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He's standing at the fence, just staring out into the fields of yellow and brown grass, and the somewhat healthy looking forest that stretches on for as far as the eye can see. He's standing still, arms hanging at his sides, bored. His breathing is even and deep, through the nose then out, the smell of soil and rotting corpses now completely normal to the point where he doesn't really notice it anymore.
He's tired. His eyes drooping sleepily, blinks long and heavy. He has no idea what time it is, but if he were to look at the sky or trust his internal clock, he would put the world at about seven in the morning. Which, no matter what kind of the world they live in now, is still too damn early. And he knows that he can sleep in now if he wanted too, but he won't. He will start his day with the sun that shines too hot nowadays, harsh and blinding unlike ever before.
The nightmares don't help with his sleepiness much either. Pictures of a death he never saw but should have been there for. To save her from a fate worse than her ultimate death. Slides of a baby so pure and innocent covered in the blood of fallen men and woman of the world, and things once thought funny by children and adults everywhere now the plague of the earth.
A walker slams itself into the fence directly in front of him, causing him to blink slowly at it.
For a while he just stares, watching the thing work itself up over him, trying to fit its hands in between the holes in the fences pattern, pressing itself against the rusted metal, not caring that the intense pressure is slowing causing its papery skin and brittle bones to cave in.
He sighs, and slams the end of his crowbar into the eye socket of the walker.
--
His back is to the wall, the concrete now warm from how long he's been sitting here. He has a faint smile on his face as he watches her move around in his lap, little hands clapping and smacking his knees in excitement whenever someone walks by them or something catches her interest. Loud shrieks that sound a little like song fill the sleeping block, and she wiggles side to side as she sings to him, her eyes wide and wet with wonder and amazement.
“Are you singin'? Like Beth sings?” He asks, and that elicits another around of gurgles and shirks from her. He smiles and moves his head back and forth in time to her movements, and he feels a burst of pride when she looks at him with pure awe in her eyes.
She reaches out and he pulls her more up onto his chest. She regards him for a moment, lips pressed together, before she touches his face with her chubby little hands and pulls his face down to hers. He can't help but snort when her mouth finds his nose, her gums pressing down onto it with absolutely no care.
“Thank you, baby.”
--
He gets into the passenger side of the car with a long suffering sigh. His bones ache, and he hates the way that makes him feel. He's gotten use to the aches and pains and bruises that come with what they have to do now, but this isn't that. He just feels old, plain and simple. He's started to grey at the temples and there isn't much he can do about it, so he deals with the constant reminder of his age everyday when he looks in the broken and yellow faded mirror. And really, there is not point in getting put out by how he looks, but the feeling is something to start worrying about. He can't let it get to his head.
“You okay?” Michonne asks as she starts the car. She salutes to Sasha and Maggie as she drives them out of the gate. He faintly hears the loud echo of the gate closing.
“No, I'm fine.” he says with the wave of his hand. “It's just...Carl's been talkin' about candy lately, you know, chocolate. I mean, I know it'd be impossible, but -”
“We'll look for some.” Michonne says with determination as she fixes him with a soft look. Like even though he didn't say anything, she knows and understands, and that settles those thoughts for now.
Though he isn't about to ask her how old she really is.
--
He slips the knife into his belt and adjusts it so it sits right on his hips. He scans the room and watches as Glenn, Maggie, Sasha, and Daryl gear up in a similar fashion; strapping as many guns and knives as they can to themselves without weighing them down. They work in silence, the only sounds the checking and cocking of their guns and the whisper from the knives blades as they slide into their sheathes. When ready, he walks them to the metal door that separates their little section of home from any potential dangers the prison may hold. He unlocks the door and holds the keys out, he nods when Tyreese takes them from him, Judith in his arms, and walks to the table in the middle of the room.
Sasha stands behind him, close enough that he feels her presence immensely, which is comforting in its own right, but far enough to give him the tiniest of space. He tilts his head to the side, enough to catch her eye, and they nod at each other. He opens the block gate, and in formation, they walk in.
--
He's managed to get soil on his elbows, and he thinks that's a good thing. He looks along the stretch of freshly planted soil and thinks about how soon little sprouts of green will break through, and then with a lot of care and patience, they will have fresh vegetables to put on their table. He nods to himself and then looks up when the sound of feet trampling grass reaches his ears.
“Come on, Sheriff Green-Thumb, it's time to eat something.” Daryl says as he nears, “Carol says she's called you over already and that you should be lucky she sent me over to get you.”
He huffs out a laugh at that, and places his hands on his hips. “Is that so? Well, consider me very lucky.” he says with a slow, easy smile.
“Shut the hell up.” Daryl grumbles, “Now, come on before I have to put Glenn in a headlock for a seat at the table, or somethin'. Arm wrestle Michonne for a piece of rabbit.”
He laughs, “Yes, dear.”
--
“Never have I ever gone on a spirit walk in the middle of the forest and then got shot and almost died.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
The room erupts in laughter, and Daryl flips Glenn off, which only causes more laughter to echo around the room. He smiles wide as he listens to them banter on, back and forth without missing a beat. Judith laughs the loudest, her shriek of excitement unmistakeable and more frequent as the others continue to laugh and joke around.
“Are they bein' funny?” he whispers to her, “Are they bein' silly?”
She babbles at him as he asks her questions, her little hands pulling on his shirt as she talks.
He looks down next to him at Carl, and as he watches him talk and laugh with everyone else, he feels his heart being pulled into several different directions.
“Hey,” he says, nudging Carl lightly with his knee, when Carl looks at him he continues, “Your best friend has a surprise for you.”
Carl tilts his head in question, but his lips start forming a smile as he looks over at Michonne and then back to him. After a moment he gets up and cross the room to sit next to Michonne. They exchange a few words, Carl clearly not sure how to outright ask for his surprise, but after a few minutes they get there, and Michonne reaches into her pockets and pulls out two perfectly sealed and preserved candy bars, and hands them to Carl with a smile.
The look on his sons face is worth everything.
--
He places Judith in her crib as gently as he can, careful to not move her around too much so she doesn't wake up. When she's settled inside he leans in, and places a soft kiss on her forehead and whispers that he loves her. As he passes Carl's bed he ruffles his hair and tells him that the comic books are to be put away in an hour or he will be stuck gardening with him for the rest of the week.
“Dad, that's boring.” Carl whines as he buries his face into a comic he could probably recite off by heart by now.
“Then put it away in an hour and we won't have problems, will we?”
“No.” Carl says, clearly not enjoying this conversation very much, if the slight grumble in his voice is anything to go by.
He smiles. “Good.”
Then he ruffles his hair one more time and tells him he loves him before shutting the curtain as best he can.
--
He lays down on his bed with a low groan. He sighs for good measure as he stretches out, his bones popping and cracking in several places at once, loosening him up and making him feel as close to mush as he can.
He closes his eyes and breathes steadily, wishing sleep would take him over and lull him into oblivion.
But it won't. Instead it will bring distorted images of horror starring faces he still loves deep in his bones and tried so hard to save, but couldn't. The echoing screams of pure agony and fear as they're somehow ripped apart from the outside in by blunt fingernails and dull teeth.
He'll hear their pain in his mind, playing on repeat like a record, and he'll wake up with the phantom feel of their suffering on his skin, tight and uncomfortable as he sweats through it all.
He opens his eyes and looks out past the curtain he didn't bother to close, and looks out the window on the opposite side of the hallway, and counts down the hours until the sun replaces the moon.