#chocolate Merle

[powerhousemastiffs]

East Coast Mastiffs For Sale in Winchendon, Ma

If you're looking for East Coast Mastiffs For Sale in Winchendon, Ma. Powerhouse Mastiffs is a reputable breeder located in Winchendon. We specialize in breeding Mastiffs with champion bloodlines, excellent temperament, and health. Our puppies are socialized from a young age and receive regular veterinary care to ensure they are healthy and ready for their forever homes.We provide detailed information about each of our Mastiff puppies on our website, including their pedigrees, health records, and personalities. We also offer resources for new puppy owners, such as tips for training and grooming your Mastiff and information about local veterinarians and pet stores in Massachusetts.

[odddogs]

this is. for sure. the most goofy silly fursona looking dog on earth

and his name is kenny

(source)

[fisherrprince]

feel like I have to fire rent lowering shots now that I posted my tumblr link on twitter though

[giawang]

when i cant be with my digital dog Chews You i like to hang out on the google image search results page for "dumb looking great danes"

[evesapplesblog]

[sourpatchys]

My personal Headcannons for Daryl Dixon that I will defend with my life

Just a warning! there is some nsfw❤️‍🔥 content in this list (not a ton)

This is a list full of random Headcannons I have, some are xreader related, some are just fun little things I’d like to believe because they’re fun

He l o v e s head scratches and chin scratches, just like a dog, his mom used to do it to him as a kid, it’s just really comforting to him

He is 100% dyslexic, he’s super insecure about it, which is why he leaves reading and writing up to anyone else who’s willing to do it.

This dude is secretly a math wiz. It came super easy to him, but he does tend to keep it on the down low because it was never something he was allowed to be proud of as a child, and it’s not really a needed skill anymore

I personally do not believe Daryl did anything hard while running around with Merle, Shrooms and weed were his limit 99.99% of the time, unless he felt pressured, but even then it would take a lot of convincing

He’s very self conscious about how thick his accent can get, he grew up in a much more rural area than the rest of Rick and Co. (apart from Maggie of course) and he feels out of place with his speech patterns at times.

Daryl was definitely a highschool drop out, assuming his birthday is January 6th, he left as soon as he was old enough to do it without a parent’s consent (18)

I just know this man never got his license. Can you imagine him paying his way through classes and taking a drivers test? I can’t. He probably just got a state ID for booze and just drove around illegally (if he got an ID at all, I’m sure he knew quite a few places that didn’t card)

He runs hot, the cold is a lot easier for him to handle than the heat, which is why he tended to wear sleeveless shirts or half sleeves

He has never had a “crush” in his life. He’s thought people were hot before, of course he has, but romance was never really on his mind

He’s not a total virgin, but he’s not exactly skilled either. His body count is probably 3, and I guarantee you he was not sober before, during, or after.

He’s a thigh and breast man. Hands down.

I know deep in my soul that this man enjoys some face sitting.

He’s not an overly sexual guy, if you were asexual he’d be okay with never doing anything, so long as you were happy

If you’re nonbinary, he was definitely mean to you at the start, with the way he was raised it simply didn’t make any since to him, BUT once you get closer and he starts to trust you, he might (he will) start asking some questions to understand you better

He isn’t a pet name kinda guy. He’s completely on board with calling you sunshine or princess, but anything past that just isn’t for him, and he really isn’t a fan of you giving him one either, unless it’s just a joking matter like how Carol calls him “pookie” from time to time

He’s a morning person and he hates it. He always wakes up at the ass crack of dawn, and every time he wishes he hadn’t.

He is definitely an insomniac, likely derived from having night terrors as a kid

He’s definitely self conscious about his scars, but not enough to cause issues if anyone happened to see them, he isn’t ashamed of them, but he doesn’t want to explain where their from, and he genuinely hasn’t thought of a good enough lie to tell instead.

When rick saw them for the first time Daryl had him fully convinced he was in a fight with a bear for about a week (rick never asked for the real reason)

He has a heavy sweet tooth, and likes to keep hard candy with him at all times (if possible) and he has never, and will never, pass up chocolate in any form.

He genuinely has chicken scratch for handwriting, he does not plan on ever attempting to make it easier to read, he enjoys the struggle people face when he’s put in a position where he has to write anything down. (Plus it helps conceal his errors if they do figure it out)

He does genuinely want kids in his life. Even if they can’t be his biologically. Being “uncle Daryl” is the best feeling he’s ever experienced, and he really wants to experience that with you if you’d allow it/want it (he would never pressure you to have kids)

Headaches and migraines plague his existence and they always have

He had super long hair as a kid and one of his punishments was his dad shaving it all off, which is why he kept it short until after the outbreak.

He would let you paint his toenails, or match his middle finger with whatever polish you decided to wear

This dude HATES clowns. Seeing a walker in a clown get up would absolutely kill him on the inside

You got sick? Don’t worry about it, he will absolutely attempt to make you soup from scratch using bone marrow and whatever else he can find

Fishing is not his thing. He knows how to, but he much prefers just catching them by hand or with a spear.

The closer you two get, the more likely he is to try and convince you that Bigfoot is real

Daryl is a secret star wars fan

He does NOT like country music, Led Zeppelin, Rob zombie, Ozzy osbourne and Lamb of god are much more his thing

He wasn’t a technology kind of guy, so if you tried to explain any aspect of social media to him he’d be completely lost (he didn’t even have a cellphone)

He has a super dry sense of humor

If he had to choose between starving to death or eating plain Cheerios, he would choose death.

One of the reasons he isn’t big on showering is because he doesn’t have a strong immune system from his childhood neglect, and he doesn’t want to shock his body and get sick

He also just hates the way soap feels on his skin. It’s way too sticky

During sex, he’s not strictly dominant or submissive, he’s ready to adapt to whatever you want, even if that means being strictly vanilla

He’s afraid of Santa Clause

And the Easter bunny

He’s willing to try anything once, even if he doesn’t think he’ll like it

He knows a lot of information on plants and herbs, so depending on your mood, he’ll try to find a flower to brighten your day with a little scribbled note explaining its meaning (because you can actually read his atrocious writing)

He’s never once told you he loves you, and your relationship wasn’t a spoken fact. His actions tend to speak louder than words, and if you say you love him, he will occasionally reply with a “back at ya.” Or “me too”

He always has weird shit in his pockets, like cool rocks he found, dead flowers, and fallen leaves.

He genuinely does not understand a single thing that Eugene says, and he never has.

The first time he ever kisses you on his own (you 100% have to make the first move) it’s a very rough and embarrassed act where he just grabs you and plants one in ya before you can even think about what’s happening

He will change his favorite color to whatever yours is, because if you can see beauty in it, then it’s all he can see from then on out

[darylsfavoritegirl]

HEYYYY IM HONESTLY SO FUCKING EXCITED WHAT DO YOU THINK ABT THESE HEADCANONS bc i wanted to do smth like for a while i just never could come up with anything but its easy in a sense sooo here you gooou

SFW

• I don't think his mommy issues are necessarily sexual, sometimes you would do something that would invoke that "motherly" "safe" or "warm" feeling inside of him. He would never be able to understand what it was or would tell anyone about it. It'd be one of the reasons why he'd care for you as much as he did. You'd make him feel safe by saying something or embracing your arms around him in a certain way which would make him commemorate his mother, though because his mom died when he was young, he wouldn't be able to understand it at all bc he doesn't consciously remember those moments with her. This man fr would think you'd cast a spell on him :D

• I just know this man is a feminist in the core. Growing up, he'd always hear Merle running his mouth about women and how they were like this and they were like that, overall his ignorant, blunt, dumb thoughts about women. He would witness his dad going off on benders with different women each time and how he'd vulgarly talk about them later. And hell maybe he's disrespected women or been really cruel to them but he still regrets it to this time and yeah we all know this man suffers in redemption, always trying to make up for his past mistakes and wrongs. Yet I'm %100 sure he loves seeing women thrive, turning into their best selves or just witness them be real badass and it might even give him some kind of arousal 👀👀. He is into that shit. I said what I said.

• One of his love languages is definitely showing you the places he'd used to spend his time in. Could be a special spot in the woods, could be a small cabin he'd used to get lit with people. Hell it could be random corner in town whenever you'd have to be in downtown for various reasons. He wouldn't even mind if those places brought him bad memories or unpleasant ones. He'd just like being there with you, doing whole ass story times and watch you react them with a wide-eyed expression. He did have a weird and a "crazy" life before the fall that'd make him feel like he was on mushrooms everytime just thinking about it. He'd love letting you know more and more about his past. It would just give him a reassuring feeling deep down. He would feel like it would bound you two together.

• That.man.has.a.sweet.tooth. He loves anything that has sugar. He'd always snack on candies or cookies or chocolates after a hangover. Or when he'd be on drugs. Sugar wakes him the fuck up and he loves the energy boost. He'd carry some candies in his pocket back in the day, eating them throughout the day when he'd feel his blood sugar dropping.

• He is definitely a car-date type of guy. He got more into it after the apocalpyse started and he met you. Sometimes you'd go on runs and you could sit in the car for hours, smoking, eating, talking or yk👀👀 if supplies you found weren't an emergency need. He absolutely savored those moments. You could sit for hours without speaking, in a complete silence. He appreciates quietude.

NSFW

• I know him having a breeding kink is well known and acknowledged but he's insane about it that it hurts. He loves seeing you all squirmed and whiny underneath him with all his cum inside of you, some of it dripping down your thighs. You couldn't always find the right pills for unplanned pregnancy risk and it WOULD drive him crazy to not be able to it.

• He just loves to see you messy beneath him. Hair all tangled, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Your fingers digging so deep on his shoulders that you'd cause his broad shoulders to bleed sometimes, he loved it. Your eyes are all glossy with pleasure. You both would love to go wild and leave sloppy kisses on eachother's bodies and wouldn't mind them drying on your bodies at all, leaving it all sticky.

• He loves being submissive as much as he loves being dominant. You can't convince me otherwise. If you gained his trust, he will be all yours, all needy beneath you while you ride his soul out of his damn body. Again, he adores a badass woman, a woman to take the lead. You would place your hands on his chest and sometimes hold his strong large biceps and he wouldn't dare to move an inch. He liked being vulnerable like that.

• He is just so patient it physically throws you over the edge. He'd get so close making you cum and he'd stop, teasing you with his tip or fingers or sometimes his tongue. He'd smirk at you and even make fun of you in a taunting way to overstimulate you and don't worry he'd make up for it with better ways. He knows what he is doing. It's just come natural to him.

• It's safe to say you are the one who teases him in the public most of the time, your feet tracing his legs up until it stops on his bulge under the table and he'd give a stern stare, trying to shrug and look indifferent as others would notice his suddenly-changing demenour. However, there'd be boring Alexandria dinners that Deanna would host and if you sat next to eachother, he'd place his large hand on your thigh and even dare to slip a finger on the fabric of your panties, starting to rub his middle finger harshly in circles while having full ass conversations with people and try to hide his subtle smirk bearing his face. He would do it rarely yet he'd be so good at it because no one would suspect a thing, he'd always make it look like he was resting his arm on your lap. You'd squirm under his warm touch and heat waves would wash all over you while trying to look normal as ever. And believe me, after those nights, when you'd confront about him about what he did at a dinner with 20 people, he'd act as if he doesn't understand a thing you're saying or would say "Don' kno' what yer talkin' 'bout." while shrugging his shoulders and turning to his side with a wicked grin.

FOOTNOTE

well this actually took shorter than i thought idk why i believed it would take me couple of days to finish one lmao i deadass wrote this in like an hour max ???? anyway i wish there were more but idc i was so impatient to post one of theseeee :)))

[the-fiction-witch]

Newt MasterList

(The first of many given I legit have been writing for newt since like 2014)

Sea Witch - smut

Sea Witch P2 - Smut

Bad Idea - Sexy

Relaxing - smut

Corn Maze - sweet

Nemesis P1 - Cute

Nemesis P2 - Sexy

Nemesis P3 - Smut

I Win! - SMUT

Singing - flirty

Overheated - sweet

Jelaous - sweet

How To Catch a British Boy - cute

Bite - sweet

Little Girl - Smut

Grumpy Newtie - cute

Tennis Match - Smut

Merling - sexy

Where am I - Spooky

Baby Making P1 - sweet

Promo Copy - Cute

Blue butterflies - Smut

Little Duck - Smut

Little Duck P2 - Smut

Little duck P3 - Smut

Tickle Fight! - Smut

Hot Chocolate - Sweet

Ivy - smut

Council Hall - flirty

Council Hall P2 - smut

My Siren - Smut

The Trip - Smut

Little Alice - sweet

Little Alice P2 - sad

The Child P1 - smut

The Child P2 - smut

Married P1 - Cute

Married P2 - sweet

Mummy & Daddy - sweet

Night Newt - Smut

The Cult of Chaos P1 - Spooky

The Cult of Chaos P2 - Spooky

The Cult Of Chaos P3 - sweet

The Cult Of Choas P4 - sweet

Signed -cute

Signed P2 - Dark

Woodcutter - Smut

The Rat - Sad

The Rat P2 - Sad

Shark! - Sad

Hi Newt - Adorable

Little Inferno - Dark

LoverBoy - Sad

Hello love - sad

You know you don't have to ask - Sad

Heavenly Angel - Smut

I Need Help - Sweet

Captured - Smut

captured P2 - Smut

Captured P3 - Smut

The Festival - 18+

Lets Play - 18+

The Garden Shed - 18+

The Garden Shed P2 - 18+

[desiderio-dixon]

Darkest Before the Dawn

Chapter two : Wildflowers

Pairing : Daryl Dixon x f!reader (endgame), (unrequited) Glenn Rhee x f!reader

Series summary : When Glenn Rhee comes into your life, you become convinced he's a guardian angel sent by your late best friend. You think he's your soulmate. But then he falls for the farmer's daughter, and you find that your own angel may be a little more blatant than expected; wings and all.

Chapter summary : As time passes, you grow more concerned about the group in Atlanta. Daryl faces an internal conflict while hunting.

Chapter warnings : I believe just language? Please let me know if you notice anything else!

Word count : 1.6k (I wanted this one to be longer but it felt too cluttered, so the next chapter will just come in quick succession)

A/N : Thank you so much for all the positive reception on the first chapter! I'm open to starting a taglist for this series if anyone's interested. Just send me an ask :)

Series masterlist

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

When Carol returns, she hands you two mini Hershey's chocolate bars. "Courtesy of Sophia," She tells you with a gentle smile.

You gave your best smile in return. "I'll have to thank her later."

After eating the candy, you started to feel a bit better. Carol stayed with you until you declared you were going back to your tent, trying to catch a couple more hours of rest.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

When you awoke, a few hours had passed. Enough for the sun to emerge from the horizon and the camp to grow lively with the sounds of everyone starting their day.

Crawling out of your tent, you were satisfied to find that your head didn't spin. Really must've been an episode of low sugar; thank god for Carol. You should find both her and Daryl, to thank them for their help.

You find Carol pouring dry cereal into bowls for the kids at a picnic table. Mischievously, you sneak behind Carl to snag a freeze-dried marshmallow from his bowl. "Hey!" He calls, a pout heavy on his lips while you toss it into your mouth. You stick your tongue out at him, ruffling his hair. He makes a face, but sinks back into easy conversation with Sophia in no time.

Turning to Carol, you find her eyes already on you. She's staring at you with an emotion you can't quite place, but it seems sweet and somber simultaneously.

She pours you your own bowl wordlessly. When she hands it to you, you place it on the table behind you before grabbing her hands in your own. You regret the sudden movement instantly, when she briefly flinches before relaxing into your gentle touch.

"Thank you for earlier, I don't know what I would've done without you." You say with a genuine smile and a tone of exasperation. She nods, returning your smile. You let her hands go, sitting down on the bench with your bowl of cereal.

Sophia sits on your left, enthusing with Carl about one of her dolls, kicking her feet and shoveling spoonfuls of sugary cereal between words. You eat your cereal silently while you wait for her rant to come to an end. This is a very important topic, after all.

Finally, she concludes the telling of her doll's very intricate backstory. "Sophia," You call gently. "Your mom lent me a couple of your candybars this morning. I promise I'll bring you a king size bar soon!" You wink. She giggles and nods, ever the shy kid.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

After breakfast, you decided to try and track down Daryl to give him your thanks. Weaving through tents and trees to reach the far end of the quarry, you arrive at the Dixon campsite. To your displeasure, there's no Daryl in sight. Only Merle, sitting on a tree stump cleaning his rifle. He doesn't look up when you approach, and you debate just turning back. But, Daryl truly does deserve your thanks and you want to be sure he receives it. "Where's Daryl?"

Merle chuckles, hands stilling over the rifle on his lap. He looks up at you over his brow-bone with a smirk. "Wasn't sure my baby brother had it in him," His chesire grin only grows when you scoff and roll your eyes. It's not like that with Daryl and you're certain he knows that too. "Oh, cmon, sugar! I ain't one to get in the way of young love! Sorry to say, though, Darylina ain't here. Went huntin' before the sun." So that's why Daryl was fully dressed in the early hours of morning. You suppress a sigh of disappointment at your failed mission, knowing that would only egg on Merle's teasing.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

Word had spread quickly around camp about your early morning escapades (though you'd hardly label it that as it wasn't quite exciting) and you'd been sternly grounded; no runs for the near future.

As the group prepared for their journey to Atlanta, your heart felt heavy. Nothing quite prepares you for just how boring the apocalypse is, especially when your favorite person is going on a run without you.

You flick the rim of Glenn's cap, standing in front of him next to the van. He swats your hand away gently, always careful with you. This is the first time he's gone on a run without you since he found you, and you're not sure what to say. 'Goodbye, hope you come back alive.'? 'Good luck not getting torn apart by the living dead.'?

Glenn beats you to the punch. "I'll see you later." He says, casually. Something about the way it's so easy for him feels like a knife twisting in your gut. You know he's an optimist, you know he believes he's going to see you later, but it hurts to think that he's not as worried about never seeing you again as you are. Overall, you're reminded that you're nothing but a friend to him. One he's only known for a month.

"Yeah, I guess I'll see you later." You breathe, lump forming in your throat when he just grins at you before hopping into the back of the van.

You walk away before you can watch it leave.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

The day seems to drone on, time moving slowly. You're holding a variety of tools for Dale, handing them off to him each time he makes a request. He and Jim have their heads firmly pointed into the hood of the Winnebago. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Dale sighs exasperatedly. "Boy, that hose isn't long for this world, is it?"

Jim shakes his head solemnly. "No, sir." Dale hands you back a variety of tools for you to tuck into the toolbox at your feet. He slams the hood shut.

"Where the hell are we gonna find a replacement?"

"Maybe Glenn and I could find an auto store in the city." You offer, shrugging. Dale had made a great friend and mentor; you think you'd do just about anything to make that old man happy. Including risking your life for a damn radiator hose.

"It's late. They should be back by now." Amy yells over. You agree. There's been a nagging sense of concern in the back of your mind. Your trips never take this long.

Dale looks to Amy with an empathetic expression. "Worrying won't make it better." He tells her. The words weren't meant for you but you let them resonate. Worrying won't make it better.

When garbled speech starts to spew over the radio, Dale snatches it up. "Hello? Hello? Reception's bad on this end. Repeat, repeat." He yells into the radio. There's a crowd now gathered around, awaiting a response from the other end. You'd gotten a strange signal the day before but even still you were certain this time it was your group.

More unintelligible speaking comes through. "Is that them?" Lori asks. The next message is clearer. T-dog is speaking, something about trapped and the department store. Your heart sinks to the soles of your feet at what that may imply for their fate. Dale tries once more to get a clearer message when the radio cuts out completely, leaving everyone with a pool of anxiety in their chest.

There's minimal chatter before Shane shuts down the thought of sending help immediately. "No way," He says. "We do not go after them. We do not risk the rest of the group. Y'all know that."

Amy's face turns from scared to red hot rage. "So, we're just gonna leave her there?" You watch Shane, who frankly looks agitated by Amy's reaction. He runs his hand through his hair, the other one placed firmly on his hip.

"Look, Amy, I know this isn't easy."

Amy cuts him off before he can finish that thought. "She volunteered to go to help the rest of us!"

Shane sighs. "I know, and she knew the risks, right?" The question hangs in silence for a second before he goes on. "See, if she's trapped, she's gone. So, we just have to deal with that. There's nothing we can do." You scoff at that.

Amy has a stronger reaction. "She's my sister, you son of a bitch!" She yells before turning and stomping off. Lori goes after her.

"And what about Glenn?" You ask Shane. He doesn't answer. "You people wouldn't have half of the shit here if it wasn't for him." You spit. Just then, thunder begins to rumble in the distance, and you retreat to your tent to wait out the incoming storm.

In classic southern fashion, the rain comes and goes just as quickly. You decide to stay in your tent, worry implanting in the back of your skull keeping you from wanting to socialize. The cheesy romance novel you found on your last run is all the company you'll need for now. A nice distraction from the images of your friends, trapped in Atlanta, being torn apart.

You've read two chapters when you hear it. A blaring car alarm and rock music. Louder than anything you've heard since the bombs dropped.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

Daryl feels stupid. He barely knows you, certainly doesn't like you. But here he is, staring at a patch of wildflowers. You'd like them, he thinks. He's noticed that embroidered patch on your bag. Flowers of all different pastel hues, some spots stained with dried blood. He crouches over them, pulling his knife from his belt.

His fingers stutter where he goes to slice the stems. It's what people do, right? A 'get well soon' gesture. He's nearly cutting it when a groan sounds behind him. It breaks him out of his trance. Standing, he scoffs, stomping on the flowers. He uses the same knife to plunge into the walker's skull. He doesn't know you, and he's sure as hell not going to be seen carrying around a bundle of flowers to give to a girl.

[the-dixon-effect]

Sweet Interruptions

A/N: thanks so much @matilda4eve for this request which you can find here 💕image creds @Emotionalady on pinterest | i had so much fun writing this and i really hope you guys enjoy because as usual i was up in the earliest hours of the morning writing this 😭

summary: Y/N and Daryl are both secretly pining for each other, and it takes all manner of 'interruptions' to bring them together.

era: season 3-4, prison era

pairing: Daryl Dixon x fem!reader

words: 2.3k

warnings: suggestive, Merle being annoying, basically no warnings ^_^

The Georgian wind was hot against your bare shoulders as you stood in the prison yard. It didn't go unnoticed by the other residents how, like always, you appeared lost in your thoughts as you idly gazed at the archer who was working a considerable distance away. Despite having spoken, maybe, two words to Daryl, you were already in deep. You watched his arms flex, those irresistibly tanned biceps contract and relax as if he were a sculptor shaping a beautiful piece of art, when in reality he was simply tweaking his motorcycle. You admired the way his unkempt chocolate hair framed his pretty face, and, when you caught sight of those gorgeous cerulean eyes that seemed invisible to everyone else, it felt enough to just look at him, without needing any attention from him whatsoever. You adored all of him, not just his appearance, and simply from observation you could tell he was a troubled man. How you dreamt of wiping away those tears you knew Daryl hid away somewhere deep inside, reserved for those cold nights spent alone. You dreamt of holding him tight, feeling his big arms wrap around your waist, kissing him anywhere you could reach and-

You were enraptured. And today, it would take some groundbreaking event to drag you from your wild imagination. Just the sight of him working on his bike had you rubbing your thighs together. You loved the way his brows furrowed in concentration, and you couldn't help but imagine him doing other things with those skilled hands.

With blown-out pupils and parted lips, you had lost all sense of where you were and what you might look like gawking at the archer. A forceful hand on your shoulder made you practically jump out of your skin as you took in your surroundings in an instant. You turned your body sharply to face whoever had, somewhat rudely, in your opinion, interrupted your typical daydreams. You recognized the woman and thank God it was a friend, not someone with too many questions about what you were doing, you thought, now considering that your staring might have been a little excessive. It was Maggie, and that familiar Southern drawl reached your ears before you could register the mischievous look she was giving you.

"Aren't ya 'sposed to be workin' out here?" she said, with a very obvious smirk painting the subtle lines on her face. When you realised that she could see straight through you, you decided it was no use denying your little crush any longer. Rubbing your hand on the back of your clammy neck, you spoke quietly, smirking a little yourself.

"It's not like I got something better to do," you said, blushing.

"Well," she began, stringing out the syllable in a playful tone, "you could be helpin' me insteada' standin' out here like a deer in headlights."

You hummed, "Or, I could stay right here." you said with a giggle.

Sure, everybody knew about your infatuation, and sure, Daryl had noticed too. Unbeknownst to you, he had caught himself stealing glances at you too. He noticed the little things, the kind of things any other lust-filled guy wouldn't see. The silkiness of your hair, the precious flare in your cheeks after spending a day in the sun, your beautiful wide smile, the way your cheeks crease when you smile, the gleam in those bewitching eyes when you're looking at him. You were so... sweet. That's it, sweet. If he could define your being in one word, that would be it. Sweet. So sickeningly sweet, Daryl concluded that he'd never met anyone so soft and pure in his life before.

Sometimes, he hated it. What was a girl like you doing in a world like this? Surely, he thought, it would catch up to you soon enough and you'd die at the hands of-

Daryl could hear his brother's voice ringing in his ears.

Ya gon' protect her, lil' bro? She sure needs it, pretty thing won't survive long on her own.

A part of him feared that the memory of Merle's cynicism was right. Except, unlike other times, he wanted to protect you. For the first time, the idea of making a girl feel safe didn't come as a burden. The desire to keep you from harm came unfamiliar to him. It was a strange feeling that, despite the barriers he built that were supposed to guard him from these superficial affections, began to pierce his thoughts and corrupt his selfish notions. It started in the daytime, when he found himself glimpsing at you from a distance, then thinking about you, what you might feel like under his hands, so deliciously forbidden. Then thoughts of you entered his mind at night, and waves of guilt didn't cease to wash over him every time he buried his calloused hands beneath the rough denim of his jeans.

Your presence was angelic, he couldn't bring himself to deny that. If only he could work up the courage just to talk to you.

She don't wantchu, baby brother! What's a cute girl like her gon' wanna do with ya?

Nah, this time, Merle was wrong. Daryl had seen the way you looked at him, the way the corners of your mouth tugged up in a slightly mischievous grin when the two of you locked eyes across the room, right? Yes. This time, his anxiety and self-consciousness were not going to get the better of him.

The next day, Daryl's fingers tightly gripped the metal hand railing of the prison staircase, threatening to turn white if he didn't loosen his grasp. He was staring you down, having lost a little bit of the sudden confidence he found himself equipped with yesterday. Maybe he should talk to Rick, or Glenn? They were good with girls, right? Perhaps they'd offer the right advice for Daryl's foreign predicament.

Before Daryl could consider what he might say to the more 'experienced' men of the group, he was approached by Glenn, who adorned a beige button-up, black jeans, and a grin from ear to ear.

"Hey, man, why don't you just talk to her?" without really registering Glenn's words, Daryl was more focused on the sight of you in the corner of the dining area. Perched on a rusty metal seat, he couldn't shake the notion that you appeared so... out of place. Surrounded by those sporting worn clothes and sullen dispositions, you maintained a distinct luminescence that Daryl could only pine-

Shit. She's lookin' at me. An' I'm lookin' at her. An' what the fuck is Glenn saying?

"Uh- uhh, yeah," Daryl drawled. He turned sharply, and hoped it actually was a question to which he answered appropriately. The last thing he wanted was for everyone to think that the stoic hunter was crumbling under the gaze of a dead-girl-walking. It seemed, however, that he was too late.

"Look man, she obviously likes you and- and this world's too unpredictable not to tell her the truth about how you feel. I mean, look at what me and Maggie have." Daryl nodded. He somehow couldn't meet the other man's eyes. He agreed, though, that Glenn was right. In a world where love seemed like the most unattainable possibility, one look around this new residency revealed that love, however frivolous (and, dangerous), was blossoming all around. Glenn and Maggie, Judith, Tyreese and Karen, and ever-observant Daryl hadn't failed to notice the stolen glances between Rick and the newcomer Michonne. Maybe, despite the world outside the walls, Daryl could let himself love you. And let himself be loved by you.

With a pat on the shoulder and a nod goodbye, Daryl was left alone on the staircase with a grip on the rail a little looser than it was previously. At least, if he couldn't man up and straight up talk to you, he could find a way to show his love.

Show, don't tell, he decided.

ONE WEEK LATER Daryl stood in the prison yard, one leg swung over the seat of his bike, lost in the fond memory of a conversation you engaged him in the other day. He struggled even to remember what you spoke about. His thoughts were clouded with visions of you, the way your mouth looked when you smiled and talked at the same time, the way your eyes widened a little and your pupils expanded. Was that... just for him? Oh yes, that was it. He was going on a run and... you needed a new jacket, since you lost the old one during the transition from the farm to the prison, and now winter was approaching. Daryl was uncharacteristically nervous about whether you would like it, whether it would fit. Your sweet voice immediately snapped him out of his anxiety (which he had no idea how to handle) when you held up his gift and thanked him graciously.

"Hey, Daryl, I was... uhh- since you're visiting that old mall, I was just wondering if you could maybe pick up a jacket for me from a clothing store... or something? I lost mine and it's getting kinda cold... Don't bother if it's too much trouble!"

"Yeah, yeah, of course,"

You tried suppressing a little bit of shock after he agreed without a snarky remark, or without an irritated huff leaving his thin lips. As you stood rocking on your heels, you couldn't help but blush at the fact that his reaction was different for you than for everyone else.

Before Daryl could register the presence of a woman beside him and cease his musing for another day, he felt a brush of distinctly soft skin on the hand that rested on the seat of his bike. He turned to face whoever had just interrupted his romantic daze, preparing to brush them off as fast as he could, but- It was you. And were wearing that jacket. The one that he'd given to you. He almost melted at the sight and he had to compose himself before attempting to address you. He couldn't avoid, however, furrowing his brows and softening his eyes in the way you adored so.

"Uh, hey," he drawled, as his eyes wandered the lengths of your body and took in the sight of you, standing so close to him.

"Hey Daryl, I just... wanted to say thanks so much! I really appreciate you going out to get this for me," you said, softly and dreamily. You paused for a moment, averting your gaze down at your feet, contemplating how Daryl's eyes hadn't ceased studying your image since you approached him.

"I just wonder if there's anything I could do to return the favour?" Your wide eyes seemed to be speaking a different language, and Daryl could interpret only this;

I see the way you look at me,

I know you want me too,

Come inside.

"Nah, dun' worry 'bout it. Glad you like it."

"Alright, well, thanks anyway!" In that moment, you searched every cell of your body for the courage you needed to do what you were about to do. Rising up to your tiptoes, you swiftly but softly pecked a kiss on his cheek and began to quickly stride back to the prison entrance, before he had a chance to berate you.

"Hey, Y/N," he called out. You hummed in response, realising that you hadn't managed to make it as far as you wanted. A wave of guilt rushed through you, suddenly. It's not a big deal, it's just a kiss on the cheek, right?

"Rick said something about wanting us to talk later, you and me,"

"Rick did? Why later, why not now?"

Daryl was lost. He hadn't planned what to say next in this conversation. In truth, he just wanted you to stay, and if that meant succumbing to stuttering in front of you, then so be it.

"I, uhh- I dunno', I guess he thinks there's... things we oughta' discuss?"

One corner of your mouth tugged up when you realised just how utterly clueless Daryl really was. "Yeah, like what?" Let's see how he plays this one out, you thought.

"I dunno', unspoken stuff, I guess?" It was clear Daryl didn't know how to operate when attempting to vocalize his feelings. His glossy hair was falling over his eyes and framing his pretty face so perfectly, in a way that caught the last of the sunlight and lingered before it disappeared behind the trees.

You couldn't help yourself.

Approaching the archer, you removed your hands from the back pockets of your jeans and held eye contact for a moment. When his thin lips pressed together in what you recognised as a smile, you leaned in, pressing one hand to the side of his face and feeling the warmth of his flushed cheeks. Rising to your tiptoes once more, you closed the small distance between the two of you and waited for him to return the sweet kiss. It must have taken him a couple seconds to register what was happening because, when he did, you relaxed into the beautiful embrace of your tongues.

He tasted like pinewood, cinnamon, and stormy weather. It was delicious, and you couldn't get enough. When he allowed himself to place his hands on your hips, you felt the need for air rise up from the pit of your stomach to your throat. Placing your other hand on the back of Daryl's neck, you moved away slowly, not yet withdrawing from the closeness, and spoke,

"You can tell Rick that you're gonna come find me later."

[powerhousemastiffs]

Man's Best Friend: Exploring the Mastiff Breed and Dogs for Sale in Winchendon, MA

When it comes to loyal and loving companions, dogs have always held a special place in our hearts. Among the many breeds out there, the Mastiff stands tall as a gentle giant, capturing the affection of dog enthusiasts worldwide. If you're in Winchendon, MA, and looking for a canine companion, East Coast Mastiffs for Sale in Winchendon, MA, making your search for a loyal friend a little bit easier.

Mastiffs are renowned for their imposing size and gentle nature. They are known to be great protectors and family dogs. Despite their large stature, they possess a calm and gentle temperament, making them excellent companions for families and individuals alike. Their kind and patient disposition makes them great with children, and their loyalty ensures they will always be there to watch over their loved ones.

When searching for Mastiff puppies for sale in Massachusetts, Winchendon is a great place to start. East Coast Mastiffs is a reputable breeder dedicated to producing healthy and well-socialized puppies. They prioritize the well-being of their dogs, ensuring they receive proper care, nutrition, and early socialization.

When adopting a puppy from East Coast Mastiffs, you can expect to receive a well-bred and healthy companion. These puppies are raised in a loving and nurturing environment, which helps shape their personalities and prepares them for their future lives with their new families.

It's important to remember that owning a Mastiff requires commitment and responsible ownership. They are a large breed, and proper training and socialization are essential to ensure their happiness and well-being. Additionally, providing them with regular exercise and a balanced diet is crucial to maintaining their health.

If you're in Winchendon, MA, and considering adding a Mastiff to your family, East Coast Mastiffs Dogs for Sale in Winchendon is an excellent option to explore. They provide well-cared-for Mastiff puppies for sale and can guide you on your journey to becoming a proud and responsible Mastiff owner. Remember, a Mastiff isn't just a pet; they are a loyal companion who will be by your side through thick and thin, making every day a little brighter with their unconditional love and devotion.

[odddogs]

this dog made my jump a bit i was so surprised by the look of her, i think i get now why ppl are so obsessed w/ red merle...

(source)

[amber-tortoiseshell]

It's so interesting to me how so many mammals seem to have similar types of mutations...it's like most species have the possibility of dilution, recessive gene that turns black brown (like chocolate in cats or liver in dogs), piebald, erythrism (eumelanin replaced with phaeomelanin like in red cats), colorpoint... do you think we'll ever see some patterns in cats we see in other animals? like tan points, roan, or Merle?

Well, mammals have generally the same genes, and there are only so many of them affecting the coloration...

I think merle and roan (or at least something similar enough to earn the name) has been already seen in cats here and there!

Tan is an agouti mutation, and honestly seeing all those animals with such similar coloration, like in that one post...

...i wouldn't be surprised if it appeared in cats too. Like very likely these are all independent mutations. Every species must have mutated the color independently. Which means it can happen relatively easily.

I don't expect seeing tan cats in the near future, but i certainly don't think one turning up sooner or later is impossible.

[queerdiazs]

writing patterns 🫧

rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

in the meantime | 2.3k, teen

“You should take him on a vacation when he gets out,” Athena says, nudging her shoulder with his. “It’ll be nice.” 

i am just a fool, but i have loved you all along | 5.1k, teen

At 10:17 in the morning, Buck barges through the front door unannounced. He has an impressive load of shit in his hands—boxed candies and chocolate-covered strawberries and two stuffed animals and a massive bouquet of magnolias and yellow daises packed in a gorgeous glass vase. 

like a cat in the rain | 4.6k, teen

A ricocheting clap of thunder wakes Buck up from a deep, dreamless sleep. He startles, shaking in a shot of terror at the sudden noise, and nearly falls off the couch as he flails in an attempt to gather his bearings. 

he's a big boy | 5.7k, explicit

The best thing about being married to Buck is that Eddie finally has somebody to carry the forty pound bags of mulch to the backyard when he doesn’t want to. 

what to do when evan buckley breaks into your house at 3:17 in the morning | 2.9k, teen

A sharp, resounding noise wakes Eddie up from a messy, sweaty sleep. He snorts, coughs, snorts again, and rolls over to check the time on the alarm clock with one crusty eye open. 

the house i built is burning | 6.4k, mature

Giggling, drunk on champagne and Buck’s fingers shoved up under his shirt, Eddie kisses his way along Buck’s throat, behind Buck’s ear, and whispers, “D’you know we haven’t fucked since last year?” 

deck the halls (and your in-laws) | 29.6k, mature

Four days before Christmas Eve, Ramon and Helena Diaz arrive at LAX at two-thirty in the afternoon. 

and i feel just like i want to kiss you underneath my mistletoe | 9.3k, teen

“So, you’re telling me,” Ravi starts in, all wide-eyed and giggly like he’s been given a secret he can’t wait to share, “that you’ve never kissed anyone under a mistletoe? Ever?” 

merle said mama tried, but the prison still won | 2.9k, teen

Eddie would like to preface this by saying he considers himself to be a kind, mature, intelligent, thoughtful man who tries his utmost best to meet people in the middle whenever an aggravating situation arises. 

there you are, sweetheart | 2.9k, teen

Exhausted, worn all the way down to the bone, Eddie stumbles into the house and kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot. He’s loud about it, too, stomping and huffing and tossing his bag on the floor like he used to as a teenager after baseball practice; he’ll pick it up later just like he’ll sweep up the mud from his boots, too, but after. 

oooh, i found a few patterns doing this, lmao, and those are: 1. turnpike lyrics as titles 2. putting mr eddie and his boy buck thru it 3. i am the King of Silly Eddie 4. i was accidentally in the holiday spirit

tagged by @actualalligator, @puppyboybuckley, @wikiangela, @honestlydarkprincess, @devirnis, @jeeyuns, and @exhuastedpigeon, mwah

tagging @monsterrae1, @loserdiaz, @wildlife4life, @watchyourbuck, @rogerzsteven, and @thewolvesof1998 if any of you wanna play!

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 28

Harley D. Dixon's Pinterest Board! Harley D. Dixon's Playlist!

📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

I was lying last time. That wasn't a biggun. THIS is a biggun.

'Be careful, Dad.'

'I will, baby.'

I realize the others. 'Oh. And you too, I guess.'

'Real funny,' T-Dog signs, unimpressed.

The strongest of our group spare us no last glances as they turn away, with only five bullets and a handful of bolts between them. I sit next to Lori on the small bench, watching their backs retreat. The Thanton Memorial hospital. There it is, tall and beige like a school, but really more of a Hellbox filled with nasty surprises behind each one of the hundreds of little black windows. Glad it ain't me.

God. Nine miles. Two days. Sharpsburg, East of nowhere. We really made it. I guess I knew we would.

'You know this place.'

Herschel's already looking at me when I turn to him, his moustache curled around a smile.

'Just a feeling,' He adds.

'You're a mind reader,' I decide, regarding him with suspicion.

Herschel Greene; a wizard disguised as a Georgian farmer. I knew there was something up with him.

He doesn't respond, because I guess he don't want his cover blown. That or... Well, he's waiting for an answer.

'My Momma lived in this town.' Is all I supply him with after a time, because it ends the same way most stories do.

'I'm sorry.'

I shrug. It ain't anybody's fault. 'I don't know why I didn't tell nobody.'

'This town means something to you. We don't always share things like that.'

I guess. 'What about your Momma?'

'My Mother died when I was fairly young.' He admits easily, like somebody at peace. 'One day, my brother and I noticed she'd gone out into the rain to water the plants, and things were never quite the same for a long time after that.'

Oh. I've heard of that. People getting old, forgetting where their bedroom is, who their kids are.

It's hard to imagine Herschel as just a boy with a Momma.

Some days, it's even hard to imagine myself as just a girl, even though that's what I still am.

I offer him a lame smile.

'Let's talk about something a little happier,' He suggests, while over his shoulder, a flashlight glares across the inside of one of the second storey windows. 'I'm starting to think it's the end of December. That would mean it's Christmas soon.'

The light disappears.

I ignore it.

If only them pharmacies we checked this morning had anything in them besides rat shit and dust.

'Jesus' birthday party,' I muse.

That gets him to laugh. I think he's tryna distract me. 'Yes. It could even be tomorrow.'

'Really? How do you know?'

'Well, I suppose I don't. Do you like Christmas?'

Everybody likes Christmas. That is, at least, everybody likes presents.

'Yeah. My Meemaw had a really pretty tree.'

'The minute it turned December first, Maggie and Beth would always force everyone to put up ours.'

'Do they believe in Santa Claus?'

'Not anymore, I'm afraid.'

'And you?'

His eyes glint mischievously. 'Of course I do.'

I consider it. 'I don't think I do. I don't believe in the Easter Bunny, neither.'

Or God, but that's a different story.

'They didn't ever come to your house?'

'They came a few times, but I think they forgot about us. My friend Dylan said they're made up. The Christmas after that, I stayed up late to spy on Santa, but I just saw Merle and Dad carrying presents in from the truck. I never told them.'

'I guess Santa was too busy that night.'

'If he is real, I hope he's okay. The Easter bunny has lots of chocolate to eat, but... Santa might be hungry.'

I wonder if the walkers have made it to the North Pole yet. Knowing those assholes, they definitely have.

'You forget; — Santa has magic.'

'That's how he makes the sleigh fly, right?'

'Right. And all those cookies and all that milk... Well. He's got more than enough to last a lifetime.'

'So, you think he's okay?'

'I'm sure of it.'

'I would like some cookies and milk, too.'

The old man only laughs again, giving my knee a gentle pat as Carl leans forward, his mouth moving around some words.

When the boy gestures to me, Herschel translates.

'He asked me what we were talking about. He wants to tell you it's okay; Santa forgot about him too, one year.'

Carl sends me a thumbs up, trusting that the message got across well enough.

It did. I feel my smile widen.

It's wiped away when Lori suddenly lurches forward between us. Her chest wracks, wracks, wracks, a soft wad of phlegm flying past her lips and landing at her feet. My hand goes to her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly, as if that's gonna do anything useful. Her lungs, they must be clogged up like sponges filled with yoghurt, all that sickness and junk coming back up the way it went in.

Herschel's on his feet, bringing his thin hand down on her back, knocking the phlegm out of her.

I glance over my shoulder.

Lights; more of them, swooping over the glass, appearing and disappearing and reappearing.

A gunshot lighting up a window.

Please be okay, I think. Lori won't make it like this.

Facing forward again, Lori's got her hand splayed over the base of her throat, coughing dryly. She takes the water bottle Carol is offering to her, and gulp, gulp, gulps down the last of what's inside, deflating when she's done, cradling her big belly.

Are you okay, I ask aloud as I loosen my grip on her, hoping it sounds how it's supposed to sound.

She smiles at me in the slightest of ways, putting her hand over mine before I can pull it away.

She nods, I'm okay, honey.

I nod back, because that's good. I don't believe her for a second, but that's good.

'There was a gunshot,' Beths signs to me, then.

'I know. I saw.'

She continues signing even as she turns to Herschel, a habit by now. 'That was loud.'

'Don't worry. Anything that heard it will be too slow to make their way over here.'

'I hope so.'

We sit without talking after that, watching the windows of the hospital light up with gunshots every now and then, as if it were a football game on TV. I count them, the flashes. The one I saw while Lori was coughing, that's one. That one there, that's two.

Rick used to talk about the day he woke up in the Grady Memorial Hospital sometimes. Right now, the only parts of the story I can remember are the ones where he'd hesitate to continue, staring at something in the fire the rest of us couldn't see, before he muttered about the way there wasn't one wall in the entire building that wasn't dirtied with blood, not even in the children's ward.

Hospitals just ain't what they used to be, is what I learned from him.

There's definitely more than just rat shit and dust in there.

I glance at Beth, asking her, 'Any noise?'

Her lips crumple into a thin line as she answers, 'Nothing.'

Just when I swear Herschel is about to bow his head and start praying, the front doors swing open.

Mouse perks up, his tail ramrod straight.

That's Dad, T-Dog, and Maggie walking out.

Where's Rick and Glenn?

The three of them are panting, dishevelled, but nobody hurt. Nobody bit. That's always the first thing I look for.

Thing is, though, they're all looking at me like I've won a shitty prize and I just don't know it yet.

What now?, I almost feel like saying, but don't.

The further in we walk, the darker it gets.

Does anybody really like the dark?

The flashlights carve out pockets in the walls and floors around us as we make our way down corridor after corridor. My heart skips a beat each time we pass the body of a patient or a nurse or a person in regular clothing, all with a bolt or a bullet buried somewhere inside them. We sidestep their limp arms in turn, their puddles of blood. I ain't ever been in a horror house before, but I imagine this is worse. I imagine it'd prolly feel a whole lot less like you're being walked to the gallows for execution, and that the blood would be fake.

If I had my locket, it would be clutched between my fingers right now, but the soft spot beneath my throat is completely bare. When I woke up this morning to my empty palm, I knew right away what'd happened. I didn't bother to ask what he did with it.

Passing another body with a bolt skewered through its face, my Dad reaches for it, pulling it out.

Clicking it back onto his bow, he notices me watching him.

'Keep going, baby.' He signs to me, black blood smeared down the side of his neck. 'Not far, now.'

T-Dog comes to a stop in the middle of the corridor a minute later, his flashlight revealing Glenn and Rick standing together just up ahead. Not hurt. Not bit. They look up from what they've been doing, which looks like taking turns kicking the wall.

T-Dog lowers the flashlight to their feet.

There it is.

The Harley-sized hole in the wall.

Now that I'm looking it, I can see what they meant. Nobody else is fitting through that thing, not even Carl.

Still no use, is the sentiment written all over Rick's face.

It looks like they've tried their best to widen the gap, but it's made out of solid brick and we're fresh outta jackhammers.

Will she fit? 

Yeah, I think so, Is the gist of what I can tell they're saying to each other.

We got this piece off here, but it the rest isn't budging. We don't have any bullets left to shoot it.

Maybe... we can do what I said before? Find another pharmacy?

Sure. When you find one within twenty miles of here, you let me know.

You're right. That was dumb. Sorry.

There are no other options. The medicine Lori needs is in that room, and it's like I said. She won't make it, otherwise.

'Listen. There are keys on the desk.' Dad explains to me, his stern expression contoured harshly by the flashlights surrounding us. He takes my wrist, guiding me to crouch with him at the base of the wall, pointing through the cracked bricks. I strain to make out the desk with the keys at the back of the room on the other side, before I meet his gaze again. 'Do you see them?'

'Yeah. I saw them.'

The desk ain't the only thing in there.

'We need you to grab them and unlock the door for us.'

We both know I also saw the walker standing idly in the corner, head bowed to the floor, waiting.

'We'll be able to kill it when the door is open.' He adds when I don't respond, as if he needed permission. 'I can't from here.'

'My heart is beating fast.'

He nods. 'That's a good thing. And this meathead is dumb. Are you dumb?'

I puff my chest out, shaking my head.

'That's right. You don't need to hear them when you're smarter than them. You're always smarter than them. Okay?'

'Okay.'

That's what he's told me ever since I went totally deaf. I don't need to hear them when I'm smarter than them. It's not as if we've had the opportunity to test the theory out, since there's so little walkers that I ain't had to kill one yet, but I trust him.

Twisting around, he gestures for Glenn's flashlight and catches it easily, giving it a few test clicks.

He hands it to me. 'Remember what I taught you?'

I give a nod, feeling the weight of Merle's knife sitting in the sheath on my thigh.

'Good. And be careful of the glass on the floor, okay?'

'Okay. I got this.'

I can do this. I gotta, for Lori and the baby. It'll make for a funny story one day, anyway. I can do it.

'You got this.' He agrees. 'It's gonna smell you, but you're not gonna panic. Easy stuff.'

'Easy stuff. Okay.'

'Okay?'

'Okay.'

With one last look at the group, I take a deep breath and grab onto one of the exposed bricks, contorting myself until my head and one of my arms is through the gap. I pause for a moment, trying not to breathe too much as I watch the walker follow invisible patterns along the floor with its eyes. Once its head is tilted away from me, I brace my hand on the floor, pushing myself through.

Oh, God. What was it I just said? I can do this?

The flashlight blinks on and off as I land on the other side, grabbing it, giving it a shake.

The desk is illuminated in a circle of light, centre stage.

The dead body twitches in the shadows. I slowly get to my feet, silently warning it to stay right where it is if it knows what's good for it. I'm smart. I can read and write now, and my Dad taught me how to stab the thigh first, so the walker will collapse and make it easier for me to reach whatever cavity I can stick my knife in. If this thing gets too close to me, it's gonna get the Dixon treatment.

Uh huh. That's right, I scold it, chin held up. The Dixon treatment. Ain't nobody want that!

The pieces of glass on the floor glint in the light as I tip toe my way through them, stepping up to the desk.

Dad said the keys are here. I saw them. They should be right here amongst these dusty papers — Ugh, God, don't sneeze. Don't. — or maybe even on this folder? What about the shelves above the desk? How could they just disappear?

When I turn the light on the walker, it's looking at me, eyeballs wet, reflecting the light.

It's smelt me.

That's okay. I'm okay. We knew it would.

It starts its slow shuffle towards me as I turn my attention back on the desk, casting about it twice as quickly now, batting the alarm clock, the pen pots, the stethoscope, everything out of my way and following all the pencils and random office supplies down to the floor. Kneeling, I look around, making sure the keys haven't gone down with them or fallen between the desk and the cabinets.

A glint of metal.

I gasp. They have!

I must've accidently knocked them off while I was choking back all that dust in my face.

I stick my hand into the slim gap, but — Ugh. — I can't get it any farther than my knuckles!

I'll have to make it wider.

Abandoning the flashlight, I grab the side of the desk, using all my strength to shove it even just one inch to the side.

Shit, it's heavy. They got bowling balls in here, or what?

The wheelie chair bumps into my ankle. I act on instinct, my hands shooting out, bracing against it. I look up. The walker's slouched over it, reaching for me. My elbows, they buckle. Shit. The seat slams into my shoulder — Ouch! — but you know what. This'll do. This works. I just need these stupid keys. I ignore the walker and its stench of old meat, focused on nothing but the keys.

I'm not gonna panic. It's what I used to do, but I've learnt since then. I'm better!

A couple shoves, and the gap is just wide enough, wide as it's ever gonna be.

Easy stuff. Easy stuff.

The seat suddenly gives way. The body rolls, cracking its cheekbone on the floor. Don't matter. I got the keys. I'm back on my feet and running to the door, feeling out a random key and shoving it in the lock, twisting it. It's the right one. The door opens.

Maggie pulls me out by the arm. It's if there's a fire blazing behind me and I'm about to go up in flames.

That's it. I'm out!

I fall into her stomach, protectively held there.

Thank whoever's still up there. Or maybe, just thank me.

Rick and Dad push past my shoulders, marching into the room and unsheathing their blades, powerfully driving them both into the walker's skull. Blood splatters as they yank them out, droplets landing across the glass cap of the flashlight on the floor. It tints the light and everything it's cast onto a bright red, flickering. Dad picks it up, wipes it on his thigh, and hands it back to Glenn.

Grinning proudly to myself, I hold up the keys up like a trophy head for everyone to see.

Maggie releases me, smiling breathlessly down at me in relief.

'Well done,' T-Dog exclaims with his hands, sharing a high five with me.

Kneeling in front of me, Dad cups my face in his hands. He don't give a damn about the keys. Are you okay?

'I'm okay. The keys were down the side of the desk. I couldn't reach them. I had to—,' Shoving at the air, I enthusiastically mime the struggle, making Maggie chuckle behind her hand. 'The walker was trying to get me through the chair.'

He smiles, wagging his thumbs across my cheeks before lowering his hands. 'I told you. Meatheads. But not you.'

'Not all the time, anyway.'

'You should've come back out when you couldn't find the keys.'

'Sorry.'

'It's alright. There won't be a next time. You did good.'

Then, taking the keys from me, he stands back up and returns to Rick's side in the dark room.

I stay right beside Maggie and Glenn as they make quick work of the storage room door, pushing it open. Their torches illuminate the shelves on either side of them, which to everyone's relief, are completely untouched, lined with all kinds of medicine. It wasn't all for nothing. Without bothering to read many of the labels, they swoop their arms through the masses of bottles, catching everything in their open backpacks and zippering them back up, before nodding to each other and stepping back outta the small room.

Let's go, Rick says as he shoos us forward. We're all eager to get the Hell outta this place.

Stepping through Thanton Memorial's broken glass doors, daylight breaks across my face.

The fresh, cold air floods into my dusty lungs.

When Carl spots me, it's like the bench burns his ass. He's calling my name as he comes running at me, crushing me in a hug that almost sends us both toppling over into the snow. A giggle is squeezed from me as I hug him back, feeling my bones creak under the pressure. Wow. For somebody who ain't eaten anything other than a bit of rabbit for the past two days, he sure is strong.

Pulling away, he holds both my shoulders as he worriedly exclaims something to me.

You're the coolest, bravest person ever, I'm gonna assume is what he's saying, I don't know how you did it!

He pulls me in for another, quicker hug.

When Herschel appears over his shoulder, I get the real story. 'He's telling you we were all very worried.'

Oh. Is that right?

Ow!, The boy scoffs as I land a punch to his shoulder, forcing him offa me.

'Tell him he's talking to Harley Dixon,' I say.

As the sentiment is passed on, Carl rolls his eyes at me, making a retort.

'He wants to remind you of the time he hugged you after you cried from a nightmare.'

Ow!, He complains again when I punch him.

As he rubs sorely at his shoulder, he can't help but giggle along with me.

'Come on,' Herschel interrupts us, herding the two of us back toward the group. 'Very well done, sweetie.'

'I was only a little scared.'

'Of course. This is Harley Dixon I'm speaking to, isn't it?'

Too right. 'Yes, it is!'

Stepping up to the crowd, we gather around the bench as Rick takes a seat next to his wife, uncapping the bottle of water in his lap. Her face looks awful pale-like, paler than the snow packed under our boots. Still, despite the effort it must take, she manages a smile. Her hands shake as she takes the water, watching Rick tap a small bottle of pills against her open palm until two tumble out. 

Being trapped in that room was one of the scariest things I've done. I can say that, now. But as she tips her head back and swallows the pills down with a gulp of water, I'm hit with the feeling that I would do it all over again if I had to.

She sighs, body swaying. We can only hope that it works.

As Rick soothes circles onto her lower back, his gaze accidently meets mine.

'Thank you', He signs, looking like he means every bit of it.

His blue eyes start to water just like they did last night, except there ain't no fire I can blame it on this time.

I only give him a single, shy nod, grabbing onto my Dad's hand. He don't need to thank me. I love Lori, too.

Then to everyone else, he says it again; Thank you.

Carl's hugging me again.

I don't bother punching him this time. I don't wanna do it, anyway.

Being back in Sharpsburg is different to what I thought it would be.

Aside from the old blood smeared across the roads, the way everything seems to have gone through a nightmare and fell back asleep shortly afterward, Sharpsburg is the one place we been that has not bothered to rot away quite yet. There ain't no bombing craters where parks or stores used to stand, no toppled police barricades, army trucks, no bruises from the week everything ended.

Petey's general store is still exactly where it always was, right next door to the news agency, the record store, the locksmith. I don't keep my head down like I planned to. I don't pretend I never knew this place, or the people in it, because I did. I hold my chin up to the light of the setting sun as we walk through the forgotten town, unafraid of the memories I can see behind each and every door.

You know this place. I did. I do. For a long while, it was pretty much the only thing I knew.

Each weekend, I would jump out of Dad's truck the second he pulled up on the handbrake, door slamming as I ran into my Mama's open arms. It would be late afternoon, sometimes twilight. There was no school the next day, no quizzes or beatings to worry about. Not on the good days, not when I was cruising down the sidewalk on my bike with a dollar note in my hand, on my way to Petey's. He would always insist on letting me pick an ice cream out for free, but it never worked. Have-it-her-way-Harley, he always called me, the nickname a hearty chuckle in his mouth. The wind was in my hair on the way home, because I had one back then, dollar note replaced with a fruity-flavored glob of ice cream frozen to a stick. Sugar melting onto my fingers, washed away in the play pool after dark.

I used to do things like that. We all did, I suppose.

As we pass by an empty parking lot, I notice the rainbow streamers of a lonely, fallen bike blowing around in the wind like a white flag. I wanna ride a bike again. Just for a minute. Maybe two, I think, as I hold my gaze on it for as long as I can.

Eventually, we make it to a park. Of course, I recognise this place as well, and so does my Dad.

That's why I can feel him staring at the back of my head.

I never stopped to think about how he knows Sharpsburg, too. He was right there with me on the porch of Petey's store, most the time, smoking cigarettes in the sun with melted ice cream drying out on his collarbones. He remembers it, too.

We used to come to this park all the time; me, Momma, and Dad, on the rare days they got along.

I got to pretend I was a different kid looking in on the three of us and thinking, What a nice family. I wish I was her.

Now, the monkey bars look more like the giant ribcage of an old beast rather than something I'd wanna play on.

A shrivelled walker, curled over the seat of one of the swings, lets the wind brush its fingers along the ground.

Everyone has a Before.

Even that walker.

Even if our Befores were all very different, at least our Afters are all the same. We're all here, sick, hungry, tired.

The park's trees and fences fall away after a while of more walking, making way for a suburban street.

Coming to a stop in the middle of the road, the ache in my feet worsens to a pang, pang, panging.

'Everything alright?' Glenn's asking me as a wave of tiredness suddenly washes over me.

'My feet hurt.' I answer. 'And don't say sorry.'

'I think we're going to stop soon. Don't worry.'

Rick considers the houses lined up in front of us, hands on his hips, as Dad walks up to us. 'What's wrong?'

'Her feet hurt. And are you tired?'

I could fall asleep right here in the snow. 'A little.'

Even when I was lost in the woods outside Herschel's farm, I still don't think I ever walked this much and for this long.

Giving me a regretful look, Dad offers, 'Do you need me to carry you?'

'I'm a big girl,' I tell him, yawning.

'I know. I asked you a question.'

They wait on my answer. I think about fighting it a minute longer, but I just don't have it in me. I'm reaching up for my Dad before I even realize it's what I'm doing, letting him lift me onto his chest as I wrap my arms and legs around him.

I could've definitely handled it. Yeah. It's just that, maybe it's okay if I don't for a while.

I can already feel my eyes drooping shut. I'm gonna fall asleep right here.

It's suddenly a lot easier to feel like just a girl, now.

My chin hooked over his shoulder, I watch through my heavy lids as Rick does a double take on something laying on the ground, turning to pick up what looks like a fallen street sign. The moonlight swells over the clouds, spilling onto the metal.

Brushing the frost off, he reveals the words, Bolton Drive.

Bolton Drive. To me, this was always just Dylan's street.

If we turn left here, there's some bigger houses down the way. I think it's prolly what my Dad's telling the group right now.

We're on the move again right after that, heading further into the suburbs. I'm saved from walking, instead snuggling into my Dad. It's almost impossible to shield my face from the oncoming winds as I peek out over his shoulder, the moon a silver ball in the sky behind us. I bet it's just about the only place left without any walkers, including the North Pole. If I were a bird, maybe I would forget all about Earth and just fly up there. I could look back down on it all like from a faraway window, watching as it slowly spins.

At a harsh gust of wind, I close my eyes, and the moon and all the stars vanish.

Sleep sweeps me up quickly. My mind floods with murky colors, then black, swirling like a shower drain.

When I open my eyes next, we're approaching a house I don't recognise.

'Shhhh,' Dad's soothing me, looking about as exhausted as I feel. 'It's alright. I'm putting you down.'

My feet slowly setting on the ground, Maggie takes my hand before I get the chance to feel the loss of Dad's warmth. We wait shivering at each other's side as the men clear out the house. Rick eventually sticks his head back out, waving us inside.

Climbing the porch, we huddle into the narrow corridor and spread out into the nearest room, the lounge room. Dad's already got a fire going for us as we make ourselves at home on the sofas, the hot breath of the flames quickly starting to melt the frost stuck to my coat. I hug myself, breathing deeply and slowly to try fight off the urge to fall right back asleep. As I notice Carl approaching, I scoot over to make room for him and his Momma, who settles her weight down on the sofa with the help of Maggie and Glenn.

I feel a little bad for being carried, even if I needed it. Lori made it all the way here on foot, deep into a sickness and carrying a baby inside of her. A lotta people might think a lady like her is weak, but they'd be wrong. There's many ways to be strong.

My Dad stands from where he was knelt by the fireplace, peeling off his beanie and sitting beside me.

As I look around the room, all I see are tired faces.

Mouse plops himself between my feet, the poor guy's fur ice-cold beneath my hands as I give him some pats.

We'll be warm soon, buddy, I think.

Everyone's attention is stolen when Rick steps up to the front of the room, fiddling with his beanie in his hands.

He gulps on nothing, nodding to himself. 

'I know we're all very tired,' Herschel translates for me as the words come, even though his arms must feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. 'Been tired for months. But let's just make the most of this and try to relax tonight. We've got a fire. We've got walls. Medicine. It's a Hell of a lot better than those garages back in Newnan. T and I will melt some snow for us to drink, and we got some food we just found in the kitchen. We'll take turns for watch through the night, but there's not much out there. You saw.'

Carol hesitates to raise her hand, shaking her head as she asks a question.

We turn back to Rick. 'I don't know. I don't like staying in one place long, but I'm thinking there's only a few more weeks left until Spring. It's not impossible to think we can tough it out here. There's not many other options right now.'

It looks like we're staying in Sharpsburg for a few more weeks, then. At least until the cold dies down.

There are worse places to end up.

'Try to warm up in the meantime.'

Leaving us to stew in thought, Rick and T-Dog pull their coats on tighter and disappear through the archway.

'You know something?' Beth asks after a minute or two, the only light in the room coming from the fire. It lends her face a pretty, dim glow as she glances at her Dad sitting next to her.  'Daddy thinks it's gonna be Christmas tomorrow.'

Oh, that's right. I'd almost forgotten.

Glenn sends him a, No shit?, sort of look.

'I just figured it would be about that time.' He explains, making Maggie light up. 'I have a sixth sense for it.'

My Dad scoffs, shrugging. 'Well, I don't have a calendar. Why not.'

Wait? Really?

'So, it's Christmas tomorrow?', I ask him, as if we ain't just making all this shit up.

Something so simple, the prospect of waking up on Christmas morning tomorrow even if it ain't in no official way, even if we ain't even got a tree, let alone a star to put on top of it, sparks excitement throughout the room. Yes, it's Christmas tomorrow. From the smiles breaking out on everyone's faces, Maggie giddily gripping onto Glenn to give him a shake, I can tell it's Christmas tomorrow.

Feeling just a little bit more awake than I did a moment ago, I exclaim again, 'It's Christmas tomorrow!'

My Dad seems to find this very amusing, smirking side-long at me.

There ain't much to say in the way of how our Christmases used to go, especially the ones after my second birthday, but I still remember seeing the church all lit up with decorations at night whenever we happened to drive past it. I always liked that.

Carl must exclaim the same thing I did with almost twice the energy, because Lori and Rick laugh.

'I can't believe,' Maggie gushes, 'I forgot about Christmas!'

'It's not your fault,' Glenn jokes, petting her shoulder. 'We've been busy trying not to die.'

'Good point.'

'I'm sure the Lord will forgive you,' Beth says.

'Yeah. He started all this shit, anyway.'

Maggie waves her hand around. 'Hey. A little respect for the Atheists in the room?'

When everyone turns to look at me and Dad, a round of laughter breaks out.

'We're only in it for the presents,' He agrees.

I nod. It's true.

'Me, too,' Glenn says.

'I just wish I we had some,' Beth pouts.

'We're alive,' Herschel argues, looking around at each person in the room. 'There's no present better than that.'

Aww. That cheesy line earns him a funny look from Maggie, who pulls him into a deathly-tight hug.

'I think there actually might be something better.'

Glenn sticks a finger up, standing and disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returns, he's cradling a bunch of shiny wrappers in his arms, dumping them all onto the coffee table. Snack packs. Crackers and cheese, salami and cookies, bread sticks, peanut butter. Those really are snack packs! What a lucky find!

Nobody hesitates. We all grab one, ripping the seals off and huffing the tasty smell that comes out.

'You just found these in there?,' Asks Beth.

'Yeah,' He answers, flopping back onto the sofa. 'They were in the pantry. There's cans, too.'

'I'm in love with whoever lived here.'

Mouse is staring at me as I pick up a piece of salami, so I toss it into his mouth.

I save the next one for myself, groaning at the nostalgic taste of school lunches.

'Better?' Glenn signs to me like a smartass, knowing damn well this is the best thing I ever tasted.

I stick my food-covered tongue out at him.

Blehhh!

Unexpectedly, he does the same thing back. Eugh. Gross!

When Carl notices what we're doing, he sticks his tongue out, too. Even grosser!

'Come on. Enough,' Dad tries to warn me, buts he regrets it a second later when a wet glob of salami lands in his lap.

This is what Rick and T-Dog walk in on as they come through the archway, holding cookware filled with chunks of snow and ice in front of them. My Dad's smacking the salami onto the floor as if it were fresh dog shit, Carl and I trying not to choke on our food, laughing at him. Mouse spinning in circles like a lunatic, spurred on by the chaos, making Carol laugh like she means it. Not that puny, polite little chuckle she does sometimes; a full belly laugh, holding onto Maggie for support. They was only gone a few minutes.

Rick smirks as he shakes his head, deadpanning something to the effect of, I see you found the food.

They set the cookware in front of the fire and join us on the sofas. 

'Why's everyone so happy?', Rick asks as he sits on the ottoman, confused, delighted, because there has to be a reason.

'It's Christmas tomorrow,' I gladly tell him.

'Oh, really?'

T-Dog asks the others, 'Wait, what? How do you know?'

'We don't.' Herschel admits, throwing Mouse a cube of cheese. 'But we deserve a Christmas, don't we?'

Yeah, I see the word slip from Rick's mouth.

'We deserve some eggnog, too,' T-Dog adds, making himself laugh just like he always does.

'Tell me about it.'

'Cover your ears, kids,' Carol tells us, even though she's laughing, too.

I hear that right? As the deaf one outta the two of us, I jokingly gesture to my ears. I can't hear shit, anyway!

As everyone laughs all over again, my Dad reaches out to try and cover my eyes, but I bat him offa me. Nice try.

'You got the card, now, kid.' T-Dog tells me, like it's some secret club I've joined.

'I got the what?'

'The card. I got mine, too. 'Oh, yeah? Is it because I'm black'?'

Carol smacks him. 'Whatever.'

'Next time your Dad gives you in trouble, you can pull the, 'Oh, yeah? Is it because I'm deaf?'

That's silly!

'Don't give her ideas.'

'Too late,' I grin devilishly. 'I got the card, now, Dad.'

He rolls his eyes, trying his best not to laugh, too.

'You can't do that, Harley.' T-Dog mimes. 'Oh, yeah? Is it because I'm deaf?'

'What did I just say?'

Sorry, man, T-Dog chuckles, biting on a tiny bread stick.

What's eggnog, Carl asks his parents curiously, reminding us why we're talking about 'cards' in the first place.

Eggnog is a milky-lookin' drink that got booze in it, which is why Rick and Lori brush off the question. I tried it once, during a party at my Meemaw's, after one of my Uncles shrugged and said, Fuck it. Tasted like garbage sprinkled with cinnamon.

'Let's just stick with what we have,' Herschel suggests. 'There must be some other traditions we can do?'

'Our family used to share a favorite moment from that year,' Beth says. 'Maybe we can do that?'

'That's a great idea, Beth.'

'I got one.' Glenn raises his hand. 'Finding that car in Atlanta.'

'Oh, that was good.'

'Sad we had to leave it.' He agrees. 'I also liked the time I fell into a dumpster after we left the CDC.'

'What?,' Maggie scrunches her nose at him.

'Looking back at it, it was pretty funny.'

God dang, I remember that day. I was sitting off to the side with Sophia, watching the scene unfold together.

'Morales had to grab your ass to pull you out,' I tease him.

Rick tries to hide the fact that he's chuckling, as Maggie asks him what he was doing in a dumpster.

'We'd lost everything. We were searching for supplies, but I saw some yellow boots and I wanted them for Harley.'

Everyone croons, Awwww.

'I remember those boots, actually.' Beths recalls. 'What happened to them?'

'I fed them to the cows,' I shrug, so I don't gotta bring up the farm, where I left them in our tent the night it all burned down.

'Hey. I risked my life for those boots.'

Rick corrects him, 'I think you risked your ass, is what she just said.'

'It's what I said.'

'I got one.' My Dad says, dipping a cracker in some peanut butter. 'The day we put Glenn in the well.'

'Remember how he squealed?,' T-Dog giggles.

'No,' Glenn tries to convince us, doing a very bad job of it. 'I don't remember that. Never happened.'

'That walker was next-level gross.'

Next in the line to share, I decide, 'My favorite moment is when I found Mouse.'

'He loves you, doesn't he?,' Maggie smiles.

I throw him another piece of salami, hoping that the answer would be yes.

Carl tells everyone his favorite moment from this year was sneaking off into the woods with me, but his parents both give him a look, so he wisens up and changes his answer to something a little less totally forbidden; going to shooting practice.

When it's Lori's turn, she mentions a time she pushed Carl on the Greene's swing.

Rick's favorite moment is beating Herschel at checkers, something that the old man lets him get away with sharing.

'Gotta be seeing Daryl wake up after surgery,' T-Dog says after that, startling me with how suddenly sentimental it is.

The firelight flickers back and forth on the rug for a few moments.

My Dad subtly replies, Thanks, man.

'I was gonna say that, too,' I say to be funny.

'Yeah,' Glenn backs me up. 'You totally were. In fact, I change my answer, too. Favorite moment; Meeting Maggie.'

The woman pouts up at him, grabbing his hand, threading their fingers together.

'I change mine, too.' Dad says. 'The moment I found out Harley wasn't bitten.'

'That's mine, too.'

'Me, too,' Just about half the group nod, agreeing.

Then, everyone's coming up with different answers, talking over the top of each other. Bringing Harley back safe from the gas station, is T's second answer, but he also has a third and fourth and a fifth, because he just can't pick one. Making it outta the CDC alive. Finding the farm. Saving Glenn after he gave blood. Herschel's favorite moment is all the moments he's kept his daughters safe, an answer that earns him a big hug from both Maggie and Beth this time, because, I don't know what I'd do without my girls.

Rick and Glenn finding Daddy safe, Beth says, and then Maggie; That's mine, too.

I find myself with a hundred new answers, too. The moment Jacqui and I kicked up all them butterflies outta the grass as we ran to the house, after she told me my Daddy was alive. The morning Maggie made us scrambled eggs and tea for breakfast. All them times I shared a peach with someone while we sat in the sun. Lori making that joke about Maggie and Glenn being in love, and how I gagged at it back then. I can't forget about the time Carl hugged me as I cried, as Dad cut my hair, as I petted a cow's nose or fed a chicken.

All the little things and the big things, but also all the sad things. In a way, I'm grateful for them, too.

If Jacqui was here, or Sophia, or Momma or Meemaw, or my cousins, who could be anywhere by now, dead or alive, or Morales or Eliza or Louis or Miranda, who I ain't sure if I'll ever see again, or even our dog Tank, I like to think they'd be grateful for me, too.

'I told you, didn't I?,' Herschel smiles. 'No better present.'

After that — After Glenn starts to tear up and we all tease him for it — We decide to wrap it up for the night.

'I love you guys,' He blubbers, like we didn't already know, like we haven't almost died for each other a hundred times over.

Okay, buddy, Dad's saying, reaching to pat his shoulder.

'I think it's time to turn in.'

Beth covers her mouth as she yawns. 'Yeah. I'm so tired.'

'Tell me if anybody sees Santa Claus,' T-Dog says non-committedly.

'I'm going to grab the blankets and pillows from upstairs.' Rick announces, standing up. 'Who's on first watch? Me?'

I'll do it, My Dad offers, letting Maggie comfort Glenn, but he's turned down.

He was frostbitten from head to toe only yesterday. I wouldn't let him out there, neither.

I can do it, T-Dog decides, and that's that. 'Maybe it'll be me that sees him.'

No fair, Carl whines.

Rick leaves and brings back down a whole bunch of bedding that he plops on the floor, giving everyone free reign to pick out what they want as T makes himself scarce. I pull out a small pillow and what must be a toddler's blanket, letting Dad help me get settled on the sofa. I lay with my head against one arm rest, Carl resting his against the other. Both our Dads tuck us in.

'Goodnight,' He signs to me, knelt just beside the sofa. 'You still hungry or thirsty?'

I shake my head, yawning. 'Just sleepy.'

'You were very brave today.' He tells me, earnest eyes boring into mine. 'Not many kids would do what you did.'

'I just wanted to help Lori and the baby.'

'I know. They got a better chance, now.'

'Does that mean I get to name the baby?'

He smirks a little bit. 'We'll see.'

I glimpse Beth muttering to Hershel over Dad's shoulder, sharing a big blanket. I sign, 'Would Momma be proud, too?'

His face falls. The words hit him right in the heart, a poisonous bolt. All he says is, 'Yes.'

'Good,' I manage to reply, right before my eyes start to droop closed.

'Goodnight,' He signs again.

Placing a kiss to my cheek, my Dad pulls back and lays his own blanket down on the floor in front of me, laying facing the fire.

Rick was right. This is a Hell of a lot better than those garages back in Newnan.

I would like to help T-Dog spot Santa, I really would, but I just can't stay awake even one moment longer.

I'm being shaken gently.

Groaning, I open my eyes. Dad's face is inches from mine, all the windows behind him filled with grey daylight.

Adjusting the crossbow on his shoulder, he signs, 'Good morning.'

'Good morning.'

Sitting up, I groggily take in the sight of the group still laid out across the room, fast asleep. All except for Dad, and also Rick and Carl. I see them standing in the archway, both dressed for the snow just like Dad is, whispering to each other.

'Get your coat,' Dad says, and before I get the chance to ask what's going on; 'We're going searching for presents.'

We're what?!

After waking Glenn and putting him on watch, the four of us set out into the neighbourhood. The sun slowly rises from behind the falling snow, eclipsing the roofs of the houses around us and washing the morning in a soft, pink and yellow hue. It's quiet, peaceful, just how it always is before the day fully starts. Carl, Mouse, and I are rowdily running down the sidewalk, disturbing it all.

It's Christmas. According to us, it's Christmas, and ain't nobody here to tell us otherwise!

Dad and Rick follow after us until we make it to the park, the two oldies totally left in our dust as we make a beeline for the playground and pounce on the metal merry-go-round. It's been so long since I went on one of these. It feels like we're breaking a rule, a rule that nobody said aloud, but we ain't. Our Dads told us loud and clear that today, we're allowed to do whatever we want.

I'll spin us, Carl's laughing as he pushes on one of the handles, Mouse wisely standing back.

I still remember to hold on tight. Here we go!

Once he's picked up enough speed, he makes a jump for the platform. He skids around like a drunk, landing on his ass. He hugs the closest handle. The world spins into a multi-coloured smear. I just can't stop laughing, not even if I tried.

As the ride slows down, it feels like I'm 'bouta hurl up all that salami I ate last night.

Again!, I shout.

The next time we come to a stop, we round on the sight of Dad and Rick standing off to the side, watching us.

'Wanna get pushed?,' My Dad asks us, nodding to the swings.

I jump off the platform. 'Yes!'

Rick effortlessly peels the dead walker I saw yesterday offa the seat, throwing it aside and helping me on. I'on know how long we swing for, but the warm, pink sun spills and spills between the trees until it's on my face, making me forget the cold.

Spring is right around the corner, now.

This whole nightmare is almost over. I can just tell.

One of these days, the sun will crest the horizon and the snow just won't come.

It doesn't take long for us to make it back to town square.

'Where should we start?', Rick asks.

'I want to look in Petey's,' I answer right away, pointing to the storefront. 'But Carl can't come.'

Obviously, it's because I'm gonna be picking something out for him, which is why he starts giggling when Dad translates.

Rick ruffles the boy's hair, nudging him in the opposite direction. 'It's a plan. We'll search over here.'

'There's a toy store that way,' Dad adds helpfully.

'We'll check it out. Good luck.'

'Good luck. Watch out for elves.'

He laughs a bit as I whistle for Mouse, who runs after us. 'We will.'

Passing barrels of wrinkled flowers, Dad sticks his fingers between the automatic glass doors and forces them open, pulling his crossbow down as they roll apart on the tracks. Out of the darkness, a human-shaped shadow stumbles toward us.

It drops to the floor before it can even open its mouth.

Lowering his crossbow, Dad nods me forward, tugging his bolt outta the walker's wet face.

Look around, He says, wiping the blood off on his thigh.

The first thing I check is the comic section, of course. I'm hoping they got the series Carl likes, the one with the kick-ass astronauts and the evil aliens on the cover that I can't remember the name of. Captain Noel and the Astronauts, or something like that. I read it just the other week while he was dozed off, just to see what all the fuss was about. Weren't hard to see why he likes it.

As I step over a fallen sale sign, Mouse sniffs around the shelves, skulking around the corner.

Approaching the display stand, I skip right over the magazines and check out the comics, flicking through the covers. There's pictures of supervillain scientists, monsters, ninjas in impossible poses, wielding metal stars. They's all dumb-looking, so I'm sure Carl would eat them up like hot cakes for breakfast, but I really want the alien one. He been after the next volume since we met him.

There's a tap on my shoulder.

Hm?

Glancing up at Dad, I watch as he pulls a comic down from the highest rack, holding it out for me to see.

Captain Nate and the Awesome Eight, The quirky logo reads. 

Grabbing it up like it might disappear before my eyes, I feel the pages crinkle under my fingers. This is the one!

Volume Four, It says at the bottom. The final mission.

I hold up three fingers to Dad.

Understanding, he flips through the comics again before handing me the third volume.

I take it, hugging them both to my chest before signing, 'These are for Carl. He loves them.'

'Really? I thought they were for Beth.'

Pssh. He ain't funny. 'Let's keep looking. We need something for her, too!'

He puts the comics in my backpack for me, following me around the store to continue our hunt for the perfect presents.

For Beth, I find a couple bottles of nail polish in the tiny makeup display, throwing in a black tube-thing that reads, Mascara, along with them for Lori, or maybe for Maggie. I ain't sure. I ask Dad what he thinks, but he got even less of a clue than I do.

I decide to throw in a second tube and some eyeshadow thingies just to be safe.

For Rick and Herschel, we decide on a pair of woolly socks for each of them. You just can't go wrong with socks.

When we find some shirts with silly phrases on them, I know instantly that they would be perfect for Glenn and T-Dog.

Lastly, Dad makes us grab a bunch of random things that we need, like canned food and lighters, before we turn into the pet aisle. Mouse is there, nosing a package of tennis balls along the floor. He looks confused when they roll under the shelves. I crouch down, pulling them back out. It looks like he found his own present. He watches me stash them in my bag, pink tongue lolling happily. 

On our way out, I pass by the rack again, stealing a girly magazine off it that I think Carol will like.

Carl and Rick meet us back on the street, both their backpacks suspiciously fatter than they were the last time we saw them.

'How'd it go?'

Good, Rick says, as Carl tries to get a peek inside my bag. 'Want to swap?'

Before the boy gets to close, I fend him off, giggling as he wrestles me.

'Sure.' Dad pulls him offa me. 'Hard to get a present for your kid when they're right beside you.'

'Exactly.' Rick chuckles, offering his hand to me.

I take it, blowing a raspberry at Carl's back as he walks off with my Dad in the opposite direction.

The store Rick and I check out is the record store, Jameson's Jams, just across the way. After he scopes the place out, coming up empty, it's safe for us to go in. The smell of dust and plastic swarms us I look around at the tubs of record sleeves and CDs.

'It used to be tidy in here,' I sign to him, even though he could prolly guess that.

The doors close behind him, shutting the snow out.

' Did you go here often?'

'All the time.' I meander up to the nearest bin. 'My parents loved music.'

As I pick up an edgily-decorated sleeve that catches my eye, Rick steps up to my side.

'Something tells me their music taste clashed,' He jokes. 'Am I right?'

No. 'They both had bad taste.'

Scoffing, I throw the sleeve back, walking around to the other side of the tubs.

Chuckling to himself, he glances down at the record I'd been holding. It fits my Dad to damn T. I don't take it with me, though, because we ain't got no way to play it. It'd just be a waste of space, so I crack open a CD instead, taking out the paper.

Tossing the useless part back in the bin, I look up to see Rick already looking at me.

He's frowning, his brown hair poking out from underneath his beanie, curled over his faint wrinkles.

'What?,' I gesture impatiently.

What's he want?

I hate to admit it, but there's a little stain of bitterness left inside me after what he did to my Momma's photo.

It weren't like it was on purpose, but it didn't have to be.

'I'm sorry,' He signs, the tubs separating us by at least ten feet feeling more like a hundred.

'It's okay,' I brush it off. 'I'm not mad at you.'

'I know. Trust me, I can tell when you're mad at me,' He smiles for a fleeting moment. 'I'm apologising, anyway.'

'That was the only photo I had of her, you know.'

'I know.'

'Her name was Lindsey.'

'I know. Your Dad talks to me about her, sometimes.'

'Why did you throw it?'

He pauses, picking at a sticker on the wood before fessing up, 'Shane makes me angry, honey. I was angry. I threw it.'

'Angry? Not sad?'

'No. Not sad.' He shakes his head. 'We were all past that when we saw the truck leaving the farm.'

'He gave me the locket. My Dad threw it away the night you burned the photo.'

'Yes, I know. He talked to me about that, too.'

'He did?'

'He was going to let you keep it.'

'Why didn't he?'

'You know why.'

Yeah. I do. I don't even know why I asked that. He threw it away for the same reason I'm not allowed to talk about Ronnie.

Rick changes the subject, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he signs, 'Thank you. Again.'

'For the hospital?'

He nods. 'You were brave.'

'Dad said the same thing.'

'It's true. Even I would have been scared, and I'm thirty-four years old.'

'You're never scared.'

'I'm scared all the time.' I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to say that. I wait until he says something else. 'Thank you.'

Hell. He shouldn't make me laugh like that. I'mma breathe in all this dust. 'You're worse than Glenn.'

'What do you mean?'

'You can't stop saying 'Thank you'. He can't stop saying 'Sorry'. Feet hurt. Sorry. My ears ring. Sorry. It's funny.'

'He's sensitive,' Rick agrees fondly.

'I know. He cried last night.'

A muted chuckle. 'That's right. He did.'

As I look off to the side, something on the wall catches my eye.

Guitars. A lot of them.

Abandoning the piece of paper, I run over to them, stepping onto a chair and pulling down an electric guitar.

Rick is eye-level with me when he comes over. 'Your Dad said he knows how to play.'

Nodding, I give the strings a dramatic thrum.

It must be painful, going by the way Rick looks like he's just heard nails going down a chalkboard.

I can't help but laugh, turning to hook it back up. Like the record and the CD, it would just be a waste of space. Electric guitars don't sound so good if you don't got anything to plug them into. Acoustic ones, however, they're perfect anywhere.

Hopping onto to the next chair over, I pull down a classically wooden guitar, cold to the touch. 

When I strum this one, Rick gives a thumbs up. It'll need tuning, but that's a piece of cake.

Jumping down, I have a thought.

'How the Hell do we hide this from him?'

He looks the thing up and down. 'We might have to give it to him now.'

Aw. 'That's not as fun.'

'How about this — You hide behind me. When we see him, you jump out. Is that fun?'

Hmmm. 'Okay. Let's do that!'

Carl's a lot harder to appease than I am, which must be the reason Rick lets out a little sigh of relief. 'Great.'

'It needs a shoulder strap,' I decide, grabbing one from the rack nearby and ripping it outta the plastic. I try to figure it out, turning it over to get a good look, but then I just pass it off to Rick's mittened hands. 'You know how to put it on?'

'Let me try.' He accepts the challenge, kneeling in front of the guitar.

Buttoning each end of the leather strap to the metal attachments, it looks like he's got it.

He hands it back, raising his brows at me. 'Remember to jump out. We have to get him to crap his pants.'

'It's a plan.'

Before we meet back up, we stop by the thrift store next door so that Rick can grab the shirt he'd had in mind for Carl, a simple thing with a superhero he likes on the chest. As we leave through the front doors, Rick herds me in behind his back.

We're only waiting in town square for a minute or two before he signals me that they're coming over.

When I feel the time is right, I jump out!

Rahh!

Dad don't quite crap his pants, but his eyes do widen ever so slightly. In Dixon terms, he's chilled to the bone.

My back-up man watches on, laughing.

I hold out the guitar once the moment's passed, hoping it's obvious that this is his Christmas present.

Woah, breathes Carl as my Dad takes it carefully, Mouse's tail batting around wildly at his ankle.

We watch as he drags his thumb down the strings, remembering what it feels like. Slowly, he starts to smile.

Looking up at me, he seems very, very pleased. 'Thank you. I love it.'

'Merry Christmas!'

'We knew we couldn't hide it from you,' Rick explains, 'So we scared you instead.'

'Did it work?'

Dad nods, frowning as he mouths the word, Terrifying, before kneeling to wrap me in a hug. I kiss his cheek.

'Did you get everything you wanted?'

Nodding again, Dad stands and passes the guitar to Rick, seeing as he's already wearing his crossbow.

Pulling it on, Rick nods in the direction we came from. 'Let's head back, then.'

We make it only five feet before we notice Carl isn't following us.

Looking back at him, he points at the parking lot across the street.

We follow his finger.

Across the street, the lonely bike with the streamers still lays there in the snow, next to a couple other bikes.

We glance between each other, a glint of something cheeky in our eyes.

We're all thinking the same thing, ain't we?

It's a long walk, anyways.

Who the Hell bikes in the snow, is what a sensible person would ask themselves as they saw us race past their house.

We do!, is what I'd shout back at them.

We're zooming down the streets of Sharpsburg like we're late for a wedding, the most ridiculous sight the apocalypse ever did see. Rick, taking the lead just like always, with a guitar bumping around on his back as he pumps the peddles of a pink bike. Carl on the little one, its rainbow streamers blowing out on either side of him without a care in the world. Mouse, sprinting to keep up.

He's going so fast; I think his ears might just fly off and smack me in the face!

It's a challenge to not fall off the handlebars of Dad's bike just from laughing so hard.

I clutch onto it harder as we crest over the top of a hill. Rick goes flying down first, then Carl. Dad wraps an arm around my stomach, hugging me to his chest as we both laugh against each other. We're next. My stomach lurches. My toes go numb. Then we're free-falling, and the tyres are shaking beneath us and the handlebars are jiggling all over the place, the wind racing past us.

Sucking in a deep breath, I let out a shriek of, Wuh-Hooooooo!

My heart's beating outta my chest like when a walker's got me in its grasp, when I feel most alive.

Whatever day I've said is the best day of my life — This is it, now. Hands down.

Rick reaches the bottom first, doing a fancy little skid in the snow and glancing over his shoulder at us to see our reaction.

Carl gives him a thumbs down, making him laugh as he turns back around.

The hill flattens out into more suburbia.

We slow down to a more leisurely pace for the rest of the ride back, and simply enjoy the morning together, trailing the sidewalks like a bunch of kids. The sun is well into the sky now, shining through the frigid air without any clouds to cover it up.

When I spot the house in the distance, I'm almost sad.

As we pull into the driveway, bumping over the curb, Glenn stands from his seat on the porch steps.

Hey, guys, He's laughing, perplexed.

Rick answers him with a few flicks of his bell, braking to a stop.

Where'd you go?, He asks, as I jump down from the handlebars.

Carl dumps his bike on the ground and holds up his backpack, shouting, Presents!

He gawks. No shit?

No shit!, He exclaims, running straight past him and up the porch.

I catch Rick sharing a funny look with my Dad, but he lets the swear word go. It's that type of day.

The adrenaline-high don't leave my body even as I follow everyone inside the house, stepping into the busy lounge room. We're greeted by the rest of our group, who are more than awake by now, hugging us as we come through the archway. They're completely beaming. It's obvious. They've heard the great news — We went out in the early morning to do Santa's bidding, for no other reason than because we managed to live long enough to, and because we deserve it. For once, we can ignore everything else and it'll all be okay.

Shrugging off my backpack, I set it down on the coffee table. Carol and Herschel tidy away the empty snack packs as Dad, Rick, and Carl set theirs down, too. Everybody's eyeing the bags excitedly, tryna see if they can make out the goodies inside.

'You guys are sneaky,' T grins, wide enough to show off the gap between his two front teeth. 'Sneaky!'

'Where did you go?!,' Maggie wants to know.

She lounges back on the sofa, Mouse jumping into her lap.

'Town square.' Rick's looking livelier than he has all Winter; all year, maybe. 'We left while you were all asleep.'

T seems to have an epiphany. 'It's you guys!'

'What?,' He asks.

'You're Santa!'

Realizing the man is pulling our legs, Rick rolls his eyes.

Carl goes on to ramble all about our adventures. By the way he's miming it all out, I can tell he ain't leaving out our visit to the playground. Everyone's watching him with nothing but joy in their eyes, adding comments here and there, laughing.

When Beth notices the guitar, my Dad proudly shows it off to the room.

'Harley found it,' He signs, reigning everyone back in, reminding them to use signs. 'Pretty, ain't it?'

Herschel turns to look at me. 'What a wonderful, wonderful gift.'

'I got more,' I tease, giving my backpack a tempting wiggle. I can't wait to give out the rest of the presents!

'Let's just get right into it then, right?,' Rick suggests. 'Go crazy.'

That's all the permission anyone needs.

As the three of them open their backpacks and start handing out presents left and right, I get to opening mine.

The first things I pull out are the stupid shirts for Glenn and T-Dog, walking over to them and putting them in their hands. Maggie's laughing her ass off as they hold them up to their chests, cluelessly peering down at the text. I step back to admire my work. Sorry I'm late, T's shirt reads, and Hell, it's even funnier than I imaged it would be, I was doing my hair! I think he's laughing something like, You little punk, before he glances over at Glenn's to see the damage. I'm with stupid, His says, except the arrow is pointing at his face.

Aw Hell naw!, T-Dog unabashedly laughs.

'Put them on!,' I demand, taking the fabric in my hands. Glenn helps me out, pulling it over what he's already wearing and straightening it out so the message is on full display. T-Dog does the same thing, even if he does call me a punk again.

'How do we look?,' Glenn asks me and Maggie when they're done, giving a stiff twirl.

'Don't answer that,' T-Dog says.

I give Maggie her gift next, the Mascara. She plants a kiss on my cheek and pulls me in for a tight hug, releasing me so I can head over to the other ladies. Carol gratefully takes the magazine, Lori and Beth Oohing and Aahing over the makeup.

It's no 'Electric Spring Citrus', but Beth still seems very touched by the bottle of yellow polish.

Next, I pull out the tennis balls. Boy, does that get Mouse's attention. I rip off the seal, sending them all bouncing across the living room floor, almost tripping some people over. Mouse darts after this one and that one, chasing them all over the place as I hand the socks to Herschel and Rick. They're both delighted, taking turns giving me a hug. We was right. Ya can't go wrong with socks.

'Carl and your Dad have something for you,' Rick tells me as he pulls away, pointing over to them.

I tap Carl on the shoulder, and when the two of them turn around and realize me, his face lights up.

Harley!, He's exclaiming.

He digs through his bag and holds out my two presents. 

'Thank you!,' I sign, taking them. Oh, wow. A diary and a packet of colored pencils. I don't gotta squeeze my thoughts into the margins, no more. I got fresh, blank pages, enough to prolly last me a whole year. Giving Carl a hug, I hold up a finger; Wait.

Reaching into my backpack and feeling out the comics, I pause just to be dramatic, before I pull them out for him to see. His jaw drops as he snatches them up. All them months hearing him complain, and watching him read the same volume over and over, makes it all the more satisfying to see him flick through the pages, realizing with mounting horror that it's everything he dreamt of.

Thank you, He's shouting, Thank you!

'Wanna see what I got you?,' Dad says next. 'You can both play with it, but it's for you, okay?'

'Okay! Show me!'

Carl and I crouch down with him as he unzippers his backpack. What he pulls out is not like anything I would've expected.

A big, flat white box with a photo on the front of some kids kicking a soccer ball into a little pop-up goal in the sun.

'Can't play soccer without a goal.' He smirks as I take the box in my hands, ready to tear it open with my teeth if I gotta.

They both help me pick the tape off the cardboard, pulling it open and turning the whole thing upside down. The goal slides out. Having finally been broken out of the confines of its box, it immediately springs into shape, almost smacking us all in the face.

Dodging it with a laugh, I exclaim, 'Thank you, Dad!' 

'Do you like it?,' He asks.

'I love it! How do we set it up?'

Looking about, he finds a small baggie of metal stakes that fell out with it, and a page of instructions.

I lean in closer to take a peek as he skims over them, but it all looks simple enough.

'Easy,' He decides. 'We can set it up in the front yard, yeah?'

'Yeah. I'm gonna smoke you both so bad.'

Dad thwacks my arm with the piece of paper. 'Hey. Who said I'm playing?'

'Oh. So, you're scared.'��I nod empathetically, feeling smug. 'That's okay. I'm rusty, too.'

'Seriously?'

'I only won three medals when I was in school.'

'I'm old, kid. I'm in my thirties. I'm pretty much dead.'

'Loud and clear. You're scared of losing.'

He rolls his eyes. 'You're a brat. Don't cry when you lose.'

'I've never cried in my life, Dad. Ask Carl.'

As soon as he passes on the question, Carl levels me with the most, Get serious, expression I ever seen in my life.

Whatever. 'I'll still win!'

'We'll see,' He says as I glance at the rest of the group.

'This was so thoughtful of you guys,' Maggie signs from her seat on the sofa, doing that little pout she does.

With all the presents handed out, I take my time looking around the room. T and Glenn are still wearing their t-shirts, of course. If I could have it my way, they wouldn't ever wear anything else. It looks like Rick and Carl gifted Glenn a magazine about race cars, and T-Dog a flashy, gold chain necklace that he manages to make look cool. Lori and Herschel are wearing new matching jackets, the material purple and puffy. They look like father and daughter, sitting there like that, Lori's head resting on the old man's shoulder. Beside them, Carol's blowing air onto Beth's painted nails, while Mouse lays on the floor, gnawing at the tennis ball he must've decided is his favorite.

And Rick. He's not pouring over a map. He's not frowning to himself as he cleans a gun. He's not snapping at one of us to, Stop that, We need to stay focused. He's just smiling faintly next to Glenn, refusing to reveal to anyone this was all his idea.

'I'm just glad there's no wrapping paper to clean up this year,' He chuckles, looking at Lori.

The woman smirks, shaking her head. Bad memories, I guess.

'Every year,' He continues, gesturing to an invisible pile in his lap, 'We would end up with this much.'

'You're not the only ones.' T-Dog scoffs, like this is a lifelong issue he's faced.

'Oh, yeah. You were a garbage man, weren't you?,' Glenn remembers.

'Minimum wage, brother,' He agrees, bringing the pizza-boy in for a bro-hug.

'What have you got there, Harley?,' Maggie asks as they pull apart.

'A soccer goal,' I excitedly answer, before holding up Rick and Carl's presents. 'And a diary and pencils!'

'I don't want you to think it's for schoolwork with Lori,' Rick says. 'Carl just told me he's seen you journalling.'

'I love it,' I shake my head. 'Thank you.'

That bitterness that I'd been feeling toward him, it disappears just as quickly as it came.

'You haven't been writing anything bad about me, have you?,' Glenn asks threateningly.

'Just a little bit,' I shrug.

'She's a brat, isn't she?,' My Dad jokes.

'She's a total brat.'

'Hey! I don't like you, either.'

'Well, Merry Christmas, everyone.' Maggie says to wrap things up. 'Time to take this outside. We got a game to play.'

'Sounds like it,' Rick agrees.

'Come on.' Dad stands back up, grabbing the soccer goal and the stakes.

Jumping up and pulling on Maggie's sleeve, I exclaim up at her, 'We should be on the same team!'

'Girl power,' She agrees, frowning stubbornly as we descend the porch steps.

Mouse goes running out into the snow with his tennis ball. Dad heads over to the fence, setting down the goal and pushing the stakes through the rubber loops to secure it to the ground. I tell him I hope he did a good job of it, because me and Maggie are gonna be making every goal we shoot for. It's Dad and Carl versus us two girls, so the competition is even fiercer. We gotta win!

'We got this,' Maggie goads as T-Dog takes up the goalie position.

Carol pumps her fist in the air. 'Let's go, girls!'

Everyone starts cheering us on as Maggie kicks the ball straight over to me. The game's begun! I stop it with my foot, watching as she skirts around Dad, shouting for me. I boot it back to her at just the right moment, running forwards.

Maggie dukes Dad, left, right, left, before she kicks it right between his feet and back to me.

I stop it again with my foot.

Carl's on me, suddenly. He tries to use his foot to steal the ball away from me, but I don't let him!

Keeping him at arm's length, I line up my shot with the goal. I've done it a million times before. What's one more!

I rear my foot back, and—!

T-Dog's far too big and slow to see it coming. The ball shoots right past him — Goal! — and crashes into the meshing.

'Point for the girls,' Rick announces from the sidelines.

Maggie runs up to me, grabbing my hands and squealing happily, with the boys sulking together in the background.

We end up winning. There's a few close calls here and there, but we're just too quick on our feet for them to really get any smooth moves in. As the winning goal is made by Maggie, Carl stomps his foot into the snow, complaining, Aww, man!

We use every last bit of energy we have left in us to play for the rest of the morning. For once, not just for getting out of bed, or making it through the day. We manage to get a couple more rounds of soccer in before somebody throws a snowball at my Dad while he's trying to kick a goal, and then it all devolves into a snowball fight. There's no teams or rules; just clumps of snow flying across the yard, people falling over, Rick laughing, and Glenn getting dogpiled to the ground until Dad has to come and rescue him from us.

Nobody's really winning, but I don't think anyone's keeping count, anyway. Nobody's losing, either.

Except maybe Carl, when he tanks a snowball directly to the face.

I gasp. Youch!

He wipes it off with a grin, scurrying off to start preparing some returning fire.

I hurry to join him behind the wall of snow, bulking up my snowball before launching it at one of the adults.

It hits Glenn in the jaw. He lurches; falls onto his ass.

Me and Carl share a high five!

To think I was dreading coming back to this town, when it's actually given me one of the best days of my life.

Is it bad I'm happy the world ended?

Probably, but I don't care.

FIVE MONTHS LATER.

I can hear light birdsong in the trees.

We've stopped again, on some highway or other. I'on know. They all look the same to me. Grey road, winding up a hill, flanked on both sides by a strip of dirt and twigs. While the others get outta the cars, slamming their doors shut and grouping together to discuss what's next, I turn my head away from them and gaze out the passenger side window. The sun warms my face. I remember back during the Wintertime; we hardly ever saw the sun. Hell. That was forever ago. Nowadays, we been fending off heatstroke, feels like.

I close my eyes, relishing in the sounds around me. Leaves brushing, idle engines rumbling.

There are a lot of moments like this for me, where I'll just ignore what everyone else is doing and listen. I'll listen to anything. The car radio, if anybody's got it playing, even if it's a song I don't like. A river flowing. A deer trilling. It's the best part of my day.

"We got nowhere else to go," Herschel's suddenly saying, and then I'm opening my eyes again.

The group is gathered around the hood of the car I'm sat up in, splaying a map out for them to study.

"When this herd meets up with this one," Maggie points, "We'll be cut off. We'll never make it South."

"What'd you say it was? About 150 head?" Dad estimates.

"That was last week." Glenn's shaking his head, squinting against the sun. "It could be twice that by now."

I've heard this exact conversation about thirty times over by now.

That herd from last year; It's thawed and split into two, and neither are getting any smaller. The more they walk, the more they pick up. It's how it's always gone. They been following us, and we been running. That's how that's always gone, too.

We had a couple places we holed up for a while. Sharpsburg served us well while it lasted, but we had to move, eventually.

Now, we're back on the run.

"The river could've delayed them," Herschel suggests. "If we move fast, we might have a shot to tear right through here."

"Yeah, but if that group joins with that one, they could spill out this way."

"So, we're blocked."

We're always blocked, I want to tell Maggie. You know this by now.

In moments like these, I think back to the day we had that snowball fight and try to remember what everyone's smiles looked like.

"Only thing to do is double back at 27," Rick says, "And swing back this way."

Rick's different. For Rick, I think back to the bike ride.

T-Dog's getting frustrated. "We picked through that place, already. It's like we spent the past five months going in circles."

"Yeah, I know. I know."

"Is this what we're doing, then?"

When Rick nods, T-Dog asks him, "Is it alright if we head down to the river to fill up on water, then?"

"Sure. Knock yourself out," He says as they disperse, Maggie rolling up the map.

Herschel whispers something to Rick, then, and I can't quite catch it. My hearing aids ain't that good, but I know it's about Lori because they glance over at her in the car behind me. It's probably the, She can't keep doing this, conversation. Like always, Rick's wiping his sweaty forehead, bullshitting his way through an answer, and like always, Herschel is patient with him. They know he's right.

Lori's about to burst, way her stomach's been looking these days. She's gonna give birth any day now.

I'm just glad she got better and stayed better.

That was a nasty sickness.

Herschel leaves Rick to think about what he's said, making an opening for Dad to ask him to go hunting.

I'm surprised when he turns to me. "You wanna come, chicken?"

There's that Southern twang I once forgot the sound of.

'Come hunting with you?,' I sign, just outta habit. Sometimes, my voice is just too loud for me to bare.

"Yeah. You can stretch yer legs a little. How 'bout it?"

Not wanting to spend one more second in this car, I agree by opening the door and jumping onto the tarmac.

He whistles for Mouse, and then we're walking into the treeline.

"Carl says it was blue, but the boy's blind," I ramble to Rick as we walk along the train tracks, keeping an eye out for animals.

"Between the pair'a ya," Dad muses from in front of us. "You almost make a full vegetable."

"Shut up, Daddy. You ain't funny."

He snickers a little before facing forward again, crossbow at the ready. "Sure I ain't."

"Anyway." I sigh as he pushes a leafy branch outta the way. Rick ducks under it, and then me. "Like I's sayin'—"

When I look up, the sight that greets me has all words dying on my tongue. I slowly catch up with Dad and Rick, who have also completely forgotten about the story I was telling. It weren't very interesting, anyway. Something about a frog Carl and I found the other day. The sun beats down on us as we look out over the sheer drop just in front of us, and at the rolling, green hills in the distance.

Well, I'll be goddamned.

That right there is a whole ass prison.

End Notes.

Okay that's it. I cannot edit this chapter any longer. What's done is done!!

WE ARE FINALLY IN SEASON 3 !! It only took a year and 28 chapters.

I'm very glad to be back in canon again, but writing Christmas with the group was so fun. Also very glad to be able to write Daryl's accent and slang properly again haha. It just didn't translate into sign language. I know some of you will also be relieved that we're not using it much anymore.

As always, I really hope you enjoyed!

Thanks for reading! Until next time! 💙 :)

[backwaterscum]

GOOD LUCK TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF, merle & daryl fic/headcanon/whatever. 4k words. it's daryl's birthday!

tagging @deputyrabies, @viralcure, @polyodynos, and @auroradicit 'cause i kept yelling about dixons at you guys the whole time i wrote this like a crazy person. LOL.

O1. ZERO.

Caroline Dixon passes out as soon as she gets Merle’s little brother out, sweaty and tired and bloody between the legs. Pa’s gone as always, so it was Merle at her side as she came into labour, and Merle who stayed as the midwife guided the baby out. It feels right, though, that it was him-- all throughout Ma’s pregnancy he’d watched over her like a hawk (he wasn’t gonna let her lose another one, not again). And even if his hand hurts from how much she squeezed it, and even if it was the scariest thing he’s seen in his life, as the midwife hands him his baby brother all Merle feels is wonder.

For a moment, all the aches are gone. For a moment, the scars from Pa’s beatings seem to melt away (now why the hell would you keep me from your mother, you stupid piece of shit? From my own god damn wife?). For one blissful, beautiful moment, as the baby cries in his arms and the midwife teaches Merle how to soothe him, Merle isn’t sleepy, or tired, or hungry as all hell because he’s ten years old and hasn’t eaten all day.

A couple of weeks ago, Merle stayed up with Ma thinking of names together, reading things out of a book he stole from a library.

“Your father wanted French names for our children,” she said, smiling as she thumbed through the pages. “That’s why we named you Merle—you’re our little blackbird, see?”

Merle hasn’t felt little in a long time, but he’s sure the baby that goes quiet in his arms is the tiniest thing in the world. His little pink mouth opens, his little pink hands open and close, and Merle can’t tear his gaze away.

“Maybe we can name him Daryl,” Ma said. She tucked hair behind her ear, and Merle pretended he wasn’t staring at the burn on the side of her hand. “'Beloved', it says. Ain’t that sweet? You’ll love your baby brother no matter what, won’t you, Merle?”

Daryl drools in a way that is so god damn ugly Merle can’t stop himself from laughing. He pulls the edge of his blanket up to wipe it off.

“Sure, Ma. ‘course I will.”

O2. FOURTH.

Daryl’s a weird kid. He doesn’t like sweets much, doesn’t talk, and likewise is more interested in bugs and plants than toys. On the one hand, this means Merle doesn’t really have to get him gifts that cost anything (he collected fireflies in a jar and Daryl thought that was the coolest thing ever)—on the other, it blows that Merle can’t just get him a chocolate cake and be done with it.

There was a store that sold sweetcorn cake: disgusting if you asked Merle about it, but one of the guys Merle works with told him that it wasn’t sweet at all. The fact the cake was specialty meant it cost an arm and a leg, and so Merle had done everything he could to sell as many cigarettes as possible. Pa found some of his stash, though, and spent a good bit of it, and then Ma asked for money for her “job” because she “had to look pretty”, and on Daryl’s birthday, all Merle could afford was a single slice.

The kid was happy, at least, when Merle revealed the box of sweetcorn cake to him. He was so happy he left the yard all on his own, leaving behind whatever beetle he was playing with so he could go into the kitchen to be with his big brother. Then he wiped his shoes and washed his hands, sat his ass in his chair, and kicked his legs as Merle set the box in front of him and opened it with a “how do you like that?”.

It was supposed to be a good day. And when Merle lit a candle for Daryl and started singing for him, it was pretty damn close to being perfect.

But then Pa came home, asking for money for pizza. And Pa didn’t like that Merle had nothing left because he spent it on cake.

Daryl’s a weird kid. Merle knows this because his little brother doesn’t burst into tears looking at the cake that’s smashed on the floor. His blue eyes are wet—of course they are, after Merle was smacked so hard across the face—but perhaps in some form of bravery, he’d kept himself from crying until their Pa stalked off to his room. And even then, Daryl only lets the tears fall once his little hands take Merle’s face between them.

“I’m okay,” Merle tells him. Daryl doesn’t believe him, so Merle pulls him in for a hug and says it a second time: “I’m okay.

“Sorry about your cake, baby brother,” he whispers, but all Daryl does is shake his head. The hands that hold him pull back, and with a look of determination rivalled only by his desire to hunt insects, Daryl walks to where his cake slice fell and breaks pieces off to gather them in his palm.

His baby brother doesn’t need to speak when he holds a palmful of cake pieces towards him. Merle understands the sentiment well enough.

“Yeah,” he says, unable to keep his eyes from stinging. “I’ll eat it with you.”

And it turns out the sweetcorn isn’t so disgusting after all.

O3. EIGHTH.

Daryl has wanted to ride this rollercoaster for ages, apparently. Merle didn’t even know about it until he asked “so, what do we do for your birthday this year” and Daryl had answered without hesitation. When grilled about it (because his brother’s never shown interest in rollercoasters before), Daryl had admitted bashfully that he saw a photo in the papers and couldn’t stop thinking about it after.

“How’s it feel to even get that high?”

“We go up mountains, stupid.”

“Well—we don’t go up mountains like rockets, stupid!”

So, because Daryl hardly ever asked for anything, Merle got them tickets to the amusement park, and isn’t surprised when on the day itself it’s Daryl who shakes him awake at four in the fucking morning.

Age didn’t make Daryl more or less of a talker, but Merle can tell just from looking just how excited he is. Daryl’s practically squirming in his seat even belted in, and each time they pass by a sign that reads the amusement park’s name, he presses his face against the glass with eyes as wide as dinner plates. The kid couldn’t be more obvious, but then again, Merle’s sure if he never asked Daryl wouldn’t have admitted he wanted to go to a park in the first place.

Lining up at the entrance, Daryl takes his hand. Merle smacks it away because it isn’t manly, and there’re too many people around them to see.

Being there at opening time means they get to run to the coaster before everyone else (and if Merle has to slip the guy at the turnstiles a couple bucks to let his short brother in, well, that’s between him and God). Daryl takes him right up to the front car with a claim that the view’s gotta be best up there, and Merle doesn’t have the heart to say that up that high, everything probably looks the same, anyway.

It occurs to him as the coaster drops that he’s never heard Daryl scream that loud before. It occurs to him, too, that Daryl spends the whole ride laughing, and that Merle spends the whole time laughing with him. Daryl pulls him for another round, and while the queue this time is longer, none of his excitement fades. It doesn’t fade the third time, nor the fourth, and they ride and ride and ride until Daryl ends up puking in a trashcan. Embarrassing as it is to stand by him and pat his back (Merle calls him an idiot, too, for not pacing himself better), Daryl still smiles at him after, with his face pale and clammy and gross. Then he asks if they can go again.

They spend the whole morning and the first two hours of the afternoon riding everything they can. Eventually the queue at the rollercoaster becomes long enough that Daryl leads Merle to other attractions, holding a map in one hand and pulling Merle everywhere his little heart desires with the other. Watching Daryl run about, watching him have fun—it makes it hard to believe that these days it’s Daryl who hunts and brings home dinner. Because Merle stays home less, Daryl’s the one taking care of their parents: he cooks, cleans, does the laundry. The kid’s only eight and he talks to Merle about their Ma’s liver, and because of the way Daryl is it’s easy to forget how young he is, too.

Today, though, Merle is hyperaware of it. As Daryl’s eyes light up when he gets a free balloon, he looks more like an eight year old than ever, even when Merle watches him tie that balloon expertly around his own wrist. Showing his balloon off, Daryl looks at Merle like he’s the greatest person on the planet, and he doesn’t even get mad when Merle’s pager goes off and tells him he needs to be elsewhere.

Before he leaves his brother behind at the park, Daryl assures him he can take the bus back home on his own. And as Merle gets in his car, he thinks about his brother’s arms (stronger than an eight year old’s should be) around him, and the way Daryl had so gently murmured thank you for giving me the best day ever.

Later, when Merle stumbles into their home bruised and battered from another gang fight, it isn’t Daryl’s birthday any more. But he leaves a keychain from the park beside his brother’s pillow, and pretends it doesn’t make his chest ache when he sees it hanging off the pack Daryl takes to school later.

O4. THIRTEENTH.

Darlina,

Congratufuckinglations! You’re a stupid teenager now. Enjoy the pimples, the boners, and the nasty fucking body odour. Not like the mountains don’t make you smell like shit half the time anyway.

I stuck some money in here so you can get yourself something nice. Ain’t really nothing I can ship from the barracks anyway, less you want some fag’s cumrag. (You don’t. I almost wiped my face with one because these animals leave all their shit in the bathroom! Can you believe it!?)

I saw you eyeing the Stryker at Johnson’s supplies couple months ago. Maybe you can use the cash to get that for yourself huh? Then you don’t gotta use Uncle Jess’ rustbucket of a bow ever again. I seen the way you aim with that thing—I know Pa gives you shit ‘cause a rifle’s better (and that’s one of the only things that fuck could ever say that I gotta agree with), but maybe you’ll be the first ugly mother to ever make a crossbow work. Or maybe you’ll just be ugly.

Anyway, never say your big brother Merle never got you money for nothing, that’s all I’m gonna say. Happy birthday kiddo. Love you to bits.

Don’t be a fucking idiot. Don’t be no fag neither. hahahahaha!!!!

Merle

O5. TWENTY-SIXTH.

Merle comes to coughing, and he’s so confused he doesn’t notice Daryl’s been there the whole time until he feels his brother’s hands cupping his face. Bleary eyes slide across the room, seeing their apartment’s shitty wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling, and when Merle’s gaze finally settles it’s Daryl’s teary eyes that swim to focus in his vision.

“Merle…” Daryl’s sobbing, really sobbing, all ugly tears and dripping snot from his nose. Merle can barely hear him. If it didn’t feel like there were cotton balls in his mouth, he might have called his brother a stupid crybaby princess, but as it is all he can do is watch Daryl shakily pull away, grab a glass of water on the nightstand, and then beg him—really beg, like a pathetic whimpering dog—to drink some of it.

Merle does, even if it burns all the way down. Merle drinks even if his throat feels raw. And when it’s all gone, and he realises the room smells like piss and shit and puke, he heaves again until he’s spilling bile over the floor.

He wants to ask what the hell reeks like that, but then figures out quite swiftly that it’s all coming from him.

All day, Daryl doesn’t leave his side. He helps Merle out of bed, gets him in the shower, and then runs around the house sorting out sheets, clothes, food, and cleaning. Merle asks, in the middle of Daryl helping him put his shirt on, where the hell Pa is, and Daryl only shakes his head and says, “It’s just me.”

But it’s always been just him, anyway, and Merle feels stupid for asking at all.

Drinking soup that Daryl cooked for him, Merle gets the gist of what happened easily enough based on the way his little brother sits protectively at his side. He went too far last night—had shot up too much, had eaten too little—and after passing out must have gone into shock. Daryl probably just returned from his night shift by the time the worst of it was happening and taken care of him then; Merle’s certain he’d fallen asleep on his back like always, and he’d woken up earlier this morning trembling on his side.

He looks Daryl over, taking note of his red-rimmed eyes, the teeth worrying at his lip, and the way he hasn’t touched his own bowl. You should eat, too, hangs on the edge of his tongue, but all that comes out is, “You look like a bitch in that uniform.”

And Daryl, who doesn’t even scowl at him, blinks and mumbles, “Yeah.”

Fuck’s sake.

“I ain’t dead, you know,” Merle says.

Daryl sniffs. “You came pretty fucking close, Merle.”

“But did I kick the bucket?” Merle points his spoon at him, almost accusatory. “Am I not breathing now? Huh? How long you gonna fucking sulk about it? You ain’t the one who OD’d, you stupid shit.”

“I… I dunno.”

“Man the fuck up!” Merle drops the spoon into his bowl, getting on (unsteady) legs and pressing his hand to the tabletop. “Shit happens—I didn’t fucking die, so I don’t know why you’re acting like such a god damn baby about…”

Daryl ducks his head, and immediately Merle’s voice trails off. His little brother’s shoulders fold in towards himself, and despite how broad Daryl’s become the gesture somehow makes him look as tiny as he was the day he was born.

Beloved, Ma said. You’ll love your baby brother no matter what, won’t you, Merle?

“I don’t want you to die,” Daryl whispers, tears dripping down his cheeks. Merle watches, transfixed, as they drip onto the plastic table beneath his bowed head. “And I was scared, Merle. There was all this shit comin’ outta your mouth, and you wouldn’t stop shaking, and it was like you couldn’t breathe and I… I’ve never been so fuckin’ scared in my life.”

“I’m stronger than that,” Merle says. “You think I’m weak? Is that it?”

Daryl’s head lifts, and right then and there Merle sees both the way his brother’s lip trembles and how his blue eyes burn with rage. “That ain’t the point and you know it.”

There’s plenty Merle could say in response. He could say that it’s getting harder and harder to wake up these days. He could say that since his last stint in prison—where the drugs were necessary, and he had to partake or be kicked out of the only group keeping him safe—he’d spend his whole day shaking without them. He could say that he caught Pa yesterday just before that sack of shit left for the bar, and that he said Merle shouldn’t have come home in the first place. He could say that Pa told him even Daryl didn’t want him around. He could say that Pa grabbed him by the shirt collar, said he made everything worse by being here, and that nobody missed him when he was gone, so nobody would miss him if he died, neither.

But what kind of man would he be if he told Daryl all this? What image of manhood would his brother have if he knew that Merle was so broken inside? Daryl’s head drops again, and Merle watches as he buries his face in his hands. He says nothing when his brother starts sobbing again, soft and shaky and terrified to the core. He says nothing when Daryl curls in on himself, looking small and sad in his 7-Eleven uniform.

Merle’s eyes drift, glancing absently at the calendar on the wall. It’s Monday today, he’s sure—the date is July 12, 2004. The number makes his eyes wide, and his heart sinks to his stomach when it hits him: I didn’t get him anything for his birthday.

Merle sits back down in his chair, shutting his eyes all the while. He runs a hand down his face, then curves it over his chin to rub at the stubble there. Daryl, on his end, doesn’t move.

It’s minutes of silence until— “Fine,” Merle spits out, and he pretends he doesn’t notice how Daryl’s shoulders jump like he heard a gunshot. “If you’re gonna be such a god damn bitch about it, I’ll quit. I’ll never touch the stuff again.”

Daryl doesn’t look at him, but he does pull his face from his hands to wrap his arms around himself.

“No, you won’t,” he whispers. “Liar.”

“I will,” Merle insists without delay. “Just you fucking see. Unlike you, I ain’t no pussy.”

Daryl bites his lip.

“I ain’t no pussy, Daryl.”

Teary blue eyes look up at him, and though Daryl opens his mouth to say something, Merle’s stomach lurches without warning. He runs to the bathroom to throw up In the toilet, Daryl hot on his heels, and doesn’t fight when he feels his brother’s hand on his back to ease him out of the nausea. Now tears burn both their eyes, and when Merle is pressing his forehead to the cool porcelain of the toilet, Daryl disappears only to bring Merle another glass of water and sit on the floor with him.

“You mean it?” he asks as Merle takes the glass from him.

“What?”

“That you’ll quit. That you won’t shoot up again.”

Merle scowls, swirling the water in his glass. “Yeah.” Then, grumbling, he adds, “Since you’re being such a fucking baby about it.”

“So I’ll help you,” Daryl says, fingers curling into the hem of Merle’s shirt like the kid’s eight years old again, “I promise.”

His brother’s smile is shaky, but at least this time he doesn’t look away. “You don’t gotta do none of this alone, okay, Merle?”

“I don’t need your help, stupid.”

“I know.” Daryl’s free hand lands on the nape of Merle’s neck, and when his brother’s forehead touches his, he hears Daryl start sniffling again like the annoying bitch he is. “But I wanna help you, anyway.”

Merle scoffs. “Whatever.”

But his hand mirrors Daryl’s, and it is probably the safest he’s ever been.

O6. EARLY THIRTY-THIRD.

After all is said and done, and Daryl makes it back to the prison alone, he feels nothing except changed. The world turns as usual, filled with the dead and the living, but it feels like it’s been tilted a few more degrees, too. The weight of his brother’s corpse had been heavy, and after walking for hours with Merle in his arms finding the perfect spot to bury him, the ground might never feel solid for him again.

Nobody notices Daryl come back. Nobody sees him trail dirty footprints behind him, nor the blood on his clothes, nor the gore and earth that’s gathered on his palms and under his fingernails. Daryl walks, almost in a trance, towards his cell and the bed waiting for him. Daryl falls onto it face first, and when his head hits the pillow he hears the crinkling sound of paper that’s been hidden beneath it.

A part of him wishes he didn’t hear it. A part of him wishes he didn’t lift his head, stick his dirty hand beneath the fabric, and pull the folded piece with his name on it from its hiding place. Maybe his life would have been better if he never saw it: Merle’s handwriting, Merle’s last words, Merle’s tears where they stained the bottom of the page. Maybe he could have stayed changed his whole life without feeling like his soul was drained out of him, too.

But Daryl’s always suffered from caring too much, and hindsight is always 20-20.

Whenever Merle wrote him from prison, his letters always filled pages. There was always something to say: a funny (and often mildly racist) anecdote, a rant about how much he missed burgers, or some other inconsequential topic he decided was important to fixate on for the day. Every time, Daryl would read them and either roll his eyes or laugh; more importantly, though, he would miss his brother and wish he was home.

The last letter Merle leaves him is short and to the point. There are no stories. There are no rants. There isn’t anything except the stark determination he imagines his big brother died with, and an honesty he wishes Merle always had from the start.

I won’t make it to your birthday this year, but I hope you like the present. I know you always thought my knife was bitching, so I hid it under your mattress. It’s yours now. Take care of it and don’t be a fucking idiot.

Sorry it took me 33 years to do anything worthwhile.

I’ll always love you.

Daryl reads it over and over and over. Daryl reads it until every word is burned into his mind, until he’s read the last line so much he can almost imagine his brother saying it. Daryl reads it, and weeps, and asks a piece of paper why it is Merle couldn’t wait for him before going off to sacrifice himself.

He knows the answer, of course, and always has. Merle was always trapped—trapped by their father, by their mother, by the self-imposed parametres of his existence. By the end of it, the only thing that kept him going was making sure Daryl would be okay, and now Daryl can’t even argue with him that he wouldn’t be.

The paper crumples in his hands. Daryl holds it to his chest, curls in on himself, and cries. He thought he was done earlier, burying Merle alone and standing over his grave, but his brother always did think he was a crybaby; it seems only fitting that Merle would make him sob like this one last fucking time.

It's terrifying thinking of a world that doesn’t have his brother in it. In every sense of the word, Daryl’s never existed without knowing he was alive somewhere. Merle told him he was the one who held him when he was born, and Daryl always assumed ever since that it would be Merle holding him when he died. He was at peace with that, safe with that. And he was fine so long as he knew Merle was out there somewhere, and that eventually his brother would come home to him.

Now he realises he wasn’t just changed. Now he realises that he isn’t just different. Clutching his chest and bringing his knees towards himself, Daryl tells himself his brother is dead, and everything will be worse forever.

O7. THIRTY-THIRD.

“My name’s French. Did you know that?”

“Mm. ‘Peletier’ is French, too.”

“Merle told me it meant ‘beloved’. Said he and Ma picked it a long time ago.”

“Your brother helped name you?”

“Yeah. He was always there for her… you know, until he wasn’t. But I guess it was just too much for him being home.”

“Daryl…”

“I miss him.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Nah. You wouldn’t get it, anyway.”