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Zoowee mama this is a long one LMAO

Chapter 2: between a rock and a hard place

“Yeah, you got it. Little more.” you encourage quietly, and it urges another frustrated sound from him, this one more like a groan than a whimper. He feels patronized, more than likely, despite your assurances being genuine. His legs are moving against the glass case below him, writhing. His breathing is coming heavier now, too. Soon enough this would be over, and he could go back to protecting you. For right now, it was your turn to care for him. You hear a dull thunk as his head falls back against the glass, can hear him panting. You can almost see the blurry outline of his chest rising and falling quickly with the effort. Just a little further now.

tags: canon typical violence, gore, no use of y/n, minor character death, mentions of real songs, NOT A SONGFIC THO, sort of fluff?, sort of angst? it gets worse in the next chapters lol.

wc: 10k

ao3 link!

It seems the sick ones have moved on. It sounds like everyone has moved on, not even the faintest shuffling of feet could be heard now. You weren’t sure when the two of you had fallen asleep, curled up together in the darkness like this. You weren’t even sure Daryl had slept. You only remember blinking awake in the quiet, in the dark. It takes you a long moment to remember all that had happened before you fell asleep. Daryl obviously feels you stir, and he shifts beside you.

“You with me?” he asks, his voice hushed, almost sticky from the lack of use. The scent of peaches really wakes you up, brings you back to the present. You nod slowly, orienting yourself, your eyes adjusting to the darkness again.

“How long-” you start, cut off by Daryl.

“Not sure. Long though. Check your phone.” While the instructions are blunt, there’s no bite, no command in them, more like he’d thought this problem over countless times and the solution was clear. Your phone could tell them the time, but he had saved it, saved the battery, hadn’t checked the time himself. You feel the cold metal of the familiar device sink into your palm. You flip it open, and for a moment, the light of the screen is nearly blinding. You hear Daryl grunt beside you, his arm coming up to shield his eyes. You squint, letting your eyes adjust to the screen’s brightness. You had been here, like this, for eight hours. You blinked, sure it was a mistake, a trick. But no. Eight hours had gone by. Daryl must feel you tense, or maybe he’s uncomfortable with the long quiet, because he grunts over at you.

“What? What is it?”

You flip the phone closed, rubbing at your eyes as you try to adjust to the dark again. “It’s been eight hours, Daryl.” Your tone is flat, and honestly you hardly believe the words yourself. You don’t need to see him to know the expression that crosses his face. The disbelief, the annoyance.

“You sleep at all?” You asked, hand blindly searching the darkness until it finds him, his knee, resting there. There’s a moment of silence, and you picture him shaking his head or nodding, though can’t see him doing either. It would almost make you laugh, if the situation weren’t so serious. You hear him clear his throat.

“Nah. Jus’ been… listenin’.” He shrugs, shoulder shifting beneath where your head rested on it. For a moment you wonder why he hadn’t woken you, why he hadn’t at least moved. And you realized it had been for your sake, you had practically trapped him with how you lent against him. And you were sure if it had been urgent, he would’ve woken you. The smart thing was to sit quietly until it died down outside, it was only a bonus you managed to catch some shut-eye.

“How long’s it been quiet for?” You ask, thumb tracing absent circles on his knee.

“Not long. Doesn’t stay quiet for long. Those uh- those people outside’re gone though.” It’s uncharacteristic for him to trip over his words, and it makes you think his first instinct wasn’t to say people. You realize what he’s getting at. It’s time to move. You slowly sit up, your muscles and joints feeling stiff from sitting in one position so long. Your body feels colder in the spots where it had been pressed against his. He was like a walking radiator, that man.

“Alright.” you nod, pocketing your phone. You’re reluctant to stand, not only because you’re not sure if you can trust your legs, but because it’s one step closer to going outside, to seeing what had become of the city. You and Daryl weren’t even from the city, really. You the suburbs, him a trailer park walking distance from your home. The city was way out of your way, but so was that diner. Yours and his favorite diner. Images of the explosion flash through your mind, and even in this pitch black truck, you can almost see the white-orange light. The diner you had come so far out for was gone, now. That girl you had tried to save was gone now. Daryl is on his feet before you, hand bracing under your arm to help you up, too. It takes everything in you to keep your feet firmly planted, your legs holding strong under you.

“You ready?” His voice cuts through your thoughts, bringing you back to the present. Back to him. He needs you to focus. You nod, forgetting momentarily that he couldn’t see you, just as he had done earlier. You would laugh, but- well, you know-. You force the words out, sounding sure of them despite yourself.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” You aren’t sure when your hand found Daryl’s, but you grip it tight anyway. There’s a beat, then he’s moving to the door. It’s odd, following nothing but his guiding hand and some noises through the darkness, but knowing it was Daryl made it feel safe. What was that phrase about the blind leading the blind? Only you knew Daryl had exceptional night vision, so maybe only the visually impaired leading the blind.

You hear the door sliding open, then, a sliver of light appearing and growing at the bottom as it’s shoved up noisily. Only, it’s not nearly as much light as you’d expected. It’s bright, of course, but definitely not produced by the sun. It wasn’t blinding. A soft rush of cool air hits you as the back of the truck, your momentary safe haven, is opened up to the world. And you realize, then, it’s night. Yes, you knew the time, but it hadn’t fully registered until right now how late that was. Guilt tugs at you, like a child pulling their mothers sleeve, grabbing your attention. Daryl must be worried sick about Merle, and the only thing keeping him from charging out to find him had been you. Your cheeks are flush with not only the cold then, and you make a silent vow to do everything in your power to reunite them, regardless of your sour feelings about his older brother. They would find each other. And you would help.

The smell is next to hit you. Rotting. Not like rotting fruit sat in the trash too long. Rotting like death. Stronger and more pungent than any other time you’ve smelled it in your life, you’re sure. You let out a single breath, a cough, bringing your hand to cover your mouth. Even Daryl scrunches up his nose at it, and you’d seen him skin squirrels just for the fun of it.

Daryl surveys the alley, peeking around the doorway of the truck as he scanned, clearly trying to ignore the smell. Deeming it safe, he was the first to hop down. The fall is a deceptively long one, and you’re worried for a moment your shaking legs won’t make it. His eyes are fixed on the ground under the truck for a moment, something you can’t see. He stares for longer than you’ve seen him stare at much in your entire time knowing him. For the first time, you can’t read what he’s feeling. He’s hiding it from you.

“What is it?” You ask, voice hushed just in case any more of those sick people were lurking. You see him shake his head slowly, and it's an effort to bring his eyes up to meet yours.

“Jus’ don’t look.” he instructs, lifting an arm up to help you out of the truck, then the other, like he’s bracing to catch your whole weight. You’re grateful, as that might be exactly what you need if the sight under the truck is as awful as you’re to assume it is. You don’t want to leave the truck, and for a moment your joints feel stuck. You remember Merle. Slowly, you move. Daryl supports most of your weight as you hop out of the truck, your feet landing in something sticky and wet, tacky. For a moment, you debate taking his advice, but you have to know if the sight under the truck is what you feared it was. Steeling yourself, you look.

A weak hand is reaching for you with jerky movements. It’s attached to a mangled body you hardly recognize. The corpses legs were nearly entirely gnawed through to the bone, rendering it immobile. It’s throat- her throat, having been torn out, blood splattered over her shredded pink scarf. That’s why it was so quiet. She couldn’t even let out raspy groans like the rest of them. You catch a glimpse of her eyes; dead and lifeless, just like the man who attacked her, before Daryl is pulling you to his chest, a hand firmly pressed to the back of your head.

As if he’d predicted it, your legs go slack from the shock and horror, and your entire weight is relying on him. That was the girl. She was still here. And she was alive? But how could she be? Your head was swimming with it, with the smell, the sight of her mangled body burned into the back of your eyelids. You closed your eyes against Daryl and she’s all you could see. You feel like your ears are ringing, like from the explosion, you swear there’s a flash of white-orange in your vision again.

You aren’t sure how or when, but when you come back to yourself, you’re seated with a cold, hard wall next to you. The alley. You’re on the ground, facing away from the truck. Calloused fingers hold your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. Daryl comes into focus, he’s talking, sitting in front of you. The sound of his voice cuts through to you, and there’s an impatient bite in his words along with the concern.

“... C’mon, hey. Eyes up. Come on, we ain’t got time for this. Hey, pull it together.” He’s whispering and shouting at the same time, practically hissing at you.

You blink yourself awake, trying to ground yourself. Cold wall, rough asphalt ground, Daryl’s voice, calloused fingers on your cheeks. Breathing is a task, but you manage it, a pressure mounting in your chest. You nod once you’ve gotten a hold of yourself. You thought you were ready, but nothing would’ve prepared you to see her. Daryl was right, you shouldn’t have looked.

“You back with me, yet?” His hand firmly taps your cheek, not enough to really sting, but enough to get your attention.

“Yes. Yes, I think…” You say something else, an apology you think, but the connection between your mouth and your brain is a bit fuzzy. You aren’t sure if you got the words out, or if they were cohesive, but you see Daryl not.

“Come on. We gotta move. Can you walk?” His eyes watch yours with a fierce intensity, and you check in with your body, with your legs. You ask them if they can move. They budge a little against the rough asphalt below you. You nod slowly.

“Think so..” Before you can react, he’s hauling you to your feet, slinging your arm over his shoulders. He doesn’t let you turn around, doesn’t let you look. Not that you would try. Not after seeing her the first time. You don’t need to look. You’d remember every detail of her mangled form for as long as you’d live. You could draw it from memory with ease.

Your feet struggle to keep up with his, but it doesn’t slow him down any. His taller frame is nearly dragging yours along. That smell. The smell of rot. Burning. Burning flesh, buildings. You can even hear the faint crackle- no- roar of fire. It’s everywhere. You gag, nearly retching every time you inhale.

“Jus’ keep your head down. Don’t look. I got it.” he instructs, sensing your irritable unease. There’s a waver to his voice. He’s terrified, you can tell. This time not only for you, you’re sure. You listen this time. You keep your head down, averting your gaze when passing long-dried puddles of blood. You notice, you smell much carnage, but you don’t see any bodies with your limited perspective. How could that be? Was Daryl seeing the rightful owners of these blood-pools?

It’s too quiet. Too devoid of life. How could there be such few signs of… anyone? You’re fully back to yourself, as much as you can be, after a short while of walking. Your feet match his stride, but you don’t remove your arm from his shoulder. You aren’t sure where he’s taking you, hadn’t even taken note of which direction you’d departed from that alley in. The alley…

No. Don’t get distracted again. Shake the thoughts away. You take a labored breath, watching the movement of Daryl’s shoes against the pavement, of yours, too.

A noise ahead distracts you, and you and Daryl pause in unison. It’s a low groan, raspy. You slowly lift your gaze, despite your best judgement, and nearly double-over at the sight before you.

It’s a multi-car pile-up, blocking the entirety of the main road, maybe 30 yards away from you both. Shattered glass and debris litter the street ahead, and there’s an upside-down blue car to your right, having managed to travel -likely rolling- all the way up the road. Inside, despite the spider-web cracked windows, you see movement. Another groan. There’s a person inside.

Daryl’s noticed it long before you had, and you can see him thinking, eyebrows furrowed at the wreckage. It seems almost as if he’s debating going over to the car, checking on the person. You wonder how that could even be a question. If that person needed help, then-

You remember the man in the alley. You’d thought he needed help, too. Maybe this person in the car was another sick person. You hear another groan from the car. It made you shudder at how familiar it was. While your muscles strained, urging you to move closer, to help, you just couldn’t. You stayed firmly planted at Daryl’s side.

You feel Daryl’s eyes land on you, can sense he wants to say something, but you don’t get time to find out what it is. Another groan echoes behind you, accompanied by the shuffling of feet. You and Daryl spin to face the noise, pulling away from each other in the process. You can stand on your own, your eyes are open now, no need to cling to him like a seeing-eye dog anymore. Only, you wish you weren’t seeing the sight before you.

It’s a woman, she has long, dark, matted hair. She’s pretty far down the road, but she’s seen you, and is shambling closer. Her right ankle and right wrist are both a mess of flesh and blood and bone. She reminds you of something your dog would’ve done to one of its toys. She looked chewed on. Like the girl with the pink scarf. Flaps of flesh hang off her forearm, her ankle dragging uselessly behind her, hindering her stride. Though she isn’t trailing blood, you notice. Her wounds are old, by at least a day. It almost seemed like she wasn’t bleeding normally, her blood was all dry. The only fresh blood on this woman is around her mouth, running down her pale neck and staining the pretty blue dress and white cardigan she had on. Her eyes were fixed on the two of you, and as she walked, it was like her whole body was led by her jaws, which snapped with familiar motor control to that of a toddler. Like all she could think about was biting the two of you, like you were food. And her eyes… Her eyes were haunting. They held no life, barely held any semblance of hunger, of feeling. This woman, you could’ve imagined her being an elementary teacher, lovingly reading picture books to her students, was now dead in the eyes and stalking towards you and Daryl like a shark scenting blood.

Daryl steps between you and the woman, no hesitation in the movement, no room for second-thinking. You can see he’s unsure, though. Protecting you was the priority, but he didn’t even know how to do so when faced with one of these sick people. Could they be reasoned with? Would they be relentless? Would he have to kill in front of you?

He doesn’t get time to determine his approach, as the woman isn’t alone. You hear them before you see them; the groaning, the uneven footsteps. Then, as if they were nothing but dogs hearing the dinner bell, more and more of these dead-eyed, wounded, sick people are clamoring out of nearby buildings. Fresh blood, dried blood, missing limbs, snapping jaws. First three appeared alongside the woman, then five, then seven, then at least a dozen. You lose count after that. You grab Daryl’s arm, and even you weren’t sure what the exact feeling was behind it, but it was urgent.

You turn to look behind you, and the pile-up blocks your path, but ahead of you these feral people are closing in.

You see Daryl’s eyes dart around, and yours do, too. Your back meets his, though you weren’t sure when you’d moved closer. Part of you thinks maybe it’s him who backs into you. There was a fancy museum building to your left, the kind Daryl would’ve turned his nose up at any other day. It was one you had fond memories of visiting with your family once upon a time. The entrance doors are facing you, and to your right is a solid concrete and brick wall, some windows higher up. You aren’t sure if being in such a place is a good idea, but staying out here was definitely a worse one.

It’s as if he hears your thoughts, even over all the ambient noise of the approaching threat. He’s grabbing your wrist, then your hand, and both of you are running to the large building, the sick ones hot on your tail. The architecture is grand and old, mostly concrete and the only windows on the ground floor are too narrow to fit through, only slits of decorative historical stained glass. Large bronze and copper statues are placed outside, one in the middle of the staircase, on the landing where the stairs are broken up into two sets. It’s a large, life-sized elephant rearing on its hind legs. Bits of the statue are more shiny than others, worn away from decades of people petting the gentle giant. Closer to the doors, there’s several statues depicting a pack of wolves, some with pups. Most of their heads, ears, and backs are worn down and shiny, too. It would seem sweet if you’d had more time to notice it.

Daryl’s pushing you up the large flight of stairs first, past the elephant, and up the path to the grand, wooden double doors. You try them. They don’t budge. Obviously they would be locked.

Daryl notices this, and he’s up the stairs in a heartbeat. You see a flash of uncharacteristic hesitation. Your tough-as-nails best friend, the boy who never even flinched at skinning squirrels when you were younger, had frozen up for a split second. Decisively, he moves you out of the way, then ramming the door with his shoulder. You see the panic, the frenzy in his movements. And you feel it, too. Your eyes dare to glance back at the sick ones. Maybe ten feet away from you now, clamoring up the stairs.

You consider then what it would be like to die here. Beside your best friend. At the hands of monsters who just want to rip you apart, to eat you, slowly. In front of a museum you’d visited as a child. The fear is rooted in your bones, and you can’t pry your eyes away from the sick ones. Not until you hear Daryl yell out in what you recognize as pain, the door finally splintering open after a fifth good shove. He’s grabbing your upper arm then, pushing you into the safety of the museum first. He’s second, slamming the doors closed behind the two of you and bracing his back against them. One of his arms, the one he’d rammed the door with, is hanging uselessly at his side, the other held out strong against the doors. You don’t have time to ask, to think about it, when he gives you a sharp look. Barricade is the message he’s trying to convey, and you scramble to find suitable furniture. A security alarm begins blaring overhead, and for once you aren’t so worried about breaking the law, not so much as you are about yours and Daryl’s safety.

The museum lobby is grand and gorgeous, you can see all the way up the four floors, into the shops and exhibits on each floor. This place was clearly expensive to build. No doubt why the thick door was difficult to break in. The familiar beauty of it would’ve floored you in any other situation. There’s even a glass ceiling way overhead, and maybe in a tamer circumstance you would’ve considered what it would be like to gaze at the stars through it. Though now there’s a dire urgency, and the stars could wait.

You find some heavy benches. Heavy for you, anyway, maybe not heavy for the horde of people outside. But you drag them over anyway, your stiff muscles protesting with the strain. Daryl moves out of the way, just enough to stack the benches against the door and brace himself against those instead.

“Need more!” He shouts over the alarm, over the groaning outside, and the thumping of palms on wood from the other side of the door. Every shove racks his body, and you can see him tremble. From the strain or the adrenaline you can’t tell.

You find and stack four more of those heavy benches, ignoring the way your muscles burn. It’s all you can move on your own, but you eye the heavy reception desk. It would be enough to hold, at least long enough for the two of you to get some distance between you and the swarm.

You hear thumping against the windows now, too, the small narrow ones, and you’re distracted momentarily by the shadows outside. That seemed like much more people than had been originally chasing you. It was growing much louder now, too. The alarm, maybe the sound was drawing them in.

You aren’t distracted for long, not when Daryl pulls away from the door, urging you toward the large reception desk. It’s more or less just a giant chunk of engraved wood with computers on one side, it would do the trick. Quickly, you both brace at either side of the hulking thing, shoving with all your might. It moves slowly across the dinosaur-print-carpet floor, inch after agonizing inch. You see the sick people wedging the door further and further, and for a moment you’re worried one will break through.

The desk slots into place with a final shove, and it holds firm. You and Daryl take a moment to catch your breath, until another particularly hard shove from the other side of the door sends the desk forward an inch. You had to move. Thankfully, you vaguely remembered the layout of this place from when you were a child, including where the escalators were. You take the lead this time, and it’s sort of an odd, euphoric feeling when you charge past where one would usually have to stop and pay to see the museum. Maybe despite the fear in you, the knowledge that you were safe briefly was enough to enjoy the mischief in this moment. Even if it was a small and fleeting feeling.

Daryl is matching your pace as you dart around a corner, no time to pause and rethink when you notice the escalators are powered off. In fact, this whole place looks untouched, save for the furniture you’d moved. You wonder if it’s empty of any other people, maybe it had been closed when people started getting sick. Maybe it was safe. You certainly wouldn’t hold your breath, but you could hope. You take the escalators two steps at a time despite the strain in your legs, Daryl charging up right behind you. You weren’t much for exercise, but you were certainly getting your work cut out for you today.

The alarm sounds further away, now, and you’re sure if police were coming, they’d be here. The thought, while temporarily comforting, made dread pool in your stomach for what that meant in the long run. You wouldn’t be arrested, but then what happened to all the police?

You and Daryl don’t stop at the second floor, you rush past familiar exhibits as you continue up to the fourth floor. They look just as you remember; space, ancient egypt, the ocean, there’s even one with recreated taxidermy of long extinct animals. You remember there being a large extinct boar model that used to freak you out as a kid in that exhibit. It seems silly now, with what you’ve seen the last few hours.

Once on the fourth floor, you hear a loud clatter echo through the museum, the barricade having given way. You look down, a rib-height glass barrier being the only thing that separated you from the four-story fall to the food court. Food court. It almost made you laugh. It would be a real food court for those sick ones if you or Daryl were to fall. You remember being quite frightened of falling through one of these railings as a kid.

Your feet are still moving, quieter now, as you make your way to the bridge that expands between your side of the floor and the other side. It was for convenience, so guests wouldn’t have to walk all the way around the sides to get to exhibits across the way. Now? It would serve as your lookout to observe the sick people below. It’s only when you get out on the bridge, glass on either side of you, below you a long long drop to certain death, do you notice Daryl isn’t beside you. When had he broken off? Did he hang back and get lost??

Your eyes search the floor in a panic, only to find him finishing a small barricade at the top of the stairs and escalator. He was deftly quiet, moving benches and trash cans and the like. Hopefully it would be enough to deter the sick ones if they crept up the stairs. You weren’t 100% certain of their cognitive abilities, but you had a feeling if they didn’t see you, they wouldn’t be motivated to climb the stairs. You hoped so anyway.

Daryl returns to your side shortly, the two of you crouching low on the bridge. He’s trembling at your side, eyes fixed on the floor far below you. One arm rests on his knee, the other continuing to hang uselessly at his side. Upon closer inspection, you can see he’s dislocated that shoulder, likely while ramming the door in. That’s how panicked he’d been. He must be in agony right now. You’d only ever dislocated a joint once, and it was hell. Your brother on the other hand, rowdy kid as he is, got injured often. You knew how to fix it, and would insist upon it if you two made it out of here safely.

When. When you made it out safely.

You see the first few people round the corner below you on the ground floor, and you can’t bear to watch more. Your eyes squint closed, breathing coming out ragged and uneven, shaky. You’re sure you’re trembling as bad as Daryl was. Your hand finds his, lacing your fingers together tightly. He doesn’t protest the gesture, reciprocating with a squeeze. As long as you’ve known your best friend, he wasn’t one for physical affection. The closest he generally ever got was play-wrestling, and that was more to prove he could still win against you if challenged. But he was scared, and so were you, and none of that awkwardness was present here and now. There was only room for fear here and now, and hope that at least one of you would make it out of this unscathed, and each of you would do everything in your power to make sure it was the other.

Your other hand comes up to cover your mouth, worried your breathing would be too loud, would alert them even from four floors away. The sound of those things echoes around the spacious building, and based on the noise alone you would guess there are hundreds. You can’t look. If you look, it becomes real. You’re glad Daryl is brave enough to watch them for the both of you. You feel the rough pad of his thumb move against your skin, like he’s trying to ground you, maybe even comfort you. All you can do is cling to his hand with white knuckles in return.

This drones on for a while longer, Daryl watching, you hiding behind your eyelids, before he nudges you. “They ain’t comin’ up the stairs.” His voice is strained, uncharacteristically quiet. The quiet you’d only ever heard when something really spooked him when you were kids. A rare quiver in his voice.

Slowly, you crack your eyes open, keeping your gaze fixed on him and refusing to look down. You get what he’s suggesting, that you two should duck into a nearby exhibit, maybe try to fortify it, maybe look for defensive measures. The idea of fighting one of those things made you sick.

You nod anyway, slowly relaxing your hold on his hand. His eyes are searching yours, and you suddenly remember his shoulder, how it needs treatment. Cautiously and quietly, you creep off the bridge, and onto the far side of the fourth floor, Daryl in tow. Your legs burn in protest. You’d be sore by the time the sun came up, you were sure.

Relief flooded you once you’d stepped off the bridge, putting at least a little bit of distance between you and the large group of sick people. How could there even be so many? You hadn’t even heard of a virus like this until today at lunch. Or was it yesterday now? Was it past midnight? Curious, you reach for your pocket, only to find it lying flat against your body. No familiar bulky cellphone-shaped mass. You try the pocket opposite that one. Also empty. You frantically pat all of your pockets, panic rising in your throat. You must have dropped it in the scuffle as you two rushed into the museum.

Daryl makes note of this, the back of his hand making contact with your arm to get your attention. He’s giving you a questioning look when he catches your eyes. You mouth my phone at him, and see his expression shift to something grim. No doubt realizing he’s lost any way to contact his brother again, unless this museum had phones. Only those would be on the first floor, which… wasn’t an option anymore. Despite himself, he senses your rising panic and guides you into a nearby exhibit. It’s fairly dark, so you don’t quite notice what it’s about at first. It’s one of those exhibits that changes every few months, you remember, but you hadn’t been here in years so you weren’t sure what was on display here now.

You squint in the darkness, but all you can make out is the faint red blink of a smoke detector in the corner, up on the ceiling. Entirely unhelpful. At your side, Daryl is looking around, his silhouette dark and blurry. He can see more than you can, clearly, but you can’t read what he’s thinking as he looks around the room. You can only follow as he steers you further into the exhibit. It’s small, only one room, if you remember correctly. Of course you would seek shelter in the tiniest exhibit with nowhere to hide. Despite trusting Daryl, your hands stretch out in front of you, your feet making quick sweeps with each step to make sure you won't trip. When you come to a stop again, your hands make contact with a glass case. It comes up to about your hip, and it’s at least three feet wide. You squint harder, spying the faint reflective shine of something flat and silver inside the case. You would use your phone’s flashlight if you still had it. Though, maybe a light wouldn’t be a good idea with all the eyes downstairs. Would they be distracted by light? Sound seemed to draw their attention.

You hear Daryl grunt beside you, and it takes you a moment to register what he’s doing when you look over. He’s braced against the side of the glass with his good shoulder, trying to shove it open. For a moment, you blanch in surprise, but then your hand darts out to stop him before he can get any real progress.

“Hey! Stop that, it might trigger another alarm.” You whisper-scold him, adding quickly after. “If someone finds out we tampered with this-”

He swats your hand away, the gesture reminding you vaguely of a frustrated cat. You might find it cute in another situation. A situation without the looming threat of being torn apart by hungry nails and teeth if you make too loud of a noise.

“You see what’s in there? We need somethin’ like it..” You aren’t sure what he means by that, but you aren’t sure you like the undertones in his statement. He returns right back to shoving at the case. You hear something heavy shift, your hands darting out to brace against the glass again. It’s actually moved. He’s managed to skew it. This exhibit must not have been super high-security. Or maybe it had been meant to move, for presentations and things. You draw in a sharp breath at feeling how heavy the outer glass casing was.

“Be careful.” You insist, keeping your hands braced against it for stability, and eventually relenting and helping him move the glass case off the display entirely. No alarms so far, at least there was that. You hear something shift, Daryl picking up a large item from the case. It seems heavy, as he struggles to lift it with one hand. It’s easier to make out with it out of the case, and your stomach turns at what he’s holding. A large medieval axe. You couldn’t identify very many details, save for it being double-sided and sturdy-looking, but you didn’t like the implications of it.

“A weapon?” Your voice comes out like a whispery-hiss, incredulous in nature. “You can’t be thinking about using that to-” He cuts you off again.

“I’m thinkin’ about protecting us. There’s other things in there. Grab somethin’.” In the shadows you see him nod at the case, his voice lower than yours, quieter, and with an underlying hint of pain. You couldn’t push on like this, not with his injury.

“Daryl, your shoulder. You can’t be thinking about fighting like that… especially not them out there.” you motion vaguely out at the rest of the museum, the gravely groans from several stories below still carried up to the ceilings and walls of the fourth floor, audible even in this exhibit.

“Let me fix it. Longer it’s popped out, the worse it’ll be to shove it back.” There’s a determination in your voice, and you know he knows you’re right. There’s a moment of silence that stretches between you, as he seems to consider how the two of you might go about fixing his current injury. Especially quietly. He might be tough-as-nails, but it still hurt like a bitch, that much you were certain of. He would be a lot more useful with two working arms, he couldn’t argue that. You hear him grunt.

“Fine. But we make it fast. Don’t like waitin’ up here like sitting ducks all defenseless-like.” You’re glad he’s relented, and your hand moves out to find his good arm. You guide him over to the discarded glass case. It’s sturdy enough for what you need.

“Lie down. Your bad shoulder facing me.” You instruct calmly, and there’s a softness in your voice. You remember doing this with your little brother months and months ago, the last time he’d gotten injured like this. Daryl follows your instructions, muscles going taut under your hand. You knew lying like this would put enough pressure on the tender area to hurt, even before you attempted to pop his shoulder back in place at all. You don’t need to be able to see him to know he’s gritting his teeth, jaw tight with strain.

“Bite something if you gotta. It’s gonna hurt, bad.” You know he needs you to be blunt, no sugar-coating. Not now, not ever. Not for Daryl Dixon. You carefully take the heavy axe from his good hand, the muscles in your arms struggling with the weight of it. You hear a muffled grunt of confirmation, like he’s actually taken your advice and bitten down on something. Likely his vest, if you had to guess. You hear him snarl out “Just get it over with” through gritted teeth and leather, so you set to work without another word. You take the wrist of his dislocated arm in your hand, resting the handle of the axe against his palm. Gingerly, at first, despite your biceps protesting vengefully. At least until he takes it in his hand.

“Slowly raise your arm up by your ear.” you instruct, slowly letting the full weight of the axe rest in his hand. He let out a small, strangled noise, like despite his best efforts to stay silent, he couldn’t help the pain that flared in his shoulder and how it urged a whimper from him. He hesitated for a moment, and you can sense he wants to protest, wants to say I can’t. He wants to snap at you, to call you names for expecting him to do something so painful, to say it like it was just so easy. But he holds his tongue, and his arm slowly begins to move. Your hands rest gently on his arm, one underneath his forearm for support, the other on his shoulder, so you can feel the progress being made. His limb trembles under your fingertips, but it’s working. Slowly.

“Yeah, you got it. Little more.” you encourage quietly, and it urges another frustrated sound from him, this one more like a groan than a whimper. He feels patronized, more than likely, despite your assurances being genuine. His legs are moving against the glass case below him, writhing with the pain. His breathing is coming heavier now, too, but his arm is moving. Soon enough this would be over, and he could go back to protecting you. For right now, it was your turn to care for him. You hear a dull thunk as his head falls back against the glass, can hear him panting. You can almost see the blurry outline of his chest rising and falling quickly with the effort. Just a little further now.

There’s a sudden pop! as you feel the joint finally snap back into place. You’re about to congratulate Daryl, when he surges up from his position, dropping the axe with a loud clatter. You hear him bite back a grimace, curling in on himself, legs pulled up and braced protectively around his arms. He forced deep breaths in and out, the worst of the pain over now, he knew that, but god damn did it hurt. Your hand finds his back, rubbing it soothingly.

“Feel better?” you ask, unable to help the small smile that tugs at your lips knowing he would be okay. Knowing you’d helped. Another huff, and he swings his legs over the side of the case, getting to his feet.

“We gotta move. If those freaks heard that..” He trailed off, picking up the axe again. You could tell his shoulder was a bit sore, but it would go away. You nod, knowing he was right. You cast a glance back at the dark display where he’d retrieved the axe from originally, and with a heavy reluctance, you gingerly felt around for a weapon of your own. A self-defence weapon. You feel a large, rounded metal surface. A shield, you deduce, and far too heavy for you to carry. Your hands pass over something sharp, and for a moment you worry if you’ve nicked yourself on it. You investigate further, feeling a large metal ball covered in spikes, attached to the end of a stick. A mace of some kind? It was lighter, but would pack a punch if you needed it. Your stomach lurched again, but you carefully lifted it from the case anyway. At least it wasn’t a morningstar, the kind attached by a chain. You weren’t sure you’d be able to wield something like that safely. But a stick with a spiked ball stuck on the end? That surely wouldn’t be rocket science if necessary. And, if necessary, you’d aim for knees or something anyway. Not enough to kill someone, but enough to discourage them. Hopefully. You vaguely remember the sick woman in the blue dress. Her ankle injury didn’t seem to discourage her. You shudder, your grip on the weapon tightening.

“C’mon.” Daryl’s voice cuts into your thoughts, and you turn to find him already at the doorway to the exhibit, axe wielded in a way that makes you wonder if he’s used a weapon like it before. You don’t like how ready he looks to swing with it. His eyes dart around outside, peering around the corner, down at the sick people. He doesn’t like what he sees.

You’re at his side in a moment, searching for what his eyes had landed on. You find it quickly. The sick ones had heard you, and were clamoring their way up the narrow escalators to investigate the noise.Thankfully, it had slowed them down, the close proximity only allowing a few up at a time, and they likely wouldn’t be strong enough to push past Daryl’s barricade with so few. Hopefully. But hopefully hadn’t saved you before. You look to Daryl for instruction, but he seems at a loss for what to do. He’s been through a lot, but not this. He was exhausted, the last of his reserves spent when fighting to pop his shoulder back into place. Adrenaline was all that fuelled him, now. But you were fresher, you had slept, you knew this place. Racking your brain, you tried to think where the bigger exhibits were, the ones with more places to hide, and how to get there without being spotted. You ran through the exhibits in your mind, and all you could remember was the face of that awful taxidermy boar that frightened you as a kid…

But. That was in an exhibit full of recreations of extinct animals. Likely the largest exhibit in the whole building. You remember getting lost in it as a kid, wandering aimlessly and crying for nearly an hour before you found an employee and called your parents. You remember the lecture you got on the drive home about it. That exhibit wasn’t far from this one, but you would have to cross the bridge to get there. You didn’t like that one bit. But it was your best shot. Your hand finds Daryl’s upper-arm, gently grabbing his attention. The look he gives you is frenzied and frightened, masked poorly with aggression.

“There’s an exhibit. Big. Across the way.” you nod over at it, you could make out the blurry outline of the name of the exhibit from here. It was so close and also lightyears away. His expression shifts into a wary doubt as he follows your gaze, his eyebrows knitting together. He wants to disagree with you, to take charge, to take the lead. But he can’t think of a better idea, and he’s never stepped foot in this building before. If you were confident enough to put your lives on it, he, begrudgingly, would trust you.

“Jus’ wanna stroll out there? Skip across the bridge arm-in-arm?” His voice is incredulous, but you can tell he doesn’t really mean to be mean.

“I think… think if we’re quiet, low to the ground.. I think we can do it.” You explain, then nod, assuring yourself that you were right. It would work. Probably. Or the weapon in your hand would be painted an awful, sticky crimson in a few minutes. A beat passes. A breath. And Daryl’s nodding beside you.

“Let’s go, then.” You aren’t sure why he’s so trusting of you, maybe it’s a lack of other options, maybe it’s his fatigue setting in, maybe it’s just dumb hope. His feet are moving before your mind can keep up with it, and you’re scrambling after him. He crouches low, and you follow suit, despite the tingling in your legs. Your muscles feel like jell-o, but you could do this. If you could find somewhere to hide in that exhibit, you could sit and rest. Though, part of you wonders absently if you rest, will your legs ever work again?

The adrenaline pushes you on, and you slowly step past Daryl, being the first out on the bridge. He follows your lead, axe still braced and at the ready. You wonder if maybe you should be bracing the mace, poised to swing it. You sort of feel silly holding it close to your chest as you had been this whole time. It gave your hands something to focus on, the decades old wood a comforting weight in your hands. It reminded you vaguely of the can of peaches. Gosh, you were starting to get hungry.

You focus ahead, eyes fixed on the exhibit, your target. Daryl was watching the sick people, he was counting, he would alert you if you needed to stop and go back. Still, you couldn’t help but feel a bit stranded as you reached the middle of the bridge. An equal distance away from safety on either side of you. But a fierce part of you, a little voice, reminded you that just meant you were all that much closer to your goal. And you pushed forward. You feel your legs trembling under your weight, and for a frightening, lingering moment, you wonder if they’ll give out before you reach the other side. Your knees wobble, and you brace your hand against the glass at your side as you tumble forward onto your knees. It wasn’t a far fall, but the bony joint making contact with the hard flooring of the bridge sent a shock of pain through you. You lose your grip on the mace, and it clatters loudly against the bridge.

Fear. You don’t give it a second thought, your head snapping up to see if the sick people creeping up the stairs heard. They had. They stumbled up the steps with more urgency, now, and they were just passing the third floor. They would be at the barricade soon enough, and you two were sitting ducks, just like Daryl was worried about. Guilt eats at you, and even if your legs were working, you were rooted in place, eyes fixed on the sick one at the head of the pack, the one who would get to the barricade first.

You hear Daryl swear behind you, and his arm is threading under your arm and behind your shoulders before you can protest. He hauls you to your feet, barely giving you time to snatch the mace up off the ground in his haste. You manage to grasp it, legs weak beneath you as he guides you to the exhibit. His steps are urgent, no time for hesitation. As you duck into the exhibit, you hear the clatter of the sick ones making contact with the barricade. Soon enough, you hear it collapse under their weight, the shuffle of footsteps on the fourth floor echo along the dinosaur-poster-laden walls.

You struggle to keep up with Daryl, your knees having officially given out for the time being. You stumble alongside him, like a freshly born fawn. You squint at the darkness of the exhibit, but Daryl can see clearly enough to guide you. He rushes, taking sharp turn after turn, and soon enough you’re good and lost. Just like when you were a kid. Only now you couldn’t see anything, but you weren’t alone. You were sure you were more frightened now than you ever had been as a child.

You don’t notice much in the darkness, but after a while you hear the sound of a door handle being jostled in front of you. Once, twice. It’s locked. Daryl grunts in frustration, hardly hesitating a moment before bringing the axe down on it, hard. It’s loud, and there’s a spark of metal-on-metal, but from what you can tell, the door’s come open. He’s ushering you into the room before you can think about where you might be. You trip on something small and plastic, arms shooting out to brace yourself. You catch a shelf, knocking bottles and some heavy metal box to the floor. It’s contents spill with a loud clatter, almost like the noise was mocking you for trying to be quiet.

You hear Daryl close the door behind both of you, likely trying to secure it. He swears at the loud noise, having only let go of you for a moment and you’re making a racket.

You’re frightened. It’s hitting you now, tangibly, and you sink to the floor. It’s cold, concrete. Cluttered. Somehow the darkness feels more severe in here, maybe because you can’t tell exactly where Daryl is without his hands on you, maybe it’s because of the monsters outside. A weight settled inside your chest, compressing your lungs uncomfortably. Your body is refusing to take in air in any sizeable capacity, and your hands fumble to feel around at your feet for something to ground you. In your frenzy, you deduce what you knocked off the shelf must have been some cleaning solutions and a tool box, as your hands come into contact with multiple cool, skinny, metal objects. The strong scent of chemicals and lemon rise to your nostrils, right as your hand lands in a puddle of something you’re sure you shouldn’t be touching without gloves.

A maintenance closet, of course. You knew there were no exhibits with normal standard doors. You hear a scrape, like something heavy and metal sliding into place, and then Daryl panting. You hear his feet move, kick a tool, and then still. He can’t see very well in here either.

“Y’alright? Peach?” His voice is an aggressive whisper as he tries to locate you while also maneuvering silently through the loud metal landmines you’d accidentally strewn about.

You open your mouth to speak, but your voice comes out strained. Were you crying?

“Daryl-?” You take a forced gulp of air, and he’s at your side in a flash. You can’t see, but you can picture how he must be looking at you, concerned and frustrated. Somehow everything your best friend did had an air of frustration to it. You feel a familiar rough hand find your upper-arm, another resting where your shin meets your knee.

“What? You hurt?” You feel his eyes searching you, even in the dark like this. For some reason, everything you try feels harder, words come slowly, your muscles are sluggish. It feels like you're dreaming, your head swimming with anxiety. He’s searching you for an injury that isn’t there, and despite the protest in your arms, your hand catches his.

“No, no.” you shake your head. “Fine, just… just sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“Hey, quit it.” He interrupts you, his free hand’s index finger brought to your lips to silence you. “We’re safe now, huh? So don’t you even start with that.” You relent, not enough energy to argue with him. Your breathing remains shallow, and you feel tears prick your eyes. Even when his hand pulls away from your lips, you can’t voice what you feel. You just feel.

That’s when you hear it. The footsteps. Outside you can hear shuffling, uneven footsteps advance closer to the door. You can hear raspy, low groans getting louder. You can’t fight the gasp that escapes you, taking in a sharp breath. Your hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, eyes fixed on the darkness between you and the noises. It isn’t long before you hear one of the sick ones clumsily shove into the door. It holds, but you flinch regardless. A whole body jolt, your free hand, still wet with cleaning solution, braces against Daryl’s arm in return. Thankfully, the substance hadn’t begun to burn, so it was likely safe to the touch. Likely.

You feel Daryl’s free hand rest on your shin again, heavy, grounding. He could feel your pulse racing, you could feel your pulse racing. You heard your heart thump in your ears, matching the beat of the footsteps outside. They’re so close. You were sure if it weren’t for the strong cleaning chemical scent, they would be able to smell you. Or you them. It made you shudder.

You almost gasp again when Daryl pulls away from you completely, fighting the urge to reach for him. You hear the faint, familiar groan of old leather shifting, before a comforting weight settles over your shoulders. The scent of cigarettes and campfire joins the lemony one surrounding you. His hands are on you again momentarily, same placement as before. Slowly, you lower your fingertips from your lips to gently trace the leather enveloping your shoulders. You’d know it anywhere. His vest. His favorite vest. Large and heavy on your frame. It’s enough to ground you, your fingers curling around it tightly. Your other hand comes up to grasp his arm again, squeezing it in a silent thank you. A moment passes, and you feel his hand squeeze your arm in return.

You take a moment to level your breathing, to feel the comfortable weight of the worn leather on your shoulders, you smell the lemon and cigarette scents in the air, you focus on the rough pads of Daryl’s fingers. In time, air is comfortably filling your lungs once again, before displacing into the darkness as it should.

It almost seems like hours before the noises fade outside. Not silent. You hear them in the distance. But they had lost interest in you. You were safe. The door had held, and you were safe. Daryl had kept so deathly still that whole time, you feel him tense when you move beside him, your legs stretching out in front of you. The muscles felt better, stiff and sore and aching, but not useless. You could move them with some semblance of control now. Daryl makes a noise beside you that makes you wonder if he’d given into his exhaustion and actually slept for a moment. It’s somewhere between a confused hum and a grunt.

“I think… think we’re good.” you whisper, and in the calm there’s something that eats at you. Despite Daryl having outwardly told you not to dwell on it, you couldn’t help remembering the bridge. How you’d completely put both of you in danger because your legs were just tired. Daryl could’ve died. You both could have. And it would have been your fault. That couldn’t happen again.

Daryl is quiet beside you for a few moments, then he’s slowly pulling away. Without the contact, you can only sense where he is in the small room based on sound. You hear his hands patting the floor, feeling around for the tools and the toolbox. You hear him try, as slowly as he can, to put them away quietly so they aren’t a noisy death trap anymore. Once the room goes quiet again, you think you can hear him stand up, having finished cleaning up the tools. You hear him feel around the room, the shelves, and his hands still momentarily.

“Shit, no way…” he mutters, and before you can brace yourself, a bright light illuminates the room. It blinds you for a moment, your retinas burning as they struggle to adjust to the light. He notices this, but doesn’t seem to feel very bad, more excited about his find than anything.

“Oh uh… oops. My bad.” he admits, though its a half-hearted apology at best. It’s alright, though, Daryl Dixon isn’t one to apologize. Not sincerely or authentically. Your eyes slowly adjust, and you come to find he’s holding a flashlight, the round beam of light scanning over the shelves and walls of the room. It’s a tiny closet, full of cleaning supplies as you’d guessed. The plastic thing you had tripped over when you first came in was actually a mop-bucket, overturned on its side now. On the wall hung various mops. The ceiling was lined with shelves, mostly with toilet paper or paper towels on them. Nothing interesting. The flashlight he held in his hands was one of those industrial metal ones, nearly the length of his forearm. It had dark blue paint, which had chipped away over the years to reveal its silver base. Quite the find. For some reason, this small, lucky item filled you with a familiar hope. Slowly, you got to your feet. Daryl gave you a look but didn’t speak on it.

“We won’t be blind anymore, at least.” You shrug, offering Daryl a reassuring smile. In the light you could see him now. He looked extremely worse for wear, tired and pale. Neither of you had eaten anything substantial in hours. You knew he was a survivor, how he’d gone longer without either of those things in the past, but this wasn’t just the careless product of neglect, this was much worse. This was the product of danger, of being actively hunted.

“You should rest, Daryl.” You point out, and you can see the protest building in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re first.

“I’ll take first watch. Like you did back at the truck. Wake you if absolutely anything happens.” you assure, and then add, sternly. “It isn’t up for debate.”

His gaze steels on yours, but you can see him beginning to crack. You can see his resolve giving way, like a sandcastle having been lapped at by waves for too long, collapsing into the sea. He doesn’t like it, but you can tell he’s too tired to argue with you on it. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, leaning against the wall.

“Anything. Anything happens. You don’t try to take care of it, don’t do it yourself, you wake me.” His gaze is intense as he gives you the instruction, but you can see the worry there. He’s trusting you. Warily, but trusting. You nod, carefully taking the flashlight from him.

“Promise.” you assure, rocking on your heels momentarily. At this, he slowly relents, letting himself lie on the floor, curled up with his back to the wall. There’s no way it’s comfortable, but neither was the truck, and you had slept there just fine.

You take a seat across from him, turning off the flashlight and tucking it into the inside pocket of his vest, which you had looped your arms through the sleeves of in order to wear properly. He hadn’t asked for it back, so you hadn’t given it. Selfishly, you’d grown to like the smelly thing. You lean your head back against the wall, listening to Daryl’s breathing and letting out a sigh of your own. You aren’t sure how much time passes, maybe fifteen minutes, of you only sitting and listening, before you start to feel restless. The occasional noise from one of the sick people is distant, but they haven’t vacated the floor entirely, yet. You wondered how you could go about it, theoretically, if you wanted them all to flood back downstairs. Noise seemed to draw them, right? What could you do that made noise?

The idea hits you like a freight train. You make sure Daryl is sleeping peacefully when you get up, when you move the axe he’d so strategically wedged into the door out of the way. When you’re stepping slowly and cautiously out of the room, mace in hand. You then shut the door, which you’d found out was solid metal, despite thinking it was wood before. That must have been why it held so well. Flicking on the flashlight and looking around for something suitable, you stick a nearby chair under the handle to lock it in place. It wouldn’t be enough to hold him, you’d need something else. If he awoke and you were gone, a single chair wouldn’t do it. You need something bigger. As you’re moving a nearby bench to block the door as well, you accidentally drop it, and it clangs loudly against the metal of the door. You hear Daryl begin to stir on the other side. Hear his voice, hear him bang on the door. His voice is muffled on the other side, but you hear your name, sharp and urgent. But it’s too late. He’s trapped, and you’ve made up your mind. He would forgive you for breaking your promise.

You won't be the thing holding him back anymore.

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