… wandering… walking…

Daryl felt a sudden rush of dizziness at the idea. He didn’t often confront the thought that Rick was quite possibly out there somewhere, just like the mindlness herds who came and went in their world.

Unless… unless he’d been found and consumed…

Daryl turned away abruptly, not wanting the other men to see him get sick. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from trembling despite the icy cold that raced down his back at the idea.

Not that it hadn’t crossed his mind long before this moment. He was just usually able to not focus on it.

“Maybe we should head back,” Jesus’ voice came then, soft and without inflection.

Daryl drew in a deep breath, willing his emotions under control, schooling his face not to reflect his desperation and grief. Then he turned and nodded at his two old friends and together, the three of them headed back to camp.

“How ‘bout some venison for dinner?” Daryl asked his guests. He pretended not to notice the look they exchanged at his question, but he waited til they agreed to go off toward the deer that had been hanging to drain for the last day and a half.

Later, over the roast deer meat and potatoes Daryl had dug up from his small garden, the three of them talked about inconsequential things, of how things were at Hilltop and Alexandria, and finally, about the past. Aaron told about how he’d met Daryl and Rick and their group and brought them to Alexandria, Jesus had joked about how he’d tried to steal that truck full of food from Rick and Daryl.

Daryl found himself chuckling at the memories. That day when he and Rick had run into Jesus had been such a good one, though they’d been on many runs together before and after, yet he treasured that one – how they’d thought and moved as one as they’d tried to fight and capture the annoying man they’d later come to think of as a friend.

“You know,” Aaron said after a silence fell around the fire,” Alexandria and Hilltop don’t exactly visit back and forth as much as they used to.”

“Oh?” Daryl was chewing on a last piece of venison.

“Yeah,” Jesus agreed. “Aaron and I have to see each other outside the walls these days.”

Something in his tone made Daryl look at the two of them more closely. What he saw was Aaron and Jesus meeting each other’s eyes. There was a softness in both their gazes that was suddenly apparent, a spark between them. And then their hands touched, not really a handshake, more of a squeeze that was brief but telling.

They were together.

Daryl felt like a fool. He should have seen it right away. He’d known that both Aaron and Jesus were gay. Why wouldn’t they get together?

It was good, he thought. They deserved to be happy. He was glad for them.

The two of them shared a look that lasted a moment longer, then both Aaron and Jesus looked toward Daryl.

“You don’t mind, do ya?” Aaron asked.

“We thought you’d understand,” Jesus followed up, “since… we kinda know how you and Rick…”

“Me and Rick?” Daryl realized he’d said the words more loudly than he should.

“That is,” Aaron spoke up, “that you felt…” Aaron’s words trailed off.

“About Rick,” Jesus finished, trading a glance with Aaron. “We wanted… we wanted to let you know we understand.”

Daryl couldn’t form words. Had he been that obvious? Maybe he had been, especially to two men like Aaron and Jesus. But he couldn’t tell them, couldn’t put it into words just like that. It would feel somehow disloyal to his memory of Rick.

Rick had never known, so how could Daryl admit his feelings to others now?

Yet he couldn’t deny what they’d figured out about him. He cleared his throat, rubbed a hand over his face, chewed on his thumbnail a moment.

There were a few muttered sentences between his guests then, but Daryl didn’t bother listening to them.

Finally, Jesus spoke up, his voice gentle with understanding. “Sorry, Daryl.”

“Didn’t mean to upset you,”Aaron added.

“Pfft,” Daryl groused. “I’m all right.”

“’Course you are,” Aaron responded sagely. He shared a glance with Jesus and then the both of them were looking at Daryl again. He saw sympathy and caring in their eyes. It didn’t make him feel better.

Maybe another man would have told them they were right, admitted what they’d suspected, been proud or at least brave enough to say how he’d felt about Rick Grimes.

But Daryl couldn’t do that. He’d longed for Rick to know, but failing Rick, he’d promised himself to keep his secret forever.

And yet, he couldn’t deny what Aaron and Jesus had surmised either. He couldn’t sit there and lie to him, act like they were wrong.

No, he couldn’t do that either, because that would be even more wrong than talking about his love for Rick, now that Rick wasn’t around to hear about it.

He’d loved Rick Grimes with all his heart and all his soul. And he couldn’t tell Aaron and Jesus that they were wrong.

So he let the knowing look pass between them, pretending he didn’t see it as he put another branch on the fire. And he accepted the bottle of whiskey that Jesus pulled from his coat and offered him. The three of them sat around Daryl’s fire for another hour or so, drinking and talking of other things, though Rick remained uppermost in Daryl’s mind.

Chapter Text

And I know if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest.
~ “The Impossible Dream”, lyrics by Joe Dorian

Daryl was exhausted, right down to his bones.

Lately, it seemed no matter how much he slept, he was always still tired when he woke. It was probably the endless sameness of his days. Or boredom. Or more likely, depression.

It was hard to get up in the mornings. The only thing that pushed him to rise from his tent was Dog, nudging his shoulder, whining for some food, for Daryl’s attention.

He sometimes thought that if he didn’t have Dog, he’d just lay there in his blankets all day and all night. But the few times he tried to just sleep, burrowing deep into the covers while the sun was up, his body and mind betrayed him at night and he would be awake during the wee hours, alone, sitting by the water, under the stars, waiting and watching and never finding what he was waiting for.

So he got up every morning, fed Dog and himself. Checked his walker traps. And set off to walk the riverbank. Searching. Always searching.

He didn’t even really know how long it had been now. The days were endless, and all the same. Nobody had come to visit him for a long time. Maybe they’d forgotten him by now.

That would be okay, he thought.

There were so many people now anyway. They had each other. New group members. So many changes. So many that were gone and forgotten.

Daryl didn’t forget. He knew the names were written on the walls of Alexandria but he wondered who read them these days. Who cared? Who thought about the sacrifices or the losses when the communities were prospering. They had food and shelter and relative peace. Isn’t that what they’d been fighting for?

Daryl remembered. He remembered the long miles between Alexandria and Georgia. The miles without food or water. Or hope.

He remembered the bodies they’d buried. The family they’d lost. The enemies they’d killed to keep the group together and alive.

He remembered saying something about that to Rick. “That small group we had at the beginning, we could do anything.” And Rick had nodded, eyes crinkling in the sun, accepting what Daryl said, even though there was a “but” forming in his leader’s mind. Rick was all about the future. He’d been so hopeful. They’d struggled so long and he kept telling them that success, peace, hope – they were just around the corner. Just finish this task. Just build this bridge. Just make this compromise. And soon they would have it all.

Daryl hadn’t been so certain.

He had no experience with peace, with success. Hope, for him, had been finding a deer in the woods and bringing it home to feed the family. Hope had been barring the doors and windows to keep the walkers out. Success had been fending off renegade killers and keeping Rick safe.

Rick and most of the others, they wanted the old world. They wanted stability. To them, that was the thing worth fighting for. It made sense. Daryl got that.

But he had never known stability. Never felt at peace. Never felt at home.

Except when they were at the prison. And when they were on the road.

Because for Daryl, home was not a structure. Not a community. Home was one man he would follow into hell and back. One man and his children and the rest of the small band that had gathered around him who looked to him for guidance, for strength.

That man had turned to him so many times. Turned to him to make sure Daryl was at his side, or running with him, keeping pace as they rushed to save their people. Turned to him to see agreement and support in his eyes. When no one else agreed with Rick, Daryl had been there for him. When Rick questioned himself, Daryl had been the one to nod and let him know he was doing the right thing.

And then they’d come to Alexandria.

And that’s when everything had changed.

More people. Rules. Walls. Judgment. Confusion.

Daryl had never felt it was truly home.

He’d felt like he used to when he’d find himself in someplace like a nice store or restaurant or court house before the turn, awkward and not knowing what to say or do. It didn’t happen often but he knew people were staring at his unkempt hair and clothes, at his awkward ways. He didn’t fit in, didn’t look right or feel right in a decent place.

He wasn’t made for polite society, for plush carpets and granite countertops. He’d grown up around degenerates who cussed and only bathed on Saturday nights, who drank beer in the morning and whiskey at night and moonshine they made themselves when the store bought booze ran out. He ate fast food or food he’d shot or trapped, cooked plain and simple. His idea of dressing up was putting on a clean pair of pants and a shirt that still had sleeves.

He remembered his first time in Deanna’s house, still holding the tail of the freshly shot possum he’d killed at the gates of this new place. He hadn’t wanted to sit on her chairs knowing he would get them dirty. Hadn’t wanted to meet her eyes, knowing what she was likely thinking about him.

And he’d told her why he thought the group should say. For the baby. And the boy. Not for himself. He would never fit in here.

Rick would. Rick did.

Daryl preferred it on the outside, looking for survivors to invite inside with Aaron. Rick had put on a constable’s uniform and patrolled the streets like he owned the place. But he secretly met with Daryl and Carol, planning on taking over if the residents were too weak.

Daryl still kind of wished they’d done that.

Or that they’d left, struck out on their own again to find and build a place like they had the prison. They’d taken that filthy stone cold place were bad men had been sentenced and made it their own. Not very clean, not very pretty, but better because they’d made it themselves.

Closing his eyes, the years slid away and Daryl could hear Rick yelling his name, over and over. In entreaty, in desperation, in command. ”Daryl!” “Kill that walker.” “Cover me.” “Follow me…” “Help me!” “DARYL!”

The sound of Rick calling his name had stayed in his head. It was there, all the time, when he woke in the morning. When he went to sleep at night. And in his dreams.

He would never not heed that call. Never not answer Rick’s beseeching voice.

Until he couldn’t hear it anymore. Or didn’t.

The time came when Rick stopped calling on Daryl. When Daryl wasn’t the only one for Rick to call on.

But maybe Daryl should have stuck closer to Rick in Alexandria. If he hadn’t been outside the walls, maybe Rick wouldn’t have killed Pete. Maybe Daryl should have stayed in the same house with him longer. Maybe he should have said something when Rick and Michonne…

Daryl rubbed at his face with both hands, forcibly stopping that thought.

He was hot and sweaty. He’d walked the river bank on both sides today, under the Virginia sun.

He wanted to rinse off the sweat and sadness in the water. Maybe he would be able to sleep since he was so tired right now.

He slipped out of his threadbare shirt and let it fall to the grass. Undoing his belt, he let his ragged jeans drop. He kicked out of his boots and naked as the day he was born, walked into the water.

He used to be modest, not wanting others to see the scars that littered his back.

But here, alone, he could do as he pleased. Dog didn’t mind. Didn’t judge him or avert his eyes or ask questions Daryl didn’t want to answer.

Now, Dog gave a yip and followed him into the shallows, playfully splattering and barking. Daryl swept his hand through the cooling water and made it go toward his companion, splashing at him. Dog tried to bite at the water like it was a toy.

Daryl waded in deeper, sinking down until his shoulders were under the water, letting it cool his body, rinse his sweat downstream, let his stress recede even if only for a few minutes.

He tipped his head back to let his hair get wet, running his hands through the tangles, stretching his body out, floating easily, letting the water caress him.

The sun sank low. The water grew chilly. Daryl headed back for the bank.

Dog followed, happy to be by his side.

As they emerged, Dog shook himself, sending droplets everywhere. Daryl slicked back his hair with his hands, grabbed his shirt and pants and boots off the ground and headed toward his tent.

He threw his clothing inside and bent over the campfire, striking a match to get it going. Somewhere around here was a towel – yeah, way over by the trees where he’d strung a line. He was too tired to walk there, so he just sat on a stump and let the air dry him.

Dog, still wet himself, settled nearby, looking up at Daryl eagerly. He leaned close and licked a few droplets from Daryl’s knee as if trying to help.

Daryl bent and found some scraps from their earlier meal and fed them to Dog, petting the thick damp fur. When he leaned over toward the fire to add some kindling, Dog went around behind him, this time licking Daryl’s lower back.

Daryl flinched hard. The dog’s long, wet tongue had laved over the scar on his left lower back. Over the X that had been carved into his flesh.

It was still sensitive, though it wasn’t new.

Physically sensitive.

Emotionally sensitive.

Not supposed to remember.

Don’t remember…

DON’T REMEMBER!”

White hot pain exploded in Daryl’s head. He clenched his eyes shut tight, hands over his face, bent double in agony. He knew he was groaning out loud, realized he’d fallen from the tree stump and was curling into a fetal position in the leaves, but he couldn’t help it. Distantly, he heard Dog whimpering in confusion.

He wasn’t supposed to remember, but it was coming back to him now, his thoughts fighting through the haze of pain, battering at rules that someone else had placed in his mind, knowing that he did remember, he did, he DID and if he could just reach out and grasp it, the pain would stop… and he would know, he would see, he would be sure…

The pain built and built, and Daryl convulsed on the ground, his body pummeled by the sheer, unrelenting suffering… worse than anything he could remember, worse than his Daddy’s belt, worse than being stuck by his own bolt, worse than Negan’s beatings, worse than being torn away from Rick…

Daryl screamed.

He remembered.

He was on his stomach. Naked, like he was now. The table under him was cold. Wait – table?

Where am I?

He thought he said the words, but even though he could tell there were people around him, they didn’t answer. Were they just ignoring him or did he only think he was talking out loud.

He tried to lift his head. There was something on his face, over his nose and mouth. He could sense air coming in, maybe something more than plain air. He remembered Merle took him to the hospital once, when his dad had flayed his back open worse than the other times he’d beaten him. And they’d given him something to knock him out so they could sew him up. It had smelled, faintly, the way the air going in his nose now felt.

His hand scrabbled up, toward the thing covering his face. He managed to grab it, pull it away slightly.

“Hey… wha’s goin’ on?” he managed to gasp out. In his head he was yelling angrily, but part of him realized he only moaned the words.

Again, nobody paid him any attention.

The people were wearing white. The place was lit with strong, bright lights. Daryl hadn’t seen anything that bright in years. The smell, once he’d gotten the thing away from his nose, was medicinal.

Some kind of hospital?

He could hear them moving, could hear tools clanking, compressors huffing, monitors beeping.

Yet, near as he could recall, other times he’d been in the care of doctors, he hadn’t been laying naked on a metal table that had no sheets or mattress, no pillow or even those drape things they covered you with so just your wounds were exposed.

“Has her blood type come back yet?”

Those words were distinct, demanding. Daryl turned his head to the opposite side, trying to see what was going on. But he tried to move carefully, instinctively knowing he didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself.

The people were gathered to his right. As they moved, doing whatever it was they were doing, he could make out that there was another table there. Like his own, bright metal. Under brighter lights.

Daryl squinted, tried to wake up enough to he could figure it out. Who was on that table? What were they doing over there?

Someone stepped aside and then he could see.

Dark, smooth skin. Bare arms that looked strong. Long dreads hanging over the side –

“Michonne!” He tried to yell her name, suddenly more terrified than he’d been for just himself.

But she didn’t react, didn’t seem to hear him.

“…’chonne?” Terrible dread swept through him.

What was this? Some crazy dream? Something from his imagination?

Another of the white clad people moved again and he saw Michonne’s bare back.

There was blood. Bloody tools… knives… were cutting into her skin. Down low, near her hip. On the left side…

Daryl pushed up, his arms feeling weaker than he could ever remember.

“No! What’re you doin’ to her? Stop! STOP!!”

“He’s awake,” someone yelled.

No shit. You better fuckin’ believe I’m awake!

Two of the strangers moved to his table, grabbing his arms, forcing his head back down. They held him tight, shoved his face down against the unyielding metal.

One of them forced the nasal thing back up over his face. The other started strapping him down to the table.

Daryl started kicking, yelling… he wouldn’t let them do this…

Someone else grabbed his legs. He felt the sharp stick of a needle hitting him in his lower back. Nausea swept through him. He gagged, unable to keep fighting. He sagged face first into the cold metal.

He couldn’t move anymore. But he was awake. He didn’t let on… knowing they’d do something about that too if they figured it out.

All he could do was listen, trying desperately to figure out what was happening. It was hard though. He had few references. It was too strange, too alien, too terrifying.

Mostly, there were the low voices giving orders and the clank of metal tools, the hiss of air, the clunk of pumps… it was hard to focus, to follow it all.

“I got her blood type,” a woman’s voice said, catching his attention.

“Yeah?”

“Not compatible.” The person sounded annoyed.

“What? Fuck… I thought she’d work.”

“Good thing we brought both of them. How soon will his be back?”

“Any minute.”

“Are you gonna close her up?”

“Nah… might as well take it. We can keep it on ice ‘til we need another one.”

“Lab’s calling… “ Someone hurried past him, their coat brushing his bare arm as they passed. Daryl cringed, fear flooding his body.

Several moments passed. Behind him, he could hear them, voices soft and urgent. The sounds of cutting… blood squirting… tools clinking more…

“He’s compatible!” The words were rushed, excited.

“Get the kidney on ice and stitch her up!” someone barked an order. “We’ve gotta get him ready.”

“Is there enough time?” a woman’s voice.

“There better be or Jadis will have to provide us another one.”

“What are you gonna do to her about this one?”

“Oh, she’ll be sorry. Said it was good and instead sent us this guy who’s bleeding out, kidney ruined. If we want him to do what we need him to do, we need him healed and fully functional. Jadis will pay for this.”

“Shut up about her and get this one opened up.”

On the table, Daryl panicked. They were talking about him. He didn’t know who they were or why they’d taken him and Michonne to this weird place, but he’d be damned if they were gonna cut him open while he was awake like this.

He started struggling again. He could only move his head and his forearms but he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Get yer fuckin’ hands offa me!”

Someone pressed him down hard. He felt something new blowing into his face from the nasal thing… everything went dark.

His eyes re-opened an unknown time later. He was still on the table, still unable to move, only barely awake. There was pain, but it was distant, as if someone not himself was feeling it. The people were around him. He could hear cutting noises, the sound of equipment sucking, hissing. They had cut into him, he realized, distantly feeling the fear and shock, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He could feel tugging and pulling at his back, down low. On the left side. He’d never felt so invaded, so violated. His body was not his own, these people, whoever they were, were touching him, inside his body… taking something from him.

“It’s in good condition,” someone said, sounding surprised.

“Must not be as much of a good ol’ boy as he looks.”

That brought a laugh from someone. “Must be short on moonshine down there.”

“Shut up. Is the recipient ready?”

“Yes, we’ve got him ready.”

“Bring him over here. I don’t want to have to move this thing any farther than I have to.”

Daryl recognized the sound of wheels turning, of something being rolled over the floor. He swallowed down the fear and nausea rushing over him, trying hard to focus his eyes.

There wasn’t much he wanted to see here. He knew – the way you knew what something horrible in a movie was even though they didn’t show it – what was going on. He wasn’t sure he believed it. He wanted to believe it was some nightmare that he’d wake up from, whole, in one piece, free of pain. But a distant part of him new, the way you knew the walkers weren’t really alive and they were going to eat you while you were still alive, that this was no nightmare.

Whoever was standing near his head, shifted slightly. The wheels he’d heard seemed to screech a bit on the floor. His eyes darted around, seeking something to focus on.

It was another table. Another person was on it, face down, their body bare, compromised.

Who… ?

Dark curly hair spilled over the person’s forehead. Daryl felt a tremble of recognition. His eyes tried to deny what he was seeing… but there it was. The strong profile he knew better than his own. A well shaped nose, so clean and noble. Soft, full, red lips. A wide forehead.

“Rick…?”

And then, before the anesthetic took him under again, Daryl saw one of the people, holding a metal pan with something red and slimy in it, move over to where Rick’s back was open and waiting…

When Daryl woke up, he knew it was many hours later. The moon was high in the darkened sky. Dog lay curled next to him, his head on Daryl’s bare thigh.

His body felt ancient, tired and sore and aching. Long forgotten pain had come back from his nightmare to join him here on the damp ground of his camp site. He pushed up on shaky arms. Dog gave an inquisitive whine, sitting up next to him.

“Come on, Dog,” Daryl muttered, his voice dry and scratchy. He’d been passed out on the ground for hours. He was cold and sore. He felt like he’d been on a week long drunk.

He managed to get to his feet, standing there a moment to get his bearings. He brushed leaves and dirt from his arms and legs. As he bent down, his back gave a half-familiar twinge.

He reached back, his hand tentative, curious.

He could feel it. It was still there. It was real.

That raised area of skin, that scar his father didn’t give him. The “x” that marked the spot where they had cut him open. Where they had taken something out of him… and put it into

Rick.

He staggered toward his tent. Bent to dig through the clothes he kept piled in an old cardboard box and finally retrieved a soft shirt with sleeves and some sweat pants. He struggled into them, needing the comfort, the shelter they provided. Once he’d covered his naked body in the threadbare clothes, he sank down on his sleeping bag. Dog nudged his arm and Daryl reached for the matches, struck one and lit his lamp. The golden light spilled freely into his tent, making him feel safer as it revealed the few belongings he owned, so familiar and comforting.

He was sitting cross-legged, finger running absently over the worn fabric of the sweatpants and he suddenly remembered where they had come from.

Michonne had brought them to him, six month or so after they’d lost Rick. They’d been his. She’d somehow known that Daryl would appreciate having a few of Rick’s things near him. She’d kept most for Judith, of course. But she had brought a few shirts and pants to Daryl, a book that Rick had enjoyed, an old Western, its pages bent and coffee stained. And these sweats, ones Rick had slept in, thrown on after a shower, pulled on when it was cold in Alexandria.

They’d been Rick’s and now they were Daryl’s and he figured his old friend wouldn’t mind.

It was almost like Rick was holding him, here and now, even though he was gone. Dead and wandering, or fully dead…

Wait, no. The dream –

For the first time, Daryl was fully aware of the pain, the bright lights, the cutting, the impersonal hands and seeing Rick next to him on a gurney, with those strangers putting Daryl’s own kidney into Rick’s pale, wounded body.

Always before, he had tried to remember, but pain had overwhelmed him, forcing him to stop trying to figure it out. It was like they – whoever they were had made his brain like this… implanted some kind of suggestion that if he thought about it too hard, all he would feel was pain and more pain until he gave up and decided it had just been some weird dream he couldn’t really remember in detail.

But this time… somehow… he did remember.

He had woken up in a meadow, weak and in pain. He wasn’t sure what had happened. Or where Michonne was. Something told him she was hurt too, needed his help. When he’d been able to stand, Daryl and managed to get himself to the gates of Alexandria.

When they’d opened to let him in, he asked for her immediately. She was sick, injured somehow, they told him. Dr. Saddiq was taking care of her.

Daryl had rushed up the stairs to her room and found himself winded, gasping in pain. And he’d collapsed at her bedside.

When he woke a day later, Saddiq had informed him that both he and Michonne had had operations, but without x-ray equipment he didn't know much else.

Daryl didn’t know how or why… and his mind wouldn’t supply the answers he sought. When he’d tried to talk to Michonne about it, to see if she knew anything, remembered anything at all… she had given him a stricken look… she’d tried to speak… and then she’d screamed. Loud and long. And she’d wept, stammering that just trying to think hurt

“And don’t ever ask me about it again,” she’d said finally, with such desperate anguish in her voice that Daryl had resolved to heed her wishes.

He’d put it out of his mind, as best he could.

And yet, he’d been even more driven to keep searching for his friend. To find what was left of the man he loved so much, to put him down if need be. To bury him if he could. To do the last things he ever could for the man that Daryl had followed since all those years before when he’d seen him climb out of that white panel truck at the quarry.

What if it was real? He wondered, as he dug through his possessions to find a half empty bottle of whiskey. He tugged off the cap and took a healthy swig.

What if it was real? What if… some people… from somewhere unknown… had found Rick.. and had taken Daryl and Michonne and tried to… heal Rick?

Why? From where? Who were they? Were they good people? Or were these strangers worse than anything or anyone they’d encountered before?

Was it real? Had Daryl’s kidney been transplanted into Rick?

And was Rick… now, still, somewhere… alive???

Chapter Text

“And the world will be better for this:
That one man, scorned and covered with scars,
Still strove, with his last ounce of courage,
To reach ... the unreachable star ...”
~ The Impossible Dream from Man of LaMancha, lyrics by Joe Darion

It was getting dark. Daryl was tired. It was the end of another long day of searching. In the last year, he’d started going further afield, knowing that his constant combing of both banks of the river had yielded all they could, or ever would.

So now, he wandered further, into the woods, across pastures. He looked for groups of walkers on the move. When he’d find one, he’d hide nearby and watch as they passed, using binoculars if they were too far away, more often than not just his own good eye sight. If Rick had turned, it was likely he’d been with a herd now.

Sometimes, Daryl’s heart would give a jerk as he spied a walker with curly hair, or one with a Western style shirt, or one with cowboy boots… but no, upon closer inspection, it was never Rick.

He also looked for lone walkers, ambling along without purpose, just walking forever, undead and unseeing. But none of them were Rick either.

On his back, Daryl carried his crossbow. In his belt, he carried the Python. He wondered, if he did find Rick, would he use his bow to put him down, or would he shoot him with the man’s own gun.

Part of Daryl never wanted to find out the answer.

As he came upon his camp, Dog began to wag his tail and prance with excitement. The animal was hungry and knew that when they got back home, Daryl would feed him.

Then Daryl’s faithful companion stopped in his tracks, his body still and at attention. A low whine escaped his throat.

“Wha’s a’matter, Dog?” Daryl asked, keeping his voice low. He pulled the crossbow from his back, ready to heft it into position.

And he saw what had captured Dog’s attention.

There was smoke coming from the campsite. A bright flame, a fire somebody had lit.

It had been months since a visitor had come looking for Daryl. And most, if they showed up while he wasn’t home, wouldn’t feel free to start a fire themselves. Most were deferential to him, waiting to be invited.

Maybe it was chilly. Daryl wasn’t sure because walking had kept him warm. But it was evening now. He noticed the breeze felt chilly now that he’d stopped walking.

But who… who would make themselves at home that way? Daryl doubted it was any of his friends, his family.

Likely a stranger, then.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. He hadn’t made a huge effort to keep his little camp hidden. He figured he’d been pretty lucky that no strangers had crossed his path in all this time.

But his instincts were still honed from the long years since the dead had started walking. The cross bow was off his back and held steady in front of him in an instant. He pulled a bolt and sighted at the same time, but whoever had set the fire must be sitting inside his tent – he couldn’t make anyone out.

He pulled back on the string to set the bolt, his arm barely noticing the hundred fifty pound draw, nerves of steel settling. He’d be damned if any thieves were gonna come here and steal his shit. Not now.

He gave a soft whistle which Dog understood. He knew Daryl wanted him to stand right by him, not go charging in to the camp. Not until Daryl gave the signal for him to fly towards the interlopers.

Daryl stood watching the fire for a moment longer. Waiting for something to happen, for him to see, just a sliver of who had invaded his property.

The side of the tent moved slightly.

A shape appeared at the open door.

Bent down, holding a stick, nudging at the fire.

“Who the fuck d’you think you are?” Daryl demanded, his voice cold with anger and indignation.

The half seen figure turned. The stick was tossed aside.

He couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. It was dressed in some kind of long robe thing. It was a dull brown material. Like maybe monks wore.

Daryl was ready to let his bolt fly.

“C’mon outta there. I’ll put this bolt right ‘tween yer eyes!”

Both of the stranger’s hands moved then, but not to reach for a weapon.

The arms lifted, palms extended. The figure, daringly, took a step forward.

The jackass was either nuts or just plain stupid, Daryl decided.

Daryl took three long strides in the direction of his camp, crossbow still ready and cocked.

The stranger’s arms rose higher. “Wait!”

Daryl kept walking toward him. “What the fuck should I wait for?”

“Daryl…” the voice said then. “Don’t you know me?”

No… can’t be… Daryl shook his head, bringing up one hand to scrub at his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Everything seemed to freeze in place – the breeze, his heart beat… time itself.

The stranger came a step closer. The voice spoke again. Soft, with a Southern drawl.

“Daryl, it’s me.”

Time started up again. With a painful gasp, Daryl took a breath. His chest felt like he’d been kicked as his heart started beating again.

“No,” he gasped out. “Yer not real.”

“I’m real. It’s me. Daryl… it’s okay.” And then Rick was moving forward, meeting Daryl half way. The crossbow fell from Daryl’s limp fingers. Dog gave a confused bark – and Daryl had just enough sense left to realize that if the vision, if Rick wasn’t really there, there’d be nothing to bark at.

Daryl didn’t remember starting to walk again, but he realized he was moving, covering the distance as rapidly as he could.

Even if this wasn’t real, who was he to turn aside, to ignore what his heart and longed for all this time?

And then Rick was right in front of him, his blue eyes crinkling in delight, his lips opening in a relieved smile, his arms outstretched.

Daryl fell into them.

Rick’s embrace was as tight and strong as it ever was. Daryl realized dimly that he was shaking, maybe going into shock or something. His head was spinning, he couldn’t believe… but he had to. He had to believe because this was the answer to his dreams.

Rick’s voice was as familiar as it was dear, murmuring in Daryl’s ear, lips close enough that Daryl could feel the other man’s breath.

Daryl staggered, weak in the knees. His hands clutched tight in the robe thing that Rick had on. It felt like burlap or something. But Daryl didn’t care.

“Daryl… Daryl, it’s okay,” the warm voice, heard for years only in Daryl’s dreams, came to him like gentle waves of reassurance. Rick’s arms tightened around him. Rick, as always, was a center of peace in any storm.

“C’mon, I’ve got your fire going,” Rick said, after he’d stroked a hand through Daryl’s tangled hair and then rubbed gently, calmingly down his back.

At Rick’s urging, they turned back towards Daryl’s campfire.

Dog was right there still, now he moved closer to this stranger who was holding Daryl, sniffing at his boots and legs.

“Who’s this?” Rick asked, laughter in his voice.

Daryl, his head leaning on Rick’s shoulder, managed to get out, “Tha’s Dog.”

“I see it’s a dog,” Rick began, his hand tightening on Daryl’s bicep as he led the way.

“It’s his name,” Daryl huffed out. “Shoulda given him a real name but for so long it was just him an’ me.”

“Ah,” Rick paused a moment, letting his free hand reach toward the animal. “Dog? Nice to meet you.”

Dog sniffed curiously at Rick’s outstretched fingers. His eyes went to check Daryl, as if he wasn’t sure even now if this was friend or foe.

“S’all right, Dog. This’s Rick.”

And as that beloved name fell from his lips, Daryl’s voice broke on a sob.

It wasn’t very manly. But Rick had seen him cry before.

Rick reached up, placing his hand on the side of Daryl’s face, fingers sinking into his hair.

Daryl took a deep breath. Forced his emotions into some semblance of control.

But it was Rick who began speaking first. “I’m so sorry,” Rick said, his own voice sounding close to breaking.

Part of Daryl nearly yelled at the man, wanting to know where the hell he’d been all this time. But the greater part didn’t care. Not yet. It was enough that Rick was here. They could talk. Rick would fill him in. At least, Daryl sure hoped so.

Daryl pulled back slightly so he could look Rick in the eye. “Sorry?” he asked.

Rick’s eyes were diffident, but resolutely met Daryl’s. “Sorry about that day,” he said, voice soft and somber. “Sorry we fought. Sorry we went… separate ways…”

“S’in the past,” Daryl said, shrugging it off. He and Rick had had their differences before and had always made up. What did that matter now? “Sorry I didn’t have enough bolts…” he began instead. Daryl suppressed a shudder, unable to stop the memory of his last sight of Rick, on the bridge with that huge herd approaching him.

“You had enough,” Rick told him gently. “Gave me enough time to take a breath, think.”

“And time to shoot the dynamite?”

Rick’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “C’mon,” he said, as if wanting to change the subject. “Let’s sit down.” And with that, he returned his arm to its place around Daryl’s shoulder and started heading toward the camp once more.

Daryl kept his peace, not wanting to break the silence between them. Rick was here. He was real. If he wasn’t, Daryl didn’t care. He was real enough. He didn’t want to break the spell by talking, asking too many questions that this dream of Rick might not want to answer.

When they reached the campsite, Daryl stepped out of Rick’s hold and bent to grab a folding chair. He shook it open and set it on the ground, motioning for Rick to sit down. Daryl took his place on the stump that was his usual place. Dog sat down between them, looking back and forth expectantly.

With a sigh, Daryl got back up. “Sorry, he’s hungry. We been out…” he hesitated, almost having said searching… “all day.”

He busied himself opening up the box where he stored leftovers that he kept for Dog, and in moments, the animal was happily chowing down on them.

Daryl felt a bit awkward then. “Y’hungry?” he asked Rick.

“Not really.”

The sincere blue eyes were on him, looking as if Daryl had been on Rick’s mind for a long time. But… visions don’t eat, tugged at the corners of Daryl’s mind. He forced that thought away as best he could.

“I could sure use some coffee if you’ve got it,” Rick went on then.

Daryl’s heart started beating normally again.

“Yeah, might be stale. Friends… friends drop some off for me every now and again.” He stepped into the tent to retrieve the can of ground coffee that Arron and Jesus had brought him a couple of months back, then found his battered pot and went back outside and filled it with water from his rain barrel. He didn’t have a real measurer, but the bent spoon he’d been using was good enough. Daryl put the coffee pot next to the fire.

“Don’t got no cream,” he said, sheepishly.

“You know that’s okay with me,” Rick said, settling back in the canvas chair, stretching his long legs out toward the crackling flames. “Man, this feels good. Brings back memories.” Rick glanced over at Daryl, his eyes with that warm fondness in them again.

“Ain’t much,” Daryl shrugged. He gestured vaguely to indicate the camp “I make do.”

“Why don’t you live with the others?”

Daryl wasn’t sure he could answer. “Haven’t felt like it,” was all he managed.

He couldn’t just sit there, no matter how badly he wanted to just gaze at Rick, to commit the man’s face to memory once more. Instead, he got up and pulled out some jerky he’d made from the last deer he’d killed and then put some potatoes in his skillet along with some of the jar of green beans Carol had brought last week that had been grown in the Kingdom’s gardens. Even if Rick wasn’t hungry, Daryl was. And he needed something to do with his hands.

He crouched by the fire, stirring his concoction, as acutely aware of Rick’s presence as he could be. This could have been just another night on the road and Daryl wished that it was nothing more than that.

But it wasn’t. It was their first meeting in nearly six years. He wanted to ask Rick so many questions but he had no idea where to start.

“I really am sorry,” Rick said suddenly, breaking the silence. It was obvious now that he meant more than just what had happened on their last day together.

Daryl didn’t turn around. It felt easier to ask what was foremost in his mind without being able to see Rick’s face. But his throat was so tight, he had to take a minute to get a single word out.

“What…what happened, Rick?” Daryl nearly gasped. To his own ears, the words sounded half accusatory, half wounded. He hadn’t wanted them to come out that way. He just wanted to know, without recriminations or judgment.

He turned, wanting to take them back, to let Rick tell his story in his own way and in his own time. “Sorry,” he blurted. “If you don’ want…”

Rick’s face looked stricken. “It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

Rick glanced up toward the darkening sky. “I might not,” he told Daryl cryptically.

Daryl bit his lip, very deliberately turning back toward the fire.

Behind him, Rick sighed and shifted in his seat.

“I thought I was dyin’,” he said finally. His voice was low, defeated.

“Thought you were too,” Daryl couldn’t help muttering. “Could see you were hurt, bleedin’. Saw the explosion.”

Behind him, Rick heaved a sigh. “The horse got spooked,” he said, and for a second, Daryl was confused. Then he remembered the big white horse Rick had taken to get himself back to Alexandria. “Some walker…” Rick went on, his words spare, unembellished. “I fell off.”

Daryl gave what he hoped was an encouraging grunt, not wanting to interrupt now that Rick was finally talking.

“Landed on a piece of rusty rebar. You know how clumsy I’ve always been.” Rick sounded like he was trying to joke about it, but Daryl cringed inwardly, remembering the bleeding wound on Rick’s side. “Hurt kinda bad. I was tryin’ to get home. To find… my family… and I was sorta… outta my head, I guess. Saw a lot of people… Hershel, Sasha… others… they kept tellin’ me to keep lookin’.” The man’s voice trailed off.

Daryl served up the food onto two of his tin camping plates and turned, offering one to Rick. “Wound like that can do that,” was all he said as he reached for the coffee pot and poured two generous cups. Retuning to his seat on the tree stump, he handed one of the cups to Rick.

The other man took it, his warm, dry fingers sliding over Daryl’s briefly.

He’s real… he feels real…

Rick blew on the steaming cup and then took a sip. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Mmmnn… that tastes real good, Daryl.”

“Pfft, I’m not that good at coffee makin’.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve had any.” Rick took another drink, obviously savoring the flavor.

Not knowing what to make of that statement, Daryl took a sip of his own. It was the same robust brew he always made, bitter and hot and strong enough to stand on its own without a cup, as Merle used to tell him. But if Rick liked it, that was just fine.

“I saw you,” Rick said, “at the end.”

“I know,” was all Daryl could manage.

“I saw the rest, comin’ toward me on the bridge. Lori, Carl… Glenn, Abraham, Beth, my family… I found them.” There was a quaver in his voice.

Daryl leaned over and took the cup of coffee from Rick’s shaking hand.

“That’s what I’d started with, y’know? Lookin’ for my family.” Rick breathed out a tremulous sigh. “And the others, they joined us. They were our famly.” He looked to Daryl then, eyes flashing in the campfire flames. “Our family, Daryl. Yours and mine.”

Daryl felt himself flush at that deep, pondering look Rick was giving him. He didn’t know what it meant, what he should say, where he should look. He put Rick’s cup down and grabbed his fork, shoveling some potatoes into his mouth.

Rick leaned forward to clasp at Daryl’s wrist. “We made that family. Together.”

“Not just you and me,” Daryl demurred. “it was all of us. Michonne, Carol, Maggie…”

Rick let go of Daryl and sat back, his eyes far away. “I’ve missed you.” His voce was soft, wistful.

Daryl felt his face burning. He’d missed Rick too. So fucking much.

“I kept lookin’,” he said finally, almost relieved to say the words. “That’s why I’m livin’ out here, this way.”

Rick’s eyes turned to him. “What?”

“Was out all day today, again. S’what I do every day.”

Rick’s throat worked, his eyes were wide and confused. “What did you hope to find?”

Daryl shook his head. “You. What else?”

“You didn’t think I was dead? You didn’t think I blew up with the bridge?”

Looking away from that intense gaze, Daryl stared at his boots. “Ev’ry body else did. Michonne and I, we looked for… if anything… y’know… was left.”

“Oh.” Rick paused, the silence heavy. “To put me down.” It wasn’t a question.

Daryl didn’t say yes or no. “Just…to find you.” He finally looked up and met Rick’s eyes. “I had to.”

“Daryl, it’s been years.”

“I know. Michonne, she stopped after a year or so. She’s been busy back at Alexandria. And with… “ He broke off. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“She had a baby.” Daryl remembered that Michonne had told him, through tears, that she hadn’t been sure she was pregnant when they lost Rick, that she hadn’t told him.

Rick’s jaw literally dropped. “Those bastards.” A flash of anger crossed his face at he bitten off words. Daryl wanted to ask what he meant but then Rick’s earnest gaze was back on him. “She had… my… baby?” His eyes looked like they were brimming over.

“A boy,” Daryl said simply. “Named him R.J.”

“After me?” Rick was wistful. “That’s… “

“We c’n go see them,” Daryl said suddenly, knowing it was wrong to have Rick here all to himself. He had a son he’d never seen. He was about to throw down his plate and head right off, when Rick’s hand fell on his arm.

“No… I mean, not now.” Rick sighed heavily. “You made dinner.”

“Right,” Daryl said sheepishly. “We got time.”

Rick sighed deeply. “Time…”

“So dig in, man. I worked my ass off on this.” Daryl attempted to lighten the mood.

Rick nodded and picked up his fork, taking several healthy bites. “Tastes good,” he said appreciatively. When he looked around for his coffee, Daryl handed back his cup.

After a deep swallow of it, Rick leaned back and sighed. “I’ve dreamed of this.”

I have too.

They finished their food in relative silence. Dog came up and asked for scraps. Daryl tossed a piece of his jerky, not as hungry as he’d thought he was. He was so overwhelmed he’d lost his appetite, the sight of Rick was enough to slake his hunger.

When they were finished, Rick helped Daryl take their dishes down to the stream to wash them off. It was nice with Rick beside him, doing an everyday task together. Daryl remembered times they’d had no stream to wash their few plates in after eating whatever he’d been able to catch and cook on the road.

They returned to their seats and Daryl refilled their coffee cups. He added a few more branches to the fire to keep them warm. Rick was leaning back, eyes closed, still enjoying his coffee.

Finally Daryl had to ask the question uppermost in his mind.

“Where were you?” He let the words drop softly into the night.

If Rick had been alive all this time, living somewhere nearby, why hadn’t he shown himself sooner? Why had he waited years, waited while Daryl mourned? While his whole family mourned?

“I mean… part of me never gave up,” he said, needing to get the words out. “There was no chance… but you’re… Rick Grimes. You had to survive. Most thought I lost my mind. They let me believe what I wanted to though. Said if I found you turned, I’d take care of you. I haven’t been sure I still thought there was any chance, but part of me never gave up.” He wasn’t used to making such long speeches, especially now that his life was so solitary. He’d just had to let Rick know. He didn’t want praise or anything like that. There had been so much pain, such hopeless grief in his search, only pushed on by the fading hope that somehow, some way, Rick Grimes had managed to survive.

“So, where…?” His eyes stayed on the campfire as he asked his question again.

Rick moved closer then. His hand reached to touch Daryl’s chin and urge him to turn to look at him.

When their eyes met, Rick looked sad and hurt and angry and ashamed.

“Very far away,” he whispered. “So far, I couldn’t get back here.”

Rick’s face crumpled then, a sob broke free and Daryl opened his arms to catch him when he fell into Daryl’s embrace.

He awkwardly patted Rick’s back, let him shake and shudder and gasp out his story in fits and starts, moans and pleas interrupting him, the explanation jumbled and confused and yet Daryl knew it had to be true.

Rick had found himself on the side of the river, in pain, weak from the blast and his wound. He hadn’t been sure he wasn’t dreaming because he’d fully expected to die, to be blown to bits with the bridge and the advancing walkers.

He’d heard sounds, like the blades of a helicopter – though he hadn’t heard one in years, not since Atlanta… it couldn’t be real.

Then someone was moving him, his body being lifted, the pain of an IV being inserted, his clothes being cut open, bandages being applied.

And then the wind, the shaking, the helicopter taking off. The place he knew receding into the distance. He tried to look around and the only person he recognized was Jadis.

And then sleep, deep unconsciousness, really. And when he woke, he’d known it had been a long time and that a long journey had been taken.

“Nobody would answer my questions,” he said, finally extricating himself from Daryl’s hold. Rick dragged a still shaky hand over his face, trying to push the damp curls off his forehead. His eyes were reddened and bruised looking.

Daryl added hot coffee to the cup that had grown cold. “Here,” he offered. “Drink this.”

Rick did as requested. The sip seemed to help him calm down. “I was a long time recovering,” he went on, not looking at Daryl. “I kept asking who they were, what they wanted with me. Where we were.”

Daryl reached to put a hand on Rick’s shoulder.

“I tried to listen, tried to find out any scrap of information I could.” Rick look at him then. “It took me years.” His voice was pained, as if he were desperate to make Daryl understand, to believe.

“Jadis had been in touch with them, somehow. She gave me to them. They were… tryin’ to find a cure.” Rick rubbed at his eyes again, turned and sat up, staying on the ground close to Daryl. “There were walkers,” he said after a moment, “in cages.”

“What the fuck…?”

“Experiments,” Rick said flatly. “They took my blood. Put it… in the walkers… And they did stuff… to me too…” He gulped hard. It was clear he couldn’t go on.

“Rick…” Daryl’s heart hurt for him.

“I always kept tryin’. Askin’ questions. Kept tellin’ them my family needed me.” His eyes still on the sky, Rick reached down and found Daryl’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “’You’re dead to them. They’ve gone on without you.’” He said as if recreating the cold voices that had answered him.

“You’re here now,” Daryl said, holding Rick’s hand in a firm grip. “I’ve got you.”

“They didn’t let me go,” Rick said, his voice flat with resignation. “I got away. They’ll be coming for me.”

“I won’t let them take you,” Daryl said fiercely.

“Hid on one of their planes, climbed out when it stopped. I was in… Nebraska.” Rick’s voice choked on a brief laugh. “Those guys that found Hershel and Glenn and me in the bar said they heard Nebraska was okay. No walkers… They were wrong.” He shuddered as if reliving a struggle, many struggles, on his journey home.

“You made it back,” Daryl assured him. “You always did. You’re here with me.”

“They can find me.” Rick’s voice was forlorn. He finally looked at Daryl again. “I’m so tired.”

“You can rest here. It’s safe.” Daryl got to his feet and helped Rick up too. He urged the man to go inside the tent and eased him down onto his own sleeping bag. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Quickly, he tended to the fire and made a check of his walker traps. Then he picked up his crossbow up from where’d he’d dropped it and brought it back to the camp. He gave a whistle to Dog, then stepped into the tent.

Rick was curled on his side, one arm flung out into the space beside him. Daryl was tired too, but part of him was afraid to fall asleep lest he wake to find Rick’s presence had really been a dream, or that someone or something had spirited him away during the night. He knelt down beside him.

In his sleep, Rick’s hand flinched and clenched, then seemed to reach out for Daryl. A groan escaped him. “No… please… I need… him…”

Suppressing a sob himself, Daryl took Rick’s hand in his, enfolding it in his own calloused one. “You’re safe, Rick,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ll keep watch.” He brought his free hand up to enclose Rick’s more completely, rubbing knuckles, trying to offer comfort.

It was nearly unbelievable. Rick was alive, really alive. He had been taken somewhere far away. Held prisoner. And it wasn’t unbelievable, because if there was one thing Daryl Dixon knew in his heart, that if Rick had been able, he’d’ve let his family know he was alive, he would have come home. If he could have.

Finally, Daryl stretched out beside him, pulling a blanket over them both. He moved as close as he dared, his heart full of the love he’d never expressed. That was okay though. Rick was here and Daryl could keep him safe. That was enough for now.

Yet Daryl couldn’t sleep. He had searched for this man for nearly six years. Every moment with him was precious.

to be continued...