He was never great at being a father figure. Too scarred to touch the smooth skin of a young one without flinching.

Even he, never had a father, figuratively. drank most nights, got high on others. And brought women over, even merle didnt stick around.

Now? He was too burned by life to cradle something so gentle without the fear of breaking it. He couldn’t bear it — not really.

But Laurent, The boy who never had. An orphan from the moment he breathed, his mother gone the day he arrived.

And Daryl — for all his rough edges, for all his silences — He’d become something close to a father.

The father Laurent never had.

They stood in the courtyard of Mont-Saint-Michel, the scent of salt carried inland by the breeze off the French coast. The ocean hummed in the distance, calm.

Laurent stood with a bat — or rather, what passed for one: a busted chair leg, gripped in both hands. Across the yard, Daryl stood with two baseballs in hand, boots planted wide, squinting against the sunlight.

The first throw came, Laurent swung hard — and missed. The ball dropped and bounced against the stone.

Daryl didn’t flinch.

“It’s alrigh’,” he called over, voice calm, reassuring. He rolled the second ball into his palm, readying the next pitch. “I got another one.”

Laurent adjusted his stance, uncertain. Daryl lifted a hand and nodded.

“Bend your knees. Keep your eye on me.” The boy obeyed, bat poised, feet shifting in the dirt, Daryl gave a small nod.

“Next one. Ready.”

He was just about to throw — arm cocked back — when his eyes caught movement. You.

You were walking toward them, half-curious, half-amused. And he knew that look in your eyes before you even spoke.

A question, half-risen: "Is this what I think it is?" Lingered in your mind, but he read it.

He answered with a shrug, dry as ever.

“It’s American, baseball. Not cricket.”

Before you could get another word out, Laurent turned around, still holding the makeshift bat in his hands. His smile was wide, a little crooked.

“We’re gonna need a catcher!” he called, waving you over without a second thought.

Daryl exhaled through his nose, watching the boy with something close to quiet affection.

Yeah, he was really doing this, Playing the role, Stepping into shoes he never asked for — but wore anyway.

The wind blew cold, but the sun warmed it just enough to make staying outside worth it. The kind of weather that made you feel something. A day that felt like more than survival.

And now, with you stepping behind the boy, gloves ready, catching position assumed —

Daryl smirked faintly, tapping the ball in his palm.

“Alrigh’,” he said, eyes meeting yours for a half-beat longer than usual. “We got us a catcher.”