He knew it wasn't his place to even speak up about it – it didn't concern him. It wasn't him, these days, sporting the bruises, the cuts, the cracked ribs, moving carefully because moving fucking hurt. And she never complained. She never sought help.

Also, he knew perfectly well that Merle would kick his ass if he made them conspicuous by taking on that wife-beating asshole. They had been doing their best for two days now to blend in with this random group of strangers who were inhomogeneous enough to accommodate them. They didn't stand out much amongst a civil rights lawyer, a retiree, a policeman, the teacher he fucked, her son, some Chinese kid, a Hispanic family, and other, equally random people, and they didn't have a reputation with them that made the others instantly suspicious of the Dixon brothers.

They just … floated along, waiting for their break. Waiting for a large enough number of them to go on a run or be otherwise occupied so they could grab their gear and supplies and run for the hills.

But Daryl had started picking up those subtle hints from day one. The long sleeves. The blouses buttoned all the way up. The scarves hiding her neck. The wince that first night when she had gotten up from her seat near the fire after "dinner", and her awkward movements that he knew oh so well because he had moved awkwardly often enough himself after having the shit beaten out of him by his old man. Not to mention the soft way in which she addressed him, the averted eyes, the way she always suggested instead of outright asking him for something, or just telling him to do something, the way the teacher did it with the cop.

Oh yes, he recognized all the signs, and they were not good.

Yet he ignored them, wary of Merle calling him out, wary of the group defending even such an asshole against him as one of their own, wary of putting himself out there. Nobody was expecting him to do anything about it – least of all her, since she would have learned long ago not to expect outside help. Nobody would hold him accountable for whatever was going on, or the things to come. None of the others were doing anything about it, either, not even the cop – they were just quietly ignoring it, or pretending that everything was fine. That there were no signs.

So he did his best to ignore and pretend like the rest of them.

But on the third afternoon that they had been with the group, he came upon the guy and his kid, a shy little girl (Sophia? He couldn't quite remember her name) of about twelve. She usually stayed with her mom, never out of her sight, never out of her reach, unlike the teacher's boy who was all over the place, and the teacher and the cop none the wiser. And for once, neither her mom nor her friend, the teacher's son, were anywhere to be seen.

She was alone with her dad.

Her dad, who beat up her mom on a regular basis, as evidenced by the bruises in various stages of healing that she was always trying to hide.

She was twelve years old, and a girl.

Daryl was on the verge of stepping out of the cover of the forest, with two rabbits and half a dozen squirrels hanging down his back next to his crossbow, but this was too good an opportunity to let go to waste, so he stopped to watch and hope and wait for an opening.

The asshole was inside their tent, on his camping bed, and had called out for the kid to bring him a can of beer. And like a nice little girl, she obeyed her dad without question or delay, getting the beer from their car. She entered the tent and Daryl saw her handing the can to her dad, saw him reach out – and grab not the can, but her arm.

"Sweetcheeks."

Just one word. But the word as such, a weird endearment he had never heard before, as well as the tone of voice it was spoken in, had his hackles rising on the back of his neck.

The string with his game tied to it thudded to the ground.

He reached the tent in four long, soundless strides and ripped his crossbow, loaded and ready as always, off his right shoulder to point it at the unsuspecting asshole, with his dirty fingers still grabbing his girl and his filthy mouth still open. "He touch ya? Ever? He hurt ya?" he snapped at the girl who looked at him in wide-eyed terror – a perfect stranger swooping in with the loaded bolt in his bow aimed at her dad. Until now, she had probably seen him a grand total of five times.

She just stood there, frozen, and stared up at Daryl.

She never protested, she didn't say "no".

She didn't lie.

Merle coming into his room one night, returning from a stint in juvie. „Has he been beatin' ya while I was gone?" Just looking up at his older brother, not daring to say „no" because Merle would catch the lie, not daring to say „yes" because a showdown between his brother and their dad would end with one of them dead if Merle knew, and he didn't want to imagine his life without Merle if it was him who bit the dust.

And with Daryl not answering his question, Merle never caught the lie.

It was all Daryl could do to just say, "You run to your momma now, girl" while still keeping his fury in check. Glaring at the asshole, he watched him let go of his daughter, and the panicked girl bolted. When her running footsteps had retreated far enough, Daryl punched the asshole in the head with his bow, immediately following up this move with a fist to the face and a kick to his stomach when the guy fell off his camping bed, clutching his nose which had started gushing blood.

Dropping his bow, his blood still boiling, Daryl grabbed the guy's shirt at his neck and yanked him up by it, ignoring his gasping and his flailing fists. "I see ya touchin' yer girl or puttin' a hand on yer woman again, I'm gonna kill ya", Daryl snarled at him, his voice low and menacing. "Ya wanna beat shit up, find someone yer own size. And don't go runnin' fer help from anyone else, either – bet they'll be happy ta join the party once I start it, you piece o' shit."

Ed Peletier stared into the blazing blue eyes of the madman who had come out of nowhere to assault him and felt his bladder loosening, but he was far too terrified by this crazy redneck to care about the warm stain spreading over the front of his pants. He'd be grateful to get out of this alive. Like his daughter, he just stared, wide-eyed, as Daryl squinted down on him.

Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, Daryl pushed out his lower jaw and almost butted heads with the guy who had gone completely rigid with terror in his grip. "Leave. Them. Alone", he snarled, and violently pushed that sick, cowardly bastard back into his camping bed, grabbing him around the neck to hold him down. "Both of 'em. Consider this your only warning." He kicked the camping bed for good measure before letting go of the asshole.

How he wished someone had swooped in for him.

How good it felt to be fighting back, just this once.

To not be a victim, and not look on, doing nothing.

To maybe prevent this from happening again, to someone else.

Turning on his heel, he left the tent, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that could have become a smile, given time.

He just hoped it would be enough.