Guess who's back… back again…

Why hello my loves. Long time no speak! How are we all? Hope everyone is good. I know I've been MIA for a while – I've been suffering from the most sensational spell of writer's block. Just zero inspiration and feeling like everything I attempt is utter crapola. I do however have an amazing friend in kaoscraze82, she's my rock and my cheerleader, and she didn't give up on me. So this one is for youuuuu my love!

Erm, I don't really know what this is. If you have feelings about it let me know. If you thought it was rrrrubbish also let me know so I can shoot laser beams at you through my screen.

MAY or may not continue depending on my muse. She is a fickle wee madam right now.

Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, or any of its characters. Shame cause I would LOVE to own Daryl Dixon.

"We're sorry."

"You're gonna be."

The man and woman regard him with apparent indifference as the bike growls into motion, leaving him standing there, his words billowing like dried leaf husks in their wake.

Great, he thinks. Stuck in the middle of nowhere without a damn ride and only his knife for protection. He snorts wryly, his futile threat bringing embarrassment that no one is there to see. So he does the only thing he can, and starts to walk.

He figures it's not far to the road, but he decides against walking out in the open, in light of their earlier encounter. He can't be sure those pricks won't show up again, and without his crossbow it's pointless to predict his chances, but he knows they'd be slim. So he tracks alongside the road, keeping it just in view, combing the route cautiously as he ducks and weaves his way through the grasping branches, keeping himself hidden.

It reminds him of when he was a kid. His old man hot on his heels, stumbling and ranting, and he runs and runs until he feels like his lungs are gonna give out and burst. He can hear him somewhere, back there, calling him out like some mongrel pup, cursing as he drops his bottle in the dirt. The voice echoes down through the years and finds him where he is now. It's been years and years, but that whisky-roughened rasp finds his ears, and the hairs on his neck and arms stand up. He walks faster, somehow convinced he can outrun it, but it burrows into his skin and holds on.

He doesn't know why it's picked now, of all times, to come back and haunt him, but he's stuck with that memory, and countless others now creeping in, unwanted taggers-along for the journey. Maybe it's the brush with the unknown group earlier. He's been around pricks like that his whole life, he knows them intuitively, instinctively, by the way they walk and talk. Everytime he's encountered one since the turn, the memories of his childhood have been disturbed like dirt on a riverbed, billowing in a murky cloud to the surface, reminding him that deep down, he was one of those men too. He was naïve, and stupid, and thoughtless. He was just a boy, following his brother around like a shadow, mimicking everything he did because he didn't know any different.

"It's like you were a kid. Now you're a man."

Now he's a man. The lines on his face that seem to have deepened a little more every time he passes the bathroom mirror tell him that. The little extra greys in the scruff of his chin and in his hair tell him too. He's aware of that stiffness in his leg muscles as he trudges now a little uphill, and the shortness of his breath. He's lived, survived through so much, and now it's beginning to show. He picks his way through the damp leaves that litter the forest floor, replaying everything that's happened to get him to this point in his life.

As he drags the thick blanket of foliage from the truck he stumbles upon, he sees it all flash in front of him. Memories spill into his mind like a river bursting its banks. The prison, the farm. Dale, Hershel, Lori, T-Dog. Merle. Sophia. He thinks how much he's lost, and found, in the months that have passed since the turn. How alone he'd been for most of his shitty life, and how pathetic it was that the world had to end for him to feel like he belonged anywhere. He'd been nothing, and it had seemed better that way. He hadn't ever needed to be anything to anyone. He hadn't wanted to be.

Now though, it's different. He hauls himself into the driver's seat and after a few jittery attempts the ignition catches and he's moving. There are people that need him. They've become his family, they're where he belongs, and he needs them too.

He feels like something's finally going his way when Abraham and Sasha come running out of the building he's pulling up alongside. They clamber in and he notes in passing that Abe's wearing a shit eating grin. What that jackass has to grin about right now he'll never know, but it lifts his spirits a little.

He tries to reach Rick over the radio, and gets only static in reply. He tries again and he can make out something. His gut twists as he calls out again and waits as the seconds of silence stretch out.

"Help."

It's instant, that lead weight the voice puts in his gut. Something is very wrong. The three of them feel it simultaneously, he can tell; the pressure in the cab of the truck changes altogether. He's already flooring the gas pedal because he's being pulled towards home, and he has been since he left. It's not just the place he's trying to get back to. Home means something different to him now.

As they draw up just outside Alexandria, for the first time in a long time, he's scared to death. The tower is down, and a steady stream of shuffling bodies pour in through the gash it's carved in the wall. His stomach heaves and all he can do is bite his lip to stop himself losing it. Everything's moving in slow motion, but happening so fast that he feels utterly helpless.

In a blur, he vaguely registers the frantic exchange with Abe and Sasha, and they decide it's their best hope. They set Abraham's RPG, hoping the resulting sound of the explosion will draw most of the walkers away from the east wall. He feels the ground shake as the missile lands somewhere far off to the right. It works, and after only a few moments he's sprinting for the wall, barely hearing Abraham and Sasha's cries of protestation. His knife is drawn and he's cutting rotten bodies down as he goes, well aware that there's still far too many of them for him to take on alone. Withered fingers grab for him, ripping at his clothes. Decayed, broken teeth miss him by inches. But he cuts and kicks and shoves his way through them all.

Inside the wall it's a sickly hum of panic. These people aren't ready for how this world is, and his heart feels all the heavier for knowing it. He knows from the sounds filling the air all around him that they've already fallen at the first hurdle. Screaming, and crying. Everywhere he looks there are walkers, numbering hundreds already by the looks of it. People are being chased down driveways and into corners, like rabbits caught in the headlights. His blood boils in his veins, and before he has the chance to think about it he's hurling himself at the nearest snarling corpse, plunging his knife into its head with such force it just caves. He's sick of it. Sick of having to fend off the undead vultures, sick of having to fight and scrape for every single breath, for every single moment. Every time they find something vaguely hopeful to hold on to it gets torn away from them. There's a fire searing his lungs because he's exhausted, pulling as much air into them as they'll hold, because he's determined to keep going until it's over, until they can breathe again.

Sasha's beside him now, and he sees the same hate in her eyes as she mows them down in a rain of bullets. There's no point worrying about the gunfire drawing more of them in now; that horse has long since bolted. All they can do is keep going, keep fighting their way through. He ploughs a trail towards the armoury. He knows they have the firepower to get through this, if he could just get to it. As he runs his eyes scan the streets and porches for the others, for Rick and Carl, Maggie, Michonne. For her. Their absence unsettles him and now his feet are pounding the road.

He doesn't know how many he's put down, but every part of him aches. He's swapped his knife for a handgun, but his arms have already bore the brunt of his efforts. There's acid burning in his arms and his legs, and he knows if he ever gets to sit down again his muscles are sure to seize up. Part of him just wants to lie down where he stands, but the sight of Michonne and Rick and Maggie, powering on tirelessly, drives him on.

He takes a moment to regain his bearings. Some of the others are trying to block off the gap in the wall, which is staying the flow of walkers enough that they seem to be holding their own. Down the street from where he's standing Denise and Tara are treating an elderly woman with a head wound. Michonne and Rick are hauling walker corpses off the street, making sure there's no chance they'll get up again. His eyes are drawn to the wall where Abraham and Rosita have found one another, and he's glad. Everyone needs to belong in this world. Everyone should get to start over. The people around him now, holding each other on porches and lawns, they'll start over too. They have to. This can't be it – they can't just keep running forever. He's tired of running. It hurts too much to keep losing people. There has to be a light at the end.

He turns away to leave them to their moment, and it's then he sees her.

She's down on her knees with her back to him, reaching out to put down a walker. Her white shirt is smeared with blood, and it makes his heart frantic. As he draws nearer, however, it washes over him like bile – the realisation that it's not a walker, and it's not her blood. She has her hand on the boy's head, her fingers gently sweeping the hair out of his face. It's all gone very still. His throat closes over, because he feels like he's lost another piece of her. She's never told him what happened with the girls, Lizzie and Mika, but he knows it took too much of her. There's a part of her that stayed with them, just like a part of her stayed with Sophia. Now there's a part that will go with Sam, and it scares him to think how little of her will be left here… now.

She stands, hauling herself unsteadily to her feet, staggering, her gaze fixed on the boy laid out in front of her. He knows she's crying, and in that moment he wills her to just look around, and she does. There's about eight feet between them. The world freezes around them for a moment, and she just stares at him. The tightness of his throat at the look in her eyes is almost more than he can endure, and it's then his heart could burst for her. Because she's not broken. She's the strongest damn person he's ever met, and she's still here. Her eyes blaze with a fire that nothing, not even this shit show, can put out. She's the other half of him, his best friend. She sure as hell ain't flowery sweaters and pearls, or some mouse creeping between the shadows. She's the sun, and the moon, and the stars. She's the earth, and the wet leaves on the ground, she's the rain and the rose that grows where nothing else does. She's fire, and gunsmoke, but she's not ashes… and neither is he.

This time, she's the one moving towards him, but he doesn't wait for her. He's got hardly anything left, but he willingly gives up the last of his energy to get to her. He's already colliding with her, tears blinding him, and he doesn't care who the hell's watching. All he cares about is holding on to her as tightly as he can. He knows what she is, what she's always been to him, and that they've lost too much to risk it going unsaid any longer. He doesn't even attempt to suppress the flow of the relief streaming down his cheeks. He sighs softly into her shoulder, crushing her so tight to him that he feels her break. He sways her gently, fingers buried deep in the curls at the nape of her neck, and suddenly they're falling.

As he fiercely presses a kiss to her head, he feels her arms tighten around him. He cradles her on the ground, in an awkward and uncomfortable heap. He's exhausted, but he doesn't care, because all that matters is he's here for her, and he's never not gonna be there again.