Daryl crouched in the dying light, tracing the hoof print with his fingers. It had been raining for ten days, and when the sun had cracked the clouds this morning, Daryl had practically hopped the fence in his eagerness to escape the prison. The fact that the meat from his last hunt had run out two days ago, leaving the group to subsist on canned food that he could barely keep down, had spurred him deeper into the woods than he had previously ventured on foot.

The print was fresh – it had to be – and given its size and the depth of the press, he figured it was a buck, the largest one he'd seen in weeks. His mouth watered at the prospect, although the journey home carrying something that size was daunting.

He rose slightly out off of his haunches and followed the trail forward. Autumn was fast approaching – the days of easy summer tracking would soon be long gone. Once the leaves started falling in earnest, trails would be obscured almost as soon as they were laid down. To make matters worse, game was getting scarcer, and those animals that remained were getting craftier. Those that were able – squirrels, birds, possums – were learning quickly to stay off the ground, out of reach of the shuffling, grasping walkers below. They were still no match for the living – Daryl had four squirrels dangling from his back even now – but it meant they left no tracks, no trails. And the remainder of the forest-dwellers – those who couldn't escape to the relative safety of the trees – had learned to zig-zag or loop around the forest, never walking in a straight line for long. Even now, the trail Daryl followed veered sharply to the left for no apparent reason; the creature was simply trying to make itself harder to follow. Some of them – this animal included, if the smell that was growing more potent was any indication – had even taken to rolling in the decomposing remains of fallen walkers, effectively camouflaging themselves from the dead that remained.

Daryl had to admit, it was impressive. Life found its ways of continuing. It had been a long time since people needed to be as fluid, as changing, as the animals they ate. But they were holding their own.

There was a rustling from above and Daryl downed another squirrel, quickly retrieving it and tying it into place beside the others. A few weeks ago, five squirrels would have been enough, but with the arrival of the Woodbury group, they had been burning through supplies more rapidly than anyone could have anticipated. Daryl was finding it difficult to warm to them, and not just because he recognized every third face as someone who had been chanting for his blood when the Governor pitted him against his brother.

The Woodbury residents were soft. Some were young, some were old, some were close to his own age, but very few had been exposed to the harshness of the new world. They had been coddled in Woodbury. Daryl had little patience for it. Spending the winter on the road had toughened up even the weakest members of the original Atlanta group. They had all lost people. They had all gone without food, shelter, water, rest. Some of the people at Woodbury had spent time outside its walls, but most of them had been inside long enough to grow complacent.

Even though he trusted the group implicitly, unquestionably, Daryl had never allowed himself to relax. Letting your guard down, getting soft, was the surest way to get yourself killed. Merle had taught him that.

Merle. That was a can of worms Daryl didn't dare open. He had mourned his brother; lying on his back amidst the dead and the walking, he had shed tears for Merle. But the last thing his brother would have wanted was for Daryl to stall, to give up and lie curled up in a cell like a baby.

C'mon Darlina, kick you're sorry ass in gear. That dear ain't gonna track hisself.

Daryl smirked to himself as the trail veered sharply to the right. He knew it would be a long time before Merle's voice faded from his mind. Part of him hoped it never would. His brother had been an asshole – Daryl would be the first to admit it – but he had loved him all the same. And Merle had died proving himself to the group. He had given them a chance.

"He gave us a chance," Carol said, offering Daryl her hand. He clasped it and hoisted himself up. She squeezed his fingers once, prolonging their contact. They released their grips at the same time.

The trail turned again and Daryl sighed. Much further and he would have to give this buck up as a lost cause. Even with all the zigzagging he was getting too far from home base; the angle of the sun told him that if he kept at it much longer the sky would darken before he could reach the safety of the prison fences. He could take care of himself – the walkers were thinning out as they picked off more and more and the area surrounding the prison began to reek of decay – but he knew they would worry: Rick, Hershel, Carol –

He stopped dead, listening. Distantly he heard moaning, as familiar as the wind through the trees. He held his breath and then –

Yes, he had definitely heard a twig snap. There was a rustling ahead of him and he took careful, silent aim, waiting.

After a few heartbeats, the buck's head came into view, jaw working on whatever he had just pulled up from the ground. Exactly one heartbeat later, the buck's heart was silenced by Daryl's bow, the bolt protruding from the creature's eye.

Daryl approached, moving more easily than he had been, but still careful to move silently. The animal was huge, and Daryl blinked at it for a moment. It was going to be a very long walk home. With a sigh, he pulled some twine from his bag and tied the buck's feet together before slinging the animal over his shoulders like some kind of morbid purse. Once it was secure, he turned on his heel, ignoring his own tracks in favor of walking a straight line into the sun. Due West. Toward home.

The burden of the deer slowed him; the sun was dipping below the horizon when he reached the first gate. Carl was there, with Glenn; after a few minutes of banging on fences the way was cleared and Daryl darted inside the gate. Both Carl and Glenn gaped at Daryl's prize.

With a curt nod toward the pair, Daryl started up the path toward the prison proper. Rick was in the yard with Judith, and spared Daryl a wave before returning to the task of trying to get his daughter to sit up on her own.

Inside, the prison was cool and quiet. Daryl made a beeline for the kitchen, intent on dropping his catch and then bolting to his cell for a quick nap before dinner.

But when he arrived, Carol was alone at the sink, humming to herself as the washed the dishes, dried them, and stacked them up for reuse. Daryl grunted in greeting. Carol turned over her shoulder and her eyes widened at the size of the buck.

"A few more runs like this and we'll be set for the winter," she said appreciatively. Daryl shrugged in response. Carol's hands did not falter in their work as she smiled.

"Ya still wanna learn to prep a kill?" Daryl asked. She nodded.

"Two minutes and I'll be done with these plates," she said quickly.

True to her word, Carol dried the last plate and set it aside only a few moments later. But it was enough time to set Daryl's foot tapping against the concrete floor. She wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing and crossed to where Daryl had flopped the deer and the squirrels on an empty expanse of countertop.

Wordlessly, Daryl handed her a knife and hoisted the deer up on his shoulders once again.

"Maybe I should start with a squirrel?" Carol said uncertainly. "I don't want to mess anything up."

"Naw," Daryl shrugged again. "He's already dead. A little poking can't hurt 'im. 'N' everythin's easier to spot when it's bigger.

She nodded and he jerked his head toward one of the three pantries the kitchen afforded. As soon as they had settled in, Daryl had claimed the small room as a dressing station. He slung the buck up by the antlers, wrapping a rope around its head to hold it secure, and fastening each of the hooves to ropes that ran from the shelves. After a few moments of grunting, the animal was suspended from the ceiling, its white belly exposed to them.

Daryl pointed at three buckets stacked in the corner, and Carol fetched them to him. The largest he placed beneath the animal, and set the other two aside. He unclipped his knife and rubbed his forehead, trying to harken back to the first time field dressing had been explained to him. Merle hadn't been the most eloquent teacher; he favored demonstration and repetition over speeches. Daryl pursed his lips at the memory; when the Dixon brothers were younger, Merle had been quiet and shrinking, more like Daryl than any of the group realized. Over the years, he slowly developed the bluster and blow to which they were accustomed until the two brothers hardly seemed to have anything in common.

Daryl glanced sidelong at Carol. She was looking at him expectantly, and he cleared his throat.

"First, we gotta gut 'im. 'S the messiest part." He twirled his knife expertly and approached the buck, Carol close on his heels.

"Th' first cut is the hardest, 'cause it's gotta be shallow." He placed the tip of his knife point at the animal's pelvis, allowing just the knife point to push through the hide and the thin membrane below.

"Start at the bottom and cut up. 'S easier not to cut through somethin'. If you get it wrong, you'll know right quick 'cause you'll be up to your knees in guts." The first cut complete, Daryl reached inside the creature's stomach, pulling out it's rope-like intestines.

"Pull these out first. Get 'em out as far as you can before you cut 'em off the spine. C'mere, help me."

Carol appeared next to him, plunging her hand inside the belly with barely a grimace and pulling out a handful of guts. They pulled them out, hand over hand, until most of the length was freed. Daryl pulled Carol in front of him, his chest pressed to her back and his mouth next to her ear. With his hands on her wrists he guided her inside to the spine.

"Here's his spine," he murmured. "And here's where the guts is attached." He moved her hand over to the bundles of nerves that connected the intestines to the spinal column.

"You gotta be delicate, cause if you cut his guts open by mistake, the meat might get spoilt." He pulled her right hand out along with his own, and pressed a small knife into it before guiding her back inside. She was hesitant but precise, and the intestines flopped the rest of the way into the bucket with a squelch.

"Now we gotta sever 'em and get 'em out completely," he said, guiding her hands again. "You pinch 'em here, near the end and cut 'em, then pull 'em out and tie 'em off." She did as instructed her hands emerging red and glistening as she handed the end to Daryl who tied it off expertly and let it drop.

"Same thing on the other end. Careful of the stomach." Their hands entered and emerged from the creature's belly, pulling out the intestines, stomach, colon, windpipe, bladder, lungs and diaphragm and discarding them.

"Heart's next," he grunted. The ball of muscle was pulled forth and he gestured to one of the smaller buckets off to the side, Carol tossed it in, followed by the kidneys, and then the liver.

"Liver goes in the other bucket." He gestured. "Liver's always good. Gotta check the heart and kidneys an' make sure ain't nothin' wrong with 'em 'fore you cook 'em." Carol nodded.

"If we had water to spare, we'd rinse 'im. But it ain't worth it. Now we skin 'im."

He moved around to the back of the animal and Carol followed.

"Start here," he pressed his knife through the skin just below the base of the skull. "Then cut around to the front, where he's already split." He handed her the knife and she mirrored his cut on the other side of the animal's neck.

"Good. Now split up his legs, and around the joint." He split the skin along the inside of the animal's leg, drawing a small circle around the joint midway down. He handed Carol the knife and she did the same for the remaining leg.

"Alright. Now we pull."

He hooked his fingers under the skin at the base of the animal's skull, watching as Carol did the same.

"You gotta pull hard," he said. She nodded.

"One, two – "

On three they both wrenched down, peeling the skin off and exposing the buck's red muscles as they went. Carol did fine; Daryl only needed to pause in his progress twice to allow her to catch up. When the creature's skin was dangling at its ankles, Daryl nodded and they severed it. Daryl grabbed it before it fell into the bucket of organs and set it aside.

"We can tan that. Could be good come winter."

"What do we do with this?" Carol asked, indicating the bucket of blood and discarded organs.

"Save it." Carol quirked a brow at him and he shrugged.

"I use it when I'm huntin'. Drive out somewhere a distance from where I'm headin' and dump 'em. The smell draws the walkers. Gives me a little peace while I'm out."

"That's smart," she said, impressed. Daryl shrugged again.

They pulled the deer down and toted him back to the kitchen to be chopped up. About six Woodbury residents were milling about now, clearly intending to help with dinner. One elderly woman bit back a gasp when she saw them emerge, covered in blood. All of them avoided Daryl's eyes.

Carol nodded at one of them, a dark-haired young woman.

"Karen, would you mind getting a start on dinner? I'm going to go get cleaned up."

The woman nodded, her eyes darting to Daryl and then back to her hands.

Daryl took a step toward the door and they all jumped. They were afraid of him. A few had the decency to look sheepish, but one or two looked at him with open hostility. Daryl bristled.

Carol, perhaps sensing his mood, grabbed his hand and towed him out of the kitchen, toward the showers. After a moment, he pulled his hand away, but followed behind nonetheless.

When they reached the showers, Daryl relaxed minutely. It was quiet and cool in the large communal bathroom, removed as it was from the main areas. Carol crossed to one of the sinks, draping her apron across it before turning to another to wash her hands. Daryl skipped the sink in favor of the shower; the blood had just covered the layer of mud and dirt he always accumulated while hunting. He needed a proper wash. He glanced at Carol, busy at the sink with her back to him, before pulling off his vest and the Henley beneath. His undershirt was next, and as it dropped to the floor he heard a small gasp. He whirled around, and his eyes locked with Carol's in the mirror. He realized with a flare of panic that she had never seen his scars. They were so comfortable with each other in every other way, he had honestly forgotten.

"Daryl," she murmured, turning to face him. He suppressed a snarl, feeling trapped and exposed. "Who-?"

"Don't matter," he hissed through his teeth reaching for his clothes and pulling his shirt back on hastily. "I'll come back later."

"Daryl, wait-!" But he was already gone, jogging to his cell. He whipped his clothes across the tiny room and sat down heavily on his bunk, head in his hands. He struggled to control his breathing.

Let your guard down, brother. Ain't I always told you never to trust no one but your blood?

Daryl groaned. Merle was half wrong, he knew. Blood or not, these people were his family. But he had let his guard down, and chances were good when he looked at Carol he would see nothing but pity in her eyes. He hated pity. It made him feel small. He rolled back onto his bunk, throwing one arm over his eyes.

He must have slept, because the next thing he knew, he was being awakened by a hand on his shoulder, and a quiet voice.

"Daryl?"

His hand shot out reflexively to wrench the hand away. Only when he was sitting halfway up, blinking sleep away did he realize it was Carol's wrist he had clenched in his fist. He released her immediately.

"Whaddaya want?"

"I –" Carol twiddled her thumbs nervously. Daryl felt impatience swell in his chest.

"Ya what?"

She sighed and glanced behind her at the curtain pulled across the cell entrance. There was a candle burning, Daryl realized. She must have lit it.

Without warning, she pulled her shirt over her head, leaving her clad in a worn, gray bra. Daryl froze, panic and shock dueling within him. She glanced at him through her lashes, and his confusion must have shown on his face, because she gestured at her stomach minutely.

His brows knit and he looked again. His breath hitched. Her stomach was a checkerboard of scars, some white, others pink or blue. None looked as bad as his own, but there were easily twice as many, ranging in size from the thin white lines below her breasts, to the worst one, an angry, jagged thing that cut across her ribcage to disappear on her back. He reached out a hand, intending to turn her, and she flinched. He froze again, worried he had done something wrong.

"Sorry," she said, letting out a small, sharp breath before turning her back to him. It was much the same. He looked down at his hands, bile rising in his throat. There was a rustle of clothing as Carol pulled her shirt back on. She crouched in front of him, but he did not meet her gaze. She smelled clean.

"I just wanted you to know you weren't alone. But that life is behind us now." Cautiously, she put a hand to the side of his face. Now it was his turn to flinch.

"Sorry," he huffed.

"I understand," she said quietly. "It took me a long time, too. But it got better eventually."

"How?"

"I had Sophia," she said, her voice hitching only slightly on the name. "And you have Judith. And me."

He nodded once. She rubbed his cheek with her thumb for a moment and stood.

"Dinner's ready, by the way," she said, and smiled, before ducking behind the curtain.

Daryl watched it sway as her footsteps receded.