It's fucking absolutely perfect, ending up in prison. It figures. The world kept its fucked-up sense of humor after it went to shit, and here he is: in prison, because prison's got the only thing he cares about more than his own skin. And that's doubly fucking funny-- he'd never have thought he'd be glad to see Daryl behind bars. Behind walls, at least, because his brother won't settle in a cozied-up little cell like the rest of them, and that's probably his fucking fault, but whatever. If his baby brother's safe he can sleep on the fucking roof for all that Merle cares. This is the one thing in the whole goddamn world he's softhearted about. Not that he says it. They snipe at each other and mostly Merle keeps a distance, or he's kept at one. The people here have every reason not to trust him, and only one to tolerate him. It just so happens that Daryl's a big enough reason to outweigh all the rest, so they leave him be. His brother and the churchmouse talk to him some, the bitch with the sword watches him like a hawk, the sheriff won't meet his eye.
Which means mostly for company he's stuck with Princess Joan, who has the dubious honor of having more or less led them here. She can't seem to decide whether she hates him or this place more, far as he can tell. It works out well enough and honest to God, he doesn't give a shit. He really doesn't. Sure, he misses the creature comforts and friendly faces of Woodbury, but it's too late to go back.
And not worth the price.
It gets better, after the fighting comes. He does what he has to, he picks a side, and the folks they take in know him and trust him. The rest of Daryl's people can't exactly send him packing then. But it's not over. He knows what's coming, knows it's going to be big. Bad. Better than anyone, maybe, because he knows the Governor, knows that every inch of that generosity he rolls out has a matching depth of ruthlessness. If he's not dead, this ain't over.
But when it comes, the battle still takes him by surprise. Takes all of them, all their careful plans and preparations falling apart. And all too quick, it takes everything.
There are other bodies, shadows moving through the clouds of dust and ash-- people running. People falling. He can't keep track of who's dead and who's not dead yet, so he just runs and figures if there's anyone left he'll catch up to them eventually, when none of them can run any further.
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Which means mostly for company he's stuck with Princess Joan, who has the dubious honor of having more or less led them here. She can't seem to decide whether she hates him or this place more, far as he can tell. It works out well enough and honest to God, he doesn't give a shit. He really doesn't. Sure, he misses the creature comforts and friendly faces of Woodbury, but it's too late to go back.
And not worth the price.
It gets better, after the fighting comes. He does what he has to, he picks a side, and the folks they take in know him and trust him. The rest of Daryl's people can't exactly send him packing then. But it's not over. He knows what's coming, knows it's going to be big. Bad. Better than anyone, maybe, because he knows the Governor, knows that every inch of that generosity he rolls out has a matching depth of ruthlessness. If he's not dead, this ain't over.
But when it comes, the battle still takes him by surprise. Takes all of them, all their careful plans and preparations falling apart. And all too quick, it takes everything.
There are other bodies, shadows moving through the clouds of dust and ash-- people running. People falling. He can't keep track of who's dead and who's not dead yet, so he just runs and figures if there's anyone left he'll catch up to them eventually, when none of them can run any further.