𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 ➪ «𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 𝑑𝑖𝑥𝑜𝑛»

ch. XXXIV - 《pining, the origins》

oOo

Daryl lied on the couch in his room, hands behind his head, the exhaustion of his body and the buzz from the alcohol making him lightheaded enough for his eyes to droop closed on their own.

He'd showered right after dinner and it had felt like he'd washed weeks' worth of grime off him, the hot water on his sore muscles and the soapy cleanliness had filled him with a sense of physical relaxation.

The couch wasn't the most comfortable of surfaces - a cheap thing, with worn leather cushions and springs poking his back - but he preferred it over the floor, he preferred it over all the surfaces he'd had to sleep on for the last month or so. All in all, despite his aches, his body was ready to rest, but his mind less so.

He thought of Merle. If he'd been the one to steal their van, why hadn't he headed to camp, where had he gone? Had he gotten disoriented with the blood loss and crashed somewhere on the way? Was he even still alive at this point? If yes, for how long would that be? He hadn't exactly been in the best of conditions to go around slaying biters, fending for his life.

Merle might be the biggest douche-bag he knew, but he was still his blood, and not knowing his whereabouts, nor whether he was alive, was eating at him.

He resented the morons from the quarry for leaving him like that and tried to imagine what might've led to his incarceration. It had been Rick, the complete total stranger who had come back in place of his brother, the only one with the guts to confront him about it.

He'd even said that the catalyst had been something his brother had said to Diana.

Daryl had ignored that at the time, blinded by anger and betrayal, but now he wondered what he'd meant. He knew Merle held no love for Diana nor her family, but what had that jackass said and done that had led to him getting handcuffed to the fucking roof?

It frustrated him to have more questions than answers. It made him feel guilty to know his brother was out in that world somewhere, possibly dead, while he enjoyed his safety with an almost clear conscience.

Daryl's active mind reeled over the events of the past couple of days, wondering how so much shit could've hit the fan in such a short span of time.

He'd helped bury many familiar faces, but none had affected him so deeply as Samuel and Irene Lobo.

There was no longer a point in denying that he cared for that family. Even when the other survivors had been impartial to him, they had been different.

Maybe it was because he and Merle found them before the others, and it was as if they had imprinted on each other – or he had rather than his brother.

Daryl had had immense respect for Samuel and Irene. They'd had their differences, and they'd always been reluctant about their daughter's contact with him, which he'd thought was sound parenting, even if he hadn't been a threat. He preferred to think that they didn't necessarily despise him more recently.

They hadn't been close, but their deaths had moved something in him.

The bleeding heart his brother accused him of ached to think of Diana and the kids' grief. He'd been very young when his mother died and had long broken off contact with his father when the news came that he'd passed, so he didn't know the kind of sorrow they were going through.

He remembered their solemn faces at the burial; they'd refused to let anyone take over the task, piously scooping dirt with their own hands. It would've broken any sound person's heart.

Daryl had felt a strange sort of stabbing guilt, unreasonable and unfounded, over the fact that Diana hadn't been there with her family because of his damn brother. He had to shove through his thick skull that she'd volunteered, he hadn't pressed her to go. If anything, she'd been too stubborn to heed his words.