63. Shed Your Skin

'i broke what you gave me,
but you kept giving more.
and i'm sorry for taking,
but i keep wanting more.'
-mitski

⤐

Thomas Elliot never claimed to be the sharpest tool in any given shed, but if there was one thing he knew his way around, it was beautiful women. He knew what made them laugh, what made them cry, what made them beg. And he'd used that to his advantage, ten times over. He'd also never claimed to be an honorable man.

So when this particularly beautiful woman burst through the trailer door, her eyes wild and blood hot, he'd already begun racking his brain for the right words she'd want to hear. The moment she opened her mouth, however, all sense of time and thought just... stopped.

  "Where is she?" The striking woman snapped out as she crossed the threshold with entirely too much elegance for someone who radiated honed weapon. She closed the distance between them like a blade slipping through silk and cut her hard, watchful gaze to where Tommy sat next to his sister on the flimsy sofa. She spared them only a glance before deciding they weren't interesting enough to hold her attention. Something about that tugged at his chest.

  Sasha, their gracious host, was across from them at the table, her arms folded over each other as she leaned back into the chair. "We have company," she spoke softly and tilted her chin to the blonde twins. "Veronica sent them."

Tommy didn't miss the tremble in Sasha's voice or the way the other woman's hands tightened into fists at her sides at the sound of that name. His sister didn't seem to notice—her eyes were nearly glazed over as her gaze lingered on the buttery apple pie resting on the table, on the tendrils of steam still wafting in the air, replacing the tinge of death that always seemed to be stuck in their nostrils. No, she couldn't focus on anything else but that small comfort. But Tommy? He noticed everything.

It was an excellent skill to have before the world imploded—he'd been in sales, and the best way to push your commission cap to its limits is to read who will buy and who will fly. After the beginning of the end, it proved to be even more helpful, and he could gauge tensions and relationships within seconds. Though he wasn't perfect every time... Rico and Joel proved that. He shifted in his seat, imperceptible to the women surrounding him, and blinked the memory of walking into that bedroom away.

He decided he'd let that drop of tension dissipate for now, far too grateful to be sitting on a warm couch with the smell of apple pie curling around him to bother with it, and he zeroed back in on the black-haired beauty sucking up all the air in the tiny room.

  Feeling the shift in his focus, dark, depthless eyes slid to him just as another new face bounded through the door, her chestnut hair streaming in thin waves behind her. "Did you guys hear—"

"Enid." Sasha cut in and shook her head stiffly. The young girl tensed, as if only just now noticing the strangers watching everything, outsiders of a life they weren't invited into. They'd already been stripped of their measly weapons the moment they'd stepped through the gates; how much harm could a tidbit of information do?

He didn't know why Veronica had sent them here. He didn't know why he'd listened to her—something in her eyes, maybe, those endless pools of jaded green.

While Merle had asked him three questions, how many walkers have you killed, how many humans, why, Veronica had wandered off a few feet from them and sat quietly with her arms wrapped around her knees, though he had the vague sense that she hung onto every word.

Tommy must have answered the questions to their satisfaction because then Merle had nodded once and didn't bother asking before he set about pilfering through the cabin for anything of use. Veronica stayed silent, watching his sister mimic her own slouched stance.

She was just as gorgeous as her fiery friend, all sharp angles where the other was soft curves, but there was something... different about her. As if she wasn't entirely there, but instead had been stuffed and chained into a body she couldn't stand.

  In the silence between them, the air felt too thick. Usually, in the presence of a woman like her, he'd fill that empty space of air with compliments and questions and general babble, but he had known right away that her heart was already taken. He knew when he saw them crossing the highway, clinging to each other like lifelines, and his thoughts were confirmed when he noticed that every time one of them moved, the other shifted to match as if some invisible string connected them, or they pulled toward each other like magnets.

  So, instead, Tommy bore the weight of the quiet and let her remain in her bubble. She watched Tatum in the distance when suddenly, the murky light in those eyes that had been so utterly drained of any life hardened into something like resolve, and she rose on shaking legs. She walked slowly, intently—even with a limp in her left leg, towards his sister.

On instinct, his hand roved over the pistol tucked into his belt. But when she stopped in front of Tatum, then crouched to meet her level, his fingers drifted away. The strange woman had said something that he couldn't make out, but when Tatum dipped her head low, and Veronica rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, Tommy knew. He trusted her.

If she sent them here with nothing but vague directions scrawled on a wrinkled piece of paper and the order to only ask for Maggie, there must be a good reason.

Now, with three pairs of eyes coldly trained on the Elliot twins, Tommy plastered on his best disarming smile and asked, "So, your friend told me to ask for Maggie—will she be the next person bursting through the door, or?" 

The tension eased, if only slightly, and the younger girl cracked a smirk. "She'll be here soon," she chirped up. Sasha cut her a glance, then pushed the pie a little closer to her as the girl pulled out a fork.

"Where are they?" The question came out flat, distant. The beautiful woman hadn't budged from her stoney stance near the table.

Tommy sighed, aware of Tatum's breaths matching his own. "They gave me directions, then had me drop them off in the forest a few miles east of here. I don't know where they went." He thought to follow them into those woods, and his curiosity almost won the battle, but he had the distinct feeling in his gut that when those two came face to face with a threat, they would always be the ones to walk away from it.

The woman he hoped to follow into Hell itself finally shifted, her shoulders curling inward. "Was she..." Her voice trembled—a mere dip in tone, but the sound nearly shattered something inside him. "Was she okay?"

Veronica. This woman loved her, in one way or another. "She was pretty beat up," he said and cringed at the way her hands shook. "But she's okay," he added quietly. He chose to omit the fact that a wave of death had almost swallowed her friends. From the new, dull gleam in her eyes, he didn't think she'd survive it if he told her anything else.

Before Tommy could ask what the hell was making everyone so tense in this friend group, apart from the obvious end-of-the-world business, the woman turned on her heels in a flash. "I need your help with something," she barked to Sasha, who had already leaned back into her chair as if about to take a large helping of that apple pie.

  The two shared some silent exchange the others couldn't decipher, and then Sasha was hoisting herself up and grabbing a pack lying on the floor nearby. "Stay here," she ordered. "Maggie will be here soon. Enid." She nodded at the girl, resting her chin in her palm at the table. "Keep an eye on them."

  Tatum bristled next to him, but Tommy honed in on the way the muscles in the goddess's arm flexed as she gripped the doorknob. When she opened the door, the buttery sunshine illuminating her silhouette until she was an angel taken form, the words tumbled out of his mouth. "Hey, wait a second. What's your name?"

  She watched him, her brows knitted between the dark eyes glowering with specks of gold that barreled into his skin and flesh. For a moment, he didn't think she'd answer. He thought he'd have to get on his knees and beg for it.

  "Rosita." That sharp, wicked tongue rolled like a cat's purr, and he felt the reverberations down his spine. He smiled wide, not caring that she only glared at him and turned away. Sasha bit back her own smile and followed, then the door shut firmly closed behind them.

The only sound in the trailer was Enid pulling out a stack of plates from the cabinet, and the clink of ceramic on the table echoed through his brain. He watched the space where Rosita disappeared, only a few seconds, before the door opened again.

This time, another hauntingly beautiful woman slipped through, her gaunt face shrouded by the ball cap she had tugged over her short brown hair. She was thin, but Tommy could see the sinewy muscle layered beneath her paling skin.

She halted her steps at the sight of the Elliot twins, the greeting to Enid freezing on her lips. "Hi," she offered softly. "I'm Maggie."

"Ah, just the girl we've been looking for," Tommy sighed with relief and stood. His sister didn't budge. Instead, she found the palms of her hands more interesting. And despite everything, despite having no clue why they were here, or what they would do next, he couldn't help the itchy feeling lingering along his skin. He jabbed a thumb towards the door and tried to keep his voice even, not like the lilt of a little boy with a crush. "Where are they goin'?"

Maggie blinked, and rather than be thrown off by his casual comfortability or asses him for a way to chip at that ease that seemed to live in his bones, she simply shrugged and took up a seat at the table next to Enid. He liked that about her. "Beats me," she sighed, grinning as the young girl immediately plopped the heaping serving of pie before her. She paused, the fork hovering above the plate. Then she twisted the silver in her hands, pointing to Tatum across from her who was practically drooling from the smell of a warm meal. "You want some, darlin'?"

His sister wasted no time in leaping from the couch and taking up a place next to Maggie, who laughed in a way that didn't feel judgemental or surprised, but rather just genuinely amused. "So, what brings you guys to our neck of the woods?"

Yes, Tommy liked her a lot.

This group felt different than the ones before. Even without the sheer size of it, every person that made up this family--the ones they'd met, at least-- actually cared. About life, about smiling, about each other.

So when he felt that pull, like a thread in the tapestry of life tugging at his soul, it was easy enough to follow it. "Tatum, fill her in." He walked right out the door, not bothering to wait and see if they were even allowed to leave. It was too late now, anyway.

It took him four tries until someone finally pointed out which way Sasha and the beautiful woman had gone, and he memorized the face that gave up information about his people so freely, noting not to tell him anything in the future. Moron.

Staring at the secret hatch disguised as a pile of logs, Tommy grinned wildly. He lifted the top, and without a moment to let himself hesitate, he slid into the tunnel built underneath the walls of Hilltop. He let his eyes adjust to the dark before he crept through the shadows, one hand trailing the dirt-packed wall to his left. He grinned again at the little spark that warmed inside his chest.

This would be the adventure of a lifetime.

⤐

Daryl's heart lived outside of his body. It breathed, felt the sun on its skin, the rain on its face, and endured every raging beat. He'd come so close to losing it. Not to sickness, or war, or even to the walkers swarming them. But to himself. He'd almost pulled that trigger. He fought the urge to vomit as he stood in the doorway of the bathroom.

His heart was sitting in the bathtub with her back to him, her knees pulled close to her chest and her head resting wearily upon them. The afternoon sun flooded the room through the tiny window, bathing her in a golden light that seemed too bright for a world where death was around every corner.

His gaze traveled up the length of her spine, the bones there too visible to be healthy, and then...

There were scars there—multiple scars. The torn flesh crisscrossed over her shoulder blade, and the deepest lesions formed a mangled star the size of his palm. Other, more minor cuts splayed out beyond it, as if whoever had done that to her couldn't decide where they wanted to start their creation. The urge to vomit crept back up.

Though his steps had been nearly silent, and she didn't look at him, Zeppelin's awareness clicked, and when he slowly lowered himself to the floor, she tilted her head. A silent invitation to speak. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She didn't need him to clarify. "It doesn't matter." Her voice was strained and listless as she gazed at her reflection in the water that had already run cold. "It was a long time ago."

It mattered. It mattered so much that he didn't know, that she bore this weight alone. He tried to fight the impulse to pull her to him, to weep for the cards she'd been dealt, to beg and beg for her forgiveness because he didn't know. He tried and tried.

She turned to him then, her face grave and cautious. "I want to go to Alexandria. I need to see Rosita."

He nodded, still entranced by the star marring her back. He recognized the five-pointed shape but couldn't remember the word for it, or the meaning behind it. Why somebody would carve that into her, he didn't know. He didn't know.

So foolish. How could he not have seen them? He'd been so attentive to everything else—so caught up in that freckle on her collarbone, and the one above her left knee, and that tattoo on her foot, or the one in the crook of her elbow, and all the other parts of her he knew like the back of his hand. He'd been so stupidly foolish that he couldn't stand to look at those hands as he handed her the lavender soap she loved.

She took it, her mouth tightening in an offering of a grim smile, and lathered it between her palms, though she didn't seem inclined to move from her curled-up stance. Blood still dripped down her face and arms, and though Daryl had already washed and patched his own wounds, she tilted her chin to where his left arm rested on the edge of the tub. "How is it?"

"I'll be alright, Ace," he murmured, lazily trailing the tips of his fingers through the water. "How are you?" She didn't answer at first; she simply lowered herself below the surface of the water and re-emerged within a few seconds, wiping away the blood smeared along her neck.

  "Me too," she sighed, curling back up. "You think those two actually went to Hilltop?"

Daryl contemplated it, savoring the sweetness of just sitting here with her in the quiet and warmth of the day. "If they know what's good for 'em, they would." He watched her trace the not-quite-healed slash down her forearm underneath the protection of the water. "If they were telling the truth, it's been months since they've had a reliable group. Might be just what they're lookin' for."

"I don't think I could do it."

He cocked his head, searching for another meaning behind the words. She didn't look at him—there was no trace of that silent language they seemed to understand so well.

"Go with another group, I mean," she murmured, gazing down at her wrist. "If I lost our family, if I—if I lost you... I wouldn't take that chance again."

She would end it herself before she was even given the chance.

Daryl's chest felt as though it was caving in on itself, and he withdrew his hand from the tub and wiped it on his jeans. "Don't say that," he whispered.

So, she chose not to say anything at all.

Zepp scooted further into the bath, slowly rubbing the bar of soap up and down her arms, carefully avoiding the ripped skin decorating her shoulder and elbow. Instinct had him reaching out to help her, but he loosened his shoulders and dropped his hands before she could notice.

"I'm gonna go get you a towel," he muttered in defeat. He wasn't sure if there was one in the bathroom already, but he needed an excuse to slip out of the room on shaking legs, and she didn't say anything to stop him anyway.

Worry and dread gnawing at him, he slunk down the hall and picked out what seemed to be the softest, fluffiest towel from the closet. He didn't know what to say, how to act, what to do to make her understand. She held his world on a string. He inhaled until his lungs burned, prepared himself to say something that could make her see, and headed back to the bathroom.

He stopped cold in his tracks.

Zeppelin was standing now, naked and dripping water all over the marble floor. It wasn't the sight of her that made him freeze, but the gun she was holding in her hands. His gun.

  With only one bullet in the cylinder.

  He saw the despair on her face the moment she saw him, and she quickly smothered it back down, anger taking hold in its place. "Why did you lie?"

  "Because I knew you wouldn't let me do it if you knew the truth," Daryl sighed as he leaned back against the threshold, the towel he brought for her a barrier between them.

  Her brows furrowed, and she slapped the gun on the sink and crossed her arms. "Then that's my choice." She didn't care that she was naked, and it was nothing he hadn't seen before, but Daryl handed her the towel anyway. She looked at it for a brief pause before she took it, her movements slower and more calculated. 

  "Live together, die together," she said softly, wrapping the soft, yellow cotton around her shoulders. "You promised."

  "I never promised that," he added as he inched closer to her. "I've always said you come first. Before me, before anything. I won't apologize for that." It was the truth, and better she hear it now before he's forced into another situation where he chooses her life over his. He'd do it a hundred times over.

She assessed him for a long, silent moment, her face unreadable, and he felt every ounce of weight in that gaze until, finally, she nodded and clutched the towel to her chest. "Fine." She walked right past, and as much as his instincts screamed not to, he grabbed her wrist and held her firmly next to him.

"I love you, Zeppelin." With his other hand, he traced the edges of her jawline. "And that means I'll do things you won't be happy about, but it'll be for you. Everything is for you. If you don't like it, tough shit." He hated the way his voice sounded, the way she looked at him.

  Oh well.

The water soaking her hair trickled onto the floor, splashing their feet. "I need to see Rosita," she repeated. Time stilled around him when she brought her palm to his chest, her fingers lightly grazing over his heart.

Then she walked out.

  Daryl stared at the empty space where she had been for a long moment, until his eyes began to burn. Following the sounds of clothing rustling in the bedroom, he watched her hold up a black thermal shirt and study it as if contemplating the sturdiness. She shrugged it on, the fabric slipping over that horrible, awful scar.

  He knew she was aware of him in the room from the way she fought to keep her attention anywhere else. She grabbed a bag from the highest shelf of the walk-in closet and tossed it on the bed, then went back to rifle for god knows what.

  She meant to go to Alexandria now.

  Panic settled into his chest as he checked the window, the sun still bright and gleaming in the sky. He fought to control his breathing, and the next time she padded past him, he found himself grabbing her arm again. If he let go, he might drown. "Stay," he whispered. "Wait until tonight. We'll go together."

  For a heartbeat, he feared she'd say no, and he felt that familiar iron claw scrape down his spine. "Stay with me." 

  Zepp exhaled, and though even that seemed to be a strain for her, she offered him a glimpse of a smile as she tilted her chin up. "Always."

  He kissed her then, deep and unyielding, and she returned every breath he gave.

  They didn't stop until the sun faded into the moon.