Chapter Text
The first time he sees it, he barely registers its existence. It's not important, not when your days are filled with a constant, uncertain fight for survival with walking (or crawling) corpses. He walks right on by, plonking down beside Glenn who is struggling with bandaging his hurt hand and does it for him in silence, his nonspeaking assistance telling of his approval of how the kid had held up his own that day in a real close call. Glenn might look like a hapless foal, all gangly limbs and giant innocent eyes in an adorable baby face, but he's more than earned his place over and over again and if there's anyone Daryl'd want at his back in a pinch it's him.
The second time he sees it he lingers for a second or two, thinking back to Mam, to her nimble, calloused fingers creating wonders despite how unappreciated it went in their household. Thinking about her soothing smell of warm cinnamon buns and equally warm -but way more alive- cattle, as she showed him what to do, telling him 'not to mind Papa, the old drunkard fool. He knows nuthin' of life, knows not we women rule behind weak-minded pigs like him, no matter the abuse they throw 'round. You learn this if you want, my sons will not be scared to do things they desire because of the dog piss comin' outta their father's rotten mouth. So it'll be our secret, 'Ryl, just between the two of us. And maybe one day something to share with someone that captures your heart.'
The third time he sees it he takes a few quick looks around before he shoves it down into the satchel he's carrying and hurries over to his tent where he hides it deep down under his things so no one will find it. They can't know. Not now. Not ever. He just... wants to look at it sometimes. He's not gonna use it, just... it'll help him to remember Mam, nothing else.
He's not gonna use it.
...
Eight days later, he does.
He's been sitting by idle for such a long time he's practically climbing the walls with boredom, no walkers to kill, no supply runs to be dared, not even a need for even one single, scrawny squirrel to be hunted down. Daryl is not one to sit still and do nothing, he needs something to occupy his hands and mind with, or he'll go crazy.
It's in the back of his mind for a few days, whispering temptingly of how nice it'd feel to have something to busy himself with, something that could actually prove of some use -not just for him, but for the rest of the group as well.
But it isn't until the day he catches Glenn sneezing, ears tinged pink with cold under that useless baseball cap he finally crumbles. Winter is closing in fast and not one of them has got any winter clothes to speak of, sure, Hershel has some stuff at the house but it's not enough for all of them, and Glenn looks so cold right now.
Not to mention how much he's always desired to get rid of that ugly hat.
Once he even had the most exhilarating dream where he stole it and burned it in a big bonfire to everybody's cheers. Well, not from dream-Glenn, obviously. Short Round had been kneeling and clutching his hair, wailing loudly about his beloved hat in such an over-dramatic way it had made Daryl snicker every time he looked at the kid the next day. It had made Glenn quite suspicious and jumpy around him, and Daryl couldn't blame him. If he was stared at by a big, scary redneck who randomly burst into evil little giggles every time he looked at 'im, well... if he hadn't been a big, scary redneck himself he'd probably shit his pants.
But to make a long story short he finally gathered his courage and went into his tent that evening, digging around until he found what he'd been searching for and brought it out in the dim light from the lantern he'd hung from the ceiling. He knew that he wouldn't be disturbed, so he could work in solitude and if he regretted it he could always throw it all away later. No big deal.
With a deep sigh he brought it into his lap, just spending a few seconds looking it over.
It was okay. He could do this.
...
TBC