EDIT: I've rewritten this chapter so that it fits more with my new style. I might rewrite Chapter 2 slightly as well by tweaking some of the dialogue in it. Aside from that, however, I'm quite happy with how everything is, so will leave other chapters alone. Hope you like the revision! :)

Hey, thanks for checking out my fic. This is my first Walking Dead story, so I would appreciate it if you could tell me how well I've started it. Just so you know, I'm British, so if my American's ever slightly off, you know why! :) Anyway, hope you enjoy! :D

DISCLAIMER: Me no own-y, sadly! ;A;

Chapter 1 - Chance

Sunshine blazed endlessly through the treetops.

It beat down through the branches without much diffusion at all – so strong and sharp that the leafy masses above the campsite did little to blunt its edge. Outwards pointing rays reflected off of the Winnebago, briefly hitting Dale as he sat back in creaky lawn chair and rubbed at his complaining back with a withheld groan before bouncing down and drowning the little groups lounging underneath in a flood of heat.

That morning had started off all the worse for them all in the unbearable warmth, as Shane had finally had enough of the stuck mechanism for the extendable roof of the RV and had determinedly pulled at the frozen lever so roughly that it snapped off, the small bit of shade they had managed to extract before abruptly snapping backwards and firmly refusing to return. After that, Amy had discovered they were all out of the little bottle of sunscreen she had stored away at the bottom of her bag, drying up depressingly quickly when they all agreed to keep it for the children, smothering their milky little shoulders in order to give them even a small respite from the red raw burns to come from their hours on end spent outdoors. All in all, as Shane had admitted to an unamused looking Jim and Dale when it became apparent that the roof wasn't coming back down regardless of how much oil they poured on the broken lever, it hadn't been the best start to the day.

Every few hours, a few sparse gusts of wind would weakly lurch through the hills, a scarce comfort to those that had given up completely on any form of activity, boiling and roasting over much like the little canned carrots Lori was steaming in a pot, her dented brow spotted with sweat. Each small breeze bathed them in the powerfully permeating odour of raw sweat and restlessness, catching and cloying uncomfortably in their dry throats, halting them where they sat grousing and fidgeting around in little groups. Usually bustling with some sort of activity, the camp had thereby been reduced to practical stagnation, with the overwhelmed inhabitants either milling around aimlessly in an attempt to curry some form of cool air about themselves or softly fanning each other with whatever malleable material they could – Dale steadfastly pointing out that their meagre supply of paper should probably go to something other than cooling them all down through vigorous fanning.

As time went on, the heat only got worse, as the unforgiving change of Georgian seasons punished them all in their exposed little tents – which, unfortunately, did not house the air conditioning units they had all come to rely on so heavily, leaving them melting in the extreme warmth. Night gave little respite from the feverish temperature, with all of the residents of the shanty town they had abruptly settled checking the thermometer in the RV every few minutes only to find that only a few degrees Fahrenheit dropped sullenly off of the measure as the dank evening crawled in. Then, despairing at this constant frustration as they tried to find some comfort on the thin plastic bottoms of their new homes, ignoring as best they could the niggling rocks digging into their backs, they awkwardly trundled off to sleep, brows dented, thoughts swimming.

It was with this knowledge of their collective stagnation and the restless tedium of all around him that Carl tried to quash the niggling, immature, yet absolutely incessant want for chocolate sprinkled ice-cream.

It'd go down a treat right about now, he thought. The coldness would do wonders on his sweating form, alleviating some of the horrible, tense heat that gathered on his cheekbones as the last vestiges of sunscreen washed away in his twitchy monotony, leaving him exposed and uncomfortably pink. Staring down with unseeing eyes at the textbooks Glenn had scavenged from a small, out-of-the-way bookshop he had found in his sojourns to downtown Atlanta, blankly clicking his chewed pencil against the little makeshift table Dale had lugged down from the RV, he found himself absolutely unable to concentrate - whether due to this heat or his own vice of laziness, he couldn't tell. Either way, he was completely out of it.

Sophia had made a brave attempt at scribbling some solutions to maths problems in the margin of another useless reality TV star's autobiography, but she, too, had given up before long, her vacant gaze staring off into the distance, mouth hanging slightly open, fingers fidgeting slowly over one another. She never really looked all there, to be honest – always submissively quiet and meek since he had known her – but the blasting heat from overhead did little to bring her out from her shell. A water-spotted tin can of water sat beside her opened book, untouched as she remained absorbed in her own little world, having forgotten her mother's soft reminder to keep hydrated in the warmth as she quietly walked away to do laundry at the quarry with her perpetually scowling husband, whose dark eyes fixed carefully on his daughter and Carl before he turned the corner.

As his languid mind paused momentarily on Sophia's father, the strange, altogether peculiar man who hitched his mother's shoulders up when he walked by, Carl frowned, Shane's Cynthiana PD cap shifting slightly on his head as his brow furrowed. Along with his mother's aforementioned strange behaviour where the man was concerned, he had noticed that Shane was also not too fond of him. It seemed like every other night he was getting in arguments with Ed, his eyes suddenly sharp and hard from their earlier good-natured warmth, lip curling as he tightly ordered the other man to rein in his separate camp-fire or some other such Shane had carefully adjusted his cap on Carl's head with a little pat that morning after Lori told him about the sun burn he was quickly developing, he had given Sophia a friendly grin and an amicable 'Everythin' alright, sweetie?' It was obvious from the flush on Sophia's cheeks and the stutter of her answer that she wasn't used to such niceties within her family, and the shy little smile she gave them both after a struck pause was the first time either of them had seen the girl moderately happy looking. Even when Shane left with Glenn to go do something, an affectionate 'Look after your mom for me, Carl' floating lazily through the air behind him, she never stopped smiling until her father walked back up to lounge aimlessly in their tent, wiping the warmth from her gaze at her first glance of him, flicking her head down and away to the baked dirt.

So, yes. Carl, all in all, did not like Ed.

Just as that thought fixed in his mind, dragging it all the more in the opposite direction from his 'school' work, a rustle of plastic at his back turned Carl's head around. Across from him, adjusting the crossbow on his back as he stood up from his tent, was the perpetually scowling Daryl Dixon. Dixon was a man which Carl knew little of, aside from his relation to the abrasive and dangerously loudmouthed Merle and his constant hunt for food for the camp, turning up every other night with a fresh line of bloodied squirrel which made Sophia squeal in fright. People never really talked to the man unless he was giving them something – another meal, another abandoned tent he had found, another packet of batteries – which struck Carl as a bit unfair. His own mother didn't seem to much like the man, despite all of his work. It was altogether strange, really. He seemed okay to him – if a tad bit intimidating.

However, Carl didn't think more on this when he saw the man tighten the notched leather strap on his back and double-check his sheathed hunting knife – instead, he focussed on the weapon the man always carried around with him: his ubiquitous crossbow. Just as the perpetually scowling Southerner man took a few steps to the outer boundaries of their tiny camp, Carl abruptly stood, whipping Sophia's head up at him with a wide-eyed startle, giving her a jump before he quickly spluttered a 'I'm just – I have to – I'll be right back, Soph' and hurriedly sprinted off, the tough leather boots Glenn had scavenged for him clacking wildly against each other with each rushed step.

He reached the older man just as he yanked back a low-lying tree branch and started to move through the space he had created, and so hastily addressed him, voice suddenly falling meekly even in its urgency, "Uh, Mr Dixon? Could I – talk to you for a minute?"

'Mr Dixon' stopped abruptly where he stood, posture straightening, hand halting where it pulled against the leafy mass. After a momentary pause, he slowly turned his head, brow raised, seeming to do a double take at being addressed in such a formal manner as he looked back at Carl, who fidgeted where he stood, already starting to regret his hurried decision to speak to the man. Then, brow furrowed again, giving a habitual sharpness to his addressal in the hopes that whatever the kid wanted would be dealt with sooner if he was prompt, Daryl asked gruffly, "What d'you want?"

Carl held back a forming lump in his throat, gulping it away heavily as he forcefully pulled back his shoulders and tried to make his voice seem a bit steadier than it actually was as he began, nervousness suddenly overtaking him at the tall man's hard gaze, "Uh, well, I – was hoping, uh," he halted, voice abruptly faltering, the words he had been thinking on the last few days quite suddenly flying from his mind, leaving him gaping uselessly, mortified at his embarrassing lack of speech, "Um."

Utterly silent, Daryl watched with a firmly stony expression before he seemed to grow impatient with the still nervously juttering pre-teen and cut in sharply, "I got stuff to do, kid, so hurry up already and say what you gotta say."

At that, Carl immediately halted, mouth shutting, a flush reddening his already pinkened cheeks. Then, glancing around for the briefest of moments for any sign of his mother, he finally said what he had been trying to for the last minute, "...Can you teach me how to use a crossbow?"

A silence fell on them. A few birds overhead squawked obnoxiously, their cries reverberating about the quarry and hills and echoing without end around them. Back at the camp, Amy and Andrea chatted loudly about whether they thought Dale's back problems were from sitting in that dusty old chair on top of the RV or just because of his 'quickly advancing age'.

Eventually, allowing the branch he still held to fall with a soft rustle back in its place, Daryl turned fully around, shoulders pulled back, unreadable gaze flicking over Carl's unsettled expression. Carl waited in restless discomfort, expecting the expected shock or horror to blast up from the man any moment – none, however, came. Instead, Daryl exuded an air of calm neutrality, as though he was still waiting for Carl to say what he had been so nervous about. After a moment, recognising the young boy's surprise, he finally replied, "Y'think your mom'd be okay with that?"

Brow denting, Carl paused for a moment before giving a reluctant shake of his head, a soft frown pulling down at his lips and his gaze flicking away as he answered quietly, a hand fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, "No," his voice lowered all the more, eyes darkening, "No." He paused slightly then, mouth shutting, unsure of what to say. It was only when a loud peal of Amy's laughter lit up the air at their backs that he spoke again, voice juttering back into action, suddenly gaining some of its usual boldness, his shoulders pulling up abruptly, "But I think she's wrong."

Daryl flicked his brow up at that. A shadow of a smirk almost pulled up at his lips before he quashed it, giving a quick nod to the boy, prompting him on, "Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because I know that if I get separated from her and Shane, I'm gonna die," Carl's immediate response halted both of them, the boy himself struck at his own bluntness before he continued steadfastly, "I'm not tough enough to survive with all the walkers. She's never gonna let me touch a gun – but I'm not gonna give up on learning how to fight. 'Cause I need to be able to protect her as well, like," the words 'my dad did' echoed through his mind, but were held back by the skin of his clenched jaw, the faltering end of, "like I should," coming out instead.

Another silence followed his barely audible conclusion, his head lowering to face the dirt, barely paying any attention to a mosquito buzzing by his nose as his brow furrowed. He had all but given up by now on the whole proposition – unwillingly aware of his thoroughly dishevelled plea and argument. In fact, he was about to make a hurried, utterly humiliated apology and sprint back away to his tent, finalising his total abandonment of his textbook by sulking ashamedly about for the rest of the day when Daryl's voice suddenly pierced the air above him.

"Alright."

Carl whipped his head up, mouth falling open, brow flying upwards as Daryl nodded down at him, a barely noticeable grin flashing up in his expression for a moment at the look on the boy's face as he continued, "We'll start tomorrow, when your mom's down doing laundry at the lake." Carl halted completely, a dazed smile fading into his expression, as Daryl added, shrugging with a stretch of his powerful shoulders, "You can tell her if you want, or not. I don't care so long as you don't bitch when I'm teaching you – and you help me skin some squirrels for dinner."

Part of Carl – the old-world, childish part – wrinkled his nose at that last bit, but he ignored that segment of himself, his desire to learn overriding everything else and prompting him to blurt out an enthusiastic, "Okay!" At Daryl's indifferent nod, he added gratefully, "Thanks a lot, I really apprecia–"

"–That's all your gettin' out of me, kid. Now look sharp – your mom's back."

Sure enough, just as Daryl pointed that out with a calm flick of his head to Carl's back, a piercing call for the boy came, his mother's voice flinching his shoulders up and making him jump, voice careening off abruptly and gaze immediately shooting behind him. Glancing quickly back around to Daryl only to find the man already turned away and pushing the branch up again, Carl whispered a final, excited 'thanks again' before sprinting off back to the camp and his awaiting mother, his borrowed cap jumping about on his head with his mad running.

Daryl didn't bother to respond as he walked out to the other side of the greenery and let the branch fall backwards with a loud rush of leaves, the sounds of a scolding fading away into the distance as he strode away without a backwards glance, a darkly amused grin pulling up at his lips.

That goddamn buck wasn't going to get away.

That was all Daryl thought of as he trudged up yet another huge, verdant hill, the metal canteen hooked loosely onto his belt clanking about with each stride of his large legs. For the past hour or so – he never bothered to keep track of minutes – he had been tracking the big, lithe animal, always missing it by just a breath. It seemed like everything was against him today: the wind always turned just as he closed in on the wary creature and suddenly revealed his location, sending it sprinting off in the other direction, and the ground was so thoroughly baked by the heat that it was hard to keep a good track of the thing. Worst of all, it was going to get dark soon, which meant that he had to hurry the hell up or go back with just another line of limp squirrels – and he was fed up with eating goddamn squirrel every single fuckin' night. The area around camp didn't have as varied a culture of wildlife as his old hunting spot, which left them with little choice as to what to eat. No turkeys, rabbit, hog...just plain shit, really. What he needed was some juicy, thick, tender-ass venison steak.

The mere thought pushed his legs harder, his booted, calloused feet quickening in their pace.

If he was right, the buck was just over the next hill, nearing the river – and if the thing got in the river before he got there, he was pretty much screwed. It was hard enough tracking today with the dusty grass, but if it got into the water, it was going to damn near impossible to find it again. However, as much as he needed to hurry, Daryl kept quiet, carefully avoiding twigs that could snap with a misplaced step, bending inwards on himself slightly in an attempt to minimise the scope of his scent as he started up the last hill, grip tightening on his loaded crossbow.

Nothing flashed up in his senses as he slowly walked back down to level ground, finally nearing the edge of the river. The grass around him looked undisturbed aside from some slight scuffs that could've just as well come from a mouse as a buck for all their usefulness to him, leaving him cursing silently inwards to himself as the likelihood for a hearty meal faded away bit by bit.

Then, quite abruptly, a twig snapped.

Immediately, he turned to the source of the noise that lay ahead and to the left of him, crossbow twitching up, gaze narrowing. It could have been a geek, he supposed – but he hadn't seen any up this way for a while since they cleared out the few that had been about the quarry. Besides, the telltale moans and broken shuffles that shadowed the freakish creatures was absent from the usual woodland ambiance, birds tweeting overhead and field mice skittering about every so often, disturbed only by Daryl's stunted movements onwards. If there was one thing that made the geeks easier to detect, it was this practical alarm that they constantly emitted – then again, although a mercy in close, one-on-one circumstances, their intrinsic sounds were murderous if they were in groups, capable of alerting masses of others and bringing down a mess of death upon anyone unfortunate enough to unwillingly seize their attention.

A double-edged sword, he supposed. Either way, it was clear that it was his buck that had made the noise rather than some rotting, dumbass walker, so he walked onwards, edging up to a gap in the greenery surrounding the river, the sounds of the rushing water bubbling over jutting out rocks, forcing his ears to focus all the more for any sign of the animal he hunted.

Frowning tightly as he reached the small space in the trees, he tightened his finger on the trigger-guard, picking up the sounds of soft slurping that suggested the image of the buck taking a quick drink of water – a drink that would cost it its life, if he had anything to say about it. Pushing up at a particularly large branch, he moved it aside with a barely audible rustle, sticking his crossbow forward through the gap before moving his head swiftly back to its pinpoint sight. Sure enough, there stood his buck, head bent down from its elegant, sinuous neck to softly lap up some water, eyes turned down at the rippling river, chest moving gently with calm breaths.

Daryl smiled in satisfaction, still bent down slightly as he shifted in on himself, shoulders tautening, finger squeezing down to pull the trigger – when he suddenly stopped. The smile slipped slowly from his face, his posture hitched, and the crossbow nearly fell from his grip.

There at the side of the river, eyes wide, stood a woman.

Ooh, le woman :0 New chapter out very soon indeed, I'm sure, as I'm currently gripped in a second attack of Walking Dead fever. Feel free to leave a comment on what you thought of this chapter, and the pacing, characterisation, etc. I always get the feeling, despite his anti-social tendencies, Daryl has a soft spot for kids (evidenced by the whole Sophia thing - you know, nudge nudge), like I said, so I don't think it's impossible for him to agree to help a young boy out and help him learn to protect himself.

Thanks again for reading! 'Til next time, lovelies! :3