A/N: I own nothing TWD-related. If I did, Carl would still be alive. But I digress. I've been so inspired by this fandom and its genius writers, that my passion for writing has been rekindled. You guys are truly amazing! This is my first story and I'm nervous as hell, but here we go.

A very special thank you to: tigerwalk, fikfreak, comewithnattah, leeeel, and lovemesumrick. Your support and encouragement was invaluable and made me feel brave enough to post this story.

"What the fuck Tara?" Daryl roared. "C'mon, god damn it, we gotta go faster. We needa' get him home NOW!"

In a frenzy, Daryl sprang to his knees from a seated position on the floor of the van's cargo hold, losing his grip on the pocket flashlight in his right hand as the van, tires screeching, careened around a curve. Propelled forward, he looked on as the flashlight bounced off the floor and rolled towards the backdoor of the van, casting bursts of light across its ceiling, and briefly illuminating the dim space.

Ignoring the throbbing pain radiating from the stab wound to his left shoulder, Daryl scrambled, on his hands and knees, to retrieve the flashlight from where it had landed, just shy of the backdoor. Once there, he remained crouched for a moment, desperately trying to catch his breath.

Gingerly, he pulled his left arm across his chest, cradling what he knew to be the telltale signs of a broken rib. Probably a few. He'd experience plenty of them as a kid and nothing else had ever brought that same familiar agony.

Each intake of breath felt like his lungs attempting to explode through his chest wall. But in his current state, he was barely able to slow down enough to even try to regulate his breathing. He figured, if he was able to inhale and exhale in smaller, shorter puffs, the sharp edges of the pain might wane enough to grant him some relief.

He knew he could bear his current situation, but needed the suffering to ease up a little bit. Just enough to get him through this nightmare of a day.

As thin rays of sunlight streamed in from the front of the van, Daryl, from his vantage point, was able to make out the slow rising and falling chest of his unconscious friend, laid out towards the front of the van's interior.

Despondent and unable to endure looking at him any longer, Daryl averted his gaze, opting to take in the detritus scattered throughout the cramped space. Empty gas canisters, cords of rope, a few crates of canned food, blankets for longer runs, along with some flare guns and assorted knives. All dispersed across the floor of the van, like long since forgotten wreckage at the bottom of the sea.

Scrunched low to the floor and still panting heavily, Daryl plotted his return to the front of the van. With the slicing pangs in his chest beginning to abate, he centered himself and prepared to move.

This'll hurt real bad.

Tucking the flashlight into the breast pocket of his denim jacket, and with his left arm firmly against his torso, Daryl used his right hand for balance, as he carefully crawled back to his original spot.

Once there, he rose to peer through the porthole that had been cut into the van's partition. It carried sorely needed light into the back of the van, and allowed him to see the driver's side of the bench-style front seats, as well as through the windshield to a sliver of the road ahead.

Muffled, agitated tones drifted back to Daryl from the front. He strained to make out what was being said, but aside from what Tara was saying as she drove, the ambient noise generated as the van traversed the rocky terrain made it impossible to pick up much of the conversation.

He didn't really care anyway. The countdown had begun and they were running out of time. They needed to get him home, and they needed to do it now.

Clinging to the lip of the opening with his right hand, he caught a glimpse of Tara, holding the steering wheel in a bone-crushing grip, as she struggled to keep the van on its course, while navigating the debris-strewn roadway.

A toxic brew of anxiety settled in the depths of his belly. His eyes frantically darted back and forth, searching for obstacles in the way of their hurried return to Alexandria. Spotting numerous abandoned vehicles in the distance, Daryl prayed they wouldn't get stuck, or worse, crash into the mess ahead.

Heart palpitations reverberated throughout his body, as sweat streamed down his face, pooling in the creases of his jacket. An unbearable sense of doom swathed the van and its five passengers, as realization of the dire circumstances invaded their consciousness.

What'll I tell 'er?

Before heading back to Alexandria, they had agreed that even though their chosen path was not a fully cleared route, it would still be the fastest way home. And with the clock ticking, Daryl knew they had no choice but to take some risks to get home as soon as possible.

She's gotta see 'im.

Scanning the landscape for gaps large enough to maneuver through, Daryl steeled himself against the front wall, as the van picked up speed, churning the air surrounding it, and leaving grayish-brown streaked clouds of dust in its wake.

When a fleet of school buses appeared on the horizon, it became clear that their increased speed would be short-lived. Daryl braced himself against the van's partition, as Tara, in an effort to avoid crashing into the buses, abruptly pumped the brakes and skidded onto the shoulder of the road.

"Fuck me!" Tara called out, slamming her fists against the steering wheel, and startling the two passengers beside her. "Hold on! Let me find a way out of this shit."

Fuckin' bullshit luck. Why'd we fuckin' not clear this shit 'fore now?

For months, they had discussed the benefits of clearing this stretch of road. Specifically, how it would create major shortcuts to the Hilltop and the Kingdom, Alexandria's closest neighbors and both communities where a number of Rick's Group had moved over the past year.

Too fuckin' late now. Gonna hav'ta deal with it.

Creeping forward, the van pitched to the right, teetering dangerously close to the ditch on the other side of the road's shoulder. Daryl could only look on as Tara guided the wobbly vehicle past the buses and back onto the roadway. While she stabilized the van, he spotted walkers trapped in the buses, snarling and clawing at dirt-encrusted windows, oblivious to the futility of their attempts to escape this hell on earth.

"Yeah assholes, not fuckin' t'day," Daryl muttered.

"Shit!" Tara exclaimed. "Of course, we've got another fucking problem. We– We're almost on empty."

"Nah, not happenin'," Daryl boomed. "C'mon Tara, floor this piece of shit and get us home now!"

"I'm not up here fucking baking cookies!" Tara snarled, fed up with bearing the brunt of Daryl's rage and panic. "I'm trying to get us home."

Daryl was fed up too. Frustrated by their slow pace, he turned to his right and squinted, reaching down to clutch his friend's hand and get a better look at his face.

As Tara attempted to steer around an abandoned semi-truck in the middle of the road, Daryl felt the van shift on its axle and begin fishtailing. The sudden movement knocked him over, sending a jolt through his injured shoulder and ribs as his left side made contact with the left wall of the van. Distressed, he struggled to keep from passing out.

Mentally pushing past the searing ache taunting his entire left side, he scrambled back to his spot. Daryl leaned in, hastily scanning him from head to toe, making sure he was still ok.

Fuckin' way to go. Dirty… bleedin', in the back of this fuckin' piece of shit van.

Tara's erratic driving hadn't disturbed him too much, Daryl noted, but his head now hung off the blankets, slightly cocked to the side. Using his right hand, stinging from fatigue, Daryl gently lifted his head and prop it back onto the pile of blankets.

At least, his head is off this dirty ass floor. Don't mean shit now anyhow.

Daryl peered up at the porthole, calling out to Tara, yet again.

"Just hurry!" Daryl pleaded, the stinging bite of his earlier proclamations now tempered. "Ain't got much time left. She's gotta see him... she's gotta."

"Jesus Daryl, I'm trying!" Tara implored, stress reducing her voice to a barely sustained croak. "The detour cost us. We're burning through gas. Pray we got enough to get back."

Daryl knew he needed to check his emotions. Yelling at Tara helped nothing and served no one. He needed to calm down and start thinking about what he was going to tell Michonne.

Nuthin' I can say to not make this the shittiest of shit days.

"C'mon Tara, we gotta make it back," Daryl begged. "We gotta."

"I know… I know," Tara mumbled, dejected.

It was supposed to be a simple run. Since defeating the Saviors, they'd gone on dozens just like it. Lately, life had been good to all of them. So good, that Daryl couldn't even remember exactly when they had last lost someone.

Prob'ly too long ago. Got us fat and happy. Stupid too.

He flogged himself for momentarily forgetting that this was still a dangerous world. Being in a position to forget was, he supposed, the privilege of peace, and having people to love, who loved you too. Practice and vigilance were the only true ways to stay safe in this world. Complacency, a never-ending hazard to survival, was a trap into which, today, they had fallen. Another tragic reminder of the perils of thinking good luck would indefinitely hold them in its carefree embrace.

Fuckin' ran the hell outta luck today.

An endless loop of the events of the day played out in his mind. Daryl ran through every single scenario he could think of to explain how they could have possibly missed the rogue Saviors. He knew Michonne deserved more than to hear that it was an accident, and that they had simply fucked up. He would have to explain to her how he had failed him, and subsequently, how he had failed her as well.

How the fuck do I do that?

As they always were, the run was planned at a meeting in the Monroe house. Daryl wouldn't have even bothered to go on this particular outing, but Aaron had been injured during their last recruiting mission and was not ready to get back on the road.

Daryl had been home for over a week and was getting restless, his usual trigger after too much time spent behind Alexandria's walls. Joining the run would be just enough to satisfy his itch.

After Tobin read aloud a full inventory of Alexandria's supplies, all 20-odd members of the various run crews settled down on the living room's couch, chairs, and floor, to discuss the community's current needs.

Ordinarily, only one of them would have been present, but both Rick and Michonne attended that evening's meeting, standing on either side of the fireplace, facing those seated around the room. If the run crews couldn't come to agreement on their objective, Rick and Michonne would deliberate and, as usual, either act as tiebreakers, or make the final decision.

They were nearing the end of fall, and since food runs were exponentially more difficult to manage during inclement weather, the crews would usually have elected to seek out non-perishables to stockpile for the winter. But, this summer had been their first uninterrupted growing season and they had had a bumper crop. Thanks to some agricultural talents borrowed from the Hilltop, they had been able to can or store enough fruits, vegetables, and mill-able grain to get them through the winter. They even reserved some extra to trade.

"Feels strange even sayin' it, but we're good on food," Rick grinned, leaning away from the mantle to catch Michonne's eye.

She nodded, returning his smile with a dazzling one of her own.

"Hunt crew brought back 'nough deer," Daryl added from his perch in the doorway. Present, but as was his way, conspicuously separated from the rest of the group. "That'll keep the smokehouse in action for a while too."

"Since we don't need to scavenge for food, I'm thinkin' we go ahead an' patch up those spots… ya know, the ones on the South wall," Rick stated. "It'll be harder to get done once the snow comes."

Scanning the room, Daryl noted that most appeared to agree with Rick's recommendation. A few sections of the wall had begun to rust and buckle, raising concerns about how much time they realistically had to hold of repairs before the wall's weaknesses became a true problem. Now seemed to be as good of a time as any to shore up Alexandria's defenses.

"I second that," Michonne said. "We probably have time, but I don't want us to wait too long. Walkers are slower in the winter, but a big herd doesn't have to move fast to cause trouble. We can't take that kind of chance."

"We could do a pick-up from that construction site Heath and I found on our last run," Tara relayed from her seat on the floor. "It had tons of steel sheeting narrow enough to stack in the vans so we don't have to take the semis and waste gas. Plus, there were some small earth-moving vehicles we could tow back here and put to use in the gardens."

"It's less than a half a day's drive and a straight shot North of here," Heath added.

It occurred to Daryl that maybe this was also the time to check out something he, Rick, and Michonne had discussed a few months prior.

"Hey Rick?" Daryl called out. "'Member that outpost we came up on goin' after that prick Simon? The one'n the middle school? It's 'bout a half day's drive North too. How 'bout we hit both spots? Two birds, one stone an' all."

The outpost was fully fenced and had 360-degree visibility from the rooftop. They had discussed going back to assess whether or not it could be used as a secondary meeting and staging area for trading with the other communities.

The location they currently used for such activities was situated near the center of a triangulated region encompassing Alexandria, the Kingdom and the Hilltop. Their initial projections had been that the site would more than sufficiently meet their needs for the next few years. But with additional communities joining them, it had reached maximum capacity sooner than expected. They simply needed more space.

If the outpost panned out, the new site would be better positioned to cover Oceanside, as well as two new communities recently added to their network. In this brave new world, such problems were considered 'progress' and no one took progress in rebuilding society lightly. The very thought of expansion was exciting to all of them. How could it not be? Being able to rebuild civilization meant truly living.

"I don't know," Michonne challenged. "That means sending out more people. We've still got some time to deal with the outpost. Why do it now?"

"Yeah, I get it Michonne, I surely do," Rick said. "But Daryl's right. Sendin' out a bigger run crew to hit both spots'll be worth the effort. Get it done now, won't have to do it later."

Daryl knew Michonne understood the run itself was a fairly straightforward affair, but any run lasting more than a few days generally required their best people to ensure safety and efficiency. A half-day's drive meant a run of almost three days. She was usually the hardest sell in such scenarios.

Having their most capable and combat-ready folks out at the same time wasn't prudent, not even in peacetime. There was always the risk that if their toughest people were out at the same time, a weakened Alexandria would have limited protection in the event of an attack. Daryl knew this worried Michonne, but when you live in a community, everyone gets a vote.

They voted to hit both spots. To mitigate risk, Michonne insisted they ask some of the Kingdom's strongest fighters to keep vigil in Alexandria during the run. Such requests had become common amongst the communities. Daryl knew Rick didn't think it was necessary, but he also knew that Rick would never deny Michonne's feelings on it either. He never denied Michonne's feeling on anything.

"Don't needa' big crew," Daryl stated, surveying the room. "Two teams of four should be plenty. Who's in?"

Several arms shot up in the air, and both run teams were determined in short order. One would be led by Rick, the other by Daryl. Once assignments had been finalized, they agreed that the two teams would leave a couple days apart, minimizing their overlap outside the walls, as well as keeping their strongest in Alexandria for as long as possible. Walkie-talkies were packed so they'd be able to communicate with Alexandria, as well as with each other, in case either team came up on any trouble.

After the meeting's conclusion, Daryl and Rick stayed behind to review the maps and give their plan a once-over. They decided Rick's team would leave first and head for the construction site; Daryl's would depart two days later for the outpost. With no plans to bring anything back from the outpost, scoping and clearing it would be expeditious.

On the morning of the fourth day, they would rendezvous at a designated meeting point near both sites, split up the supplies between the vehicles, then convoy back home. They'd be back in Alexandria shortly after nightfall.

Simple. Or so Rick and Daryl thought.

In the back of the sweltering van, Daryl recalled that fateful meeting and the events of the day, distracting himself from thoughts of how he would explain to Michonne what had happened. His mind incessantly gravitating back to the fact that he had promised he would bring him back to her safe and sound. He had promised. The thought of
disappointing her crushed him.

She had been at the gate when Daryl and team departed, smiling effusively, emitting lightness, an essence he hadn't seen before. The reticence and worry of the past had gradually, over the past year, been stripped from Michonne's features, revealing bits and pieces of who, he could only guess, she had been in the old world. While it had taken him awhile to get used to this new Michonne, it had been his immense pleasure to do so. He would never say it, but he was proud to be one of the few privileged enough to luxuriate in her orbit.

Using the intermittent light streaming in from the hole in the van's partition, Daryl shifted his gaze back to him. He could see the faint outline of blood trickling, like a shallow creek, from his neck and onto his dirt-streaked t-shirt. Daryl reached into his pocket to retrieve the flashlight. Turning it on, the darkened space was once again revealed.

Vision slowly adjusting, Daryl squinted at him, observing the shivers that seemed to ripple through his body at regular intervals. He leaned in to get a better look at his face, sucking in a sharp breath as he bent towards him.

His eyelids were practically closed and Daryl, from his angle, could only see the whites of his eyes. He could tell the strain of keeping them open was wearing on him, but thankfully, he was still fighting.

Don't look too good, but thank God, he's still alive.

His skin had taken on a gray pallor and his breathing was noticeably labored; beads of sweat formed on his upper lip and forehead.

Taking in another quick, painful breath, Daryl reached into his back pocket to pull out a soiled handkerchief. He leaned over to wipe the sweat from his brow, further dampening the hair clinging to his forehead in ringlets.

Jesus, this is the end. His heart broke for him, for her, for all of them.

"C'mon on man!" Daryl implored, tears stinging the back of his eyelids as he shut them tightly, attempting to will away the wretchedness of the day. "Hold on! We're almost there. Pleeeassse… please… please stay with us. Almost there. I'll get you back to her. I promise."

Sensing the slowdown of the van, Daryl shot up to his knees. The maneuver jarred his shoulder, nearly bringing him back down, but he held on. Simultaneously, he heard a familiar whistle chime from the front seats. Peeking through the windshield, he could just make out Alexandria's gates.

A shout came from the front seats.

"OPEN THE GATES! C'MON! OPEN THE GATES NOW!"

The distinct sound of rusted metal scraping across old rails echoed in the confined space, as the van
sputtered for a few seconds, then kicked into gear and drove into Alexandria.

Daryl looked at him.

He's still here. Thank God.

Lightly squeezing his hand, Daryl watched as his eyes open a little bit. He placed a hand on his forehead, checking the fever's progression. Daryl recoiled from the heat. He was burning up.

Won't be long now.

"W– We made it back," Daryl rasped. "We're here."

He didn't expect a response. Aside from occasional prayers for him and admonishments to Tara, the back of the van had been largely silent for the last several miles.

Which was why the return of his squeeze was so unexpected, that it all but knocked him back to the floor. When he looked over and met his now open eyes, the tears Daryl had been holding back found their escape, trickling down his cheeks and onto the dusty floor.

He heard the front doors of the van creak open, enveloping the quiet space with brusque shouts from outside. Daryl blocked it from his mind. He had done the only thing he could do to bring some semblance of comfort to this miserable situation.

Daryl had brought him home.

"Now, Judy-bear, you cannot be so greedy and just eat it all," Michonne said, enthralled by the antics of the irresistible little girl sitting on the other side of the countertop. "I need some for your cake!"

Michonne looked across the center island at Judith, her deliciously sweet face frozen, eyebrows dramatically raised in surprise, and sticky fingers just inches from her mouth. Bit by bit, her eyes trained on Michonne's, Judith completed her fingers' journey to her mouth, exhaling a blissful sigh, while indulgently licking the honey from her fingers.

Judith's bold thievery elicited a big smile from Michonne and snickering from Carl. By some sleight of hand, she had managed to scoot her highchair close enough to the counter to actually dip her fingers into the honey Michonne had measured out for her cake.

As Michonne looked across at both of them, she could scarcely believe that after so much trauma and heartache, they had all safely arrived on the other side. Finding this again, at the end of the world, was miraculous. Far more than Michonne could have hoped for or dreamt of.

Gazing at this precious girl and her brilliant young man of a brother, she felt the rightness of coming to Alexandria down to her bones. Catching Carl's eye and his beautiful smile, she knew he felt it too.

"It's funny," Carl said. "When we got here, I wasn't sure that we'd ever find a place where we could celebrate something as simple as a birthday. I mean, Judith gets to celebrate her second birthday!"

"Well, we've been here a little over a year, so… it does kinda make sense we're celebrating Jude's second birthday," Michonne smirked.

Her focus still on Carl, Michonne noticed the previously carefree smile slowly fade from his face. His now pensive look stilled her heart. She tried to fully read his expression, but the mop of hair covering his right eye obscured him from her scrutiny. A shadow had inexplicably marred the joyfulness in the kitchen. She needed to stamp it out and resurrect the earlier jubilance.

"I know that," Carl said, rolling his eyes theatrically. "I'm just saying, I– I don't know. I guess I just thought we would–" Sighing deeply, Carl lifted his face from the countertop, finally making eye contact with Michonne.

Michonne studied the detached, faraway look on his face. Her stomach plummeted as she intuited Carl's glassy stare was due to tears, already threatening to fall.

She quickly circled to his side of the counter, settling onto the stool between he and Judith. Michonne gently placed her hand on his arm, staying him from flipping through the pages of the comic he had been perusing.

"Ok Carl, spill."

His fingers fidgeted with the pages, while his eyes found themselves back onto the countertop of the kitchen island. He knew she would understand; she always did. But, he still felt like such a baby being so sad over something like this.

"I just– Sometimes it seems like I should–" Exasperated, he paused, unable to articulate his feelings.

"Just say what's in your heart," Michonne gently implored.

Carl cocked his head to the left, his bangs falling over his eye, blocking him from her view once more. He knew Michonne would understand. She had gotten him from the start. Trying to say what he meant had rendered him tongue-tied, grasping for the best way to unravel his feelings.

Michonne took her right hand and pushed his bangs away from his glistening eye so she could see his entire face. She smiled, encouragingly, as he tried to find his words.

"I just wonder sometimes," Carl began. "What if my mom is looking down on us? I know she'd be proud that we're able to do things like this." He gestured to the mixing bowl, containing the start of a honey pound cake.

"Judith having a fun birthday? Judith having any type of birthday? I know this is exactly what she would have wanted. I know that. But I don't really know that. Do you know what I mean? I guess I just wish I knew for sure."

"Yay!" Judith yelled. "Judif birfday! Judif birfday! Judif birfday!"

Both turned to look at the excitable girl, her face just about completely covered in honey. How she had managed to get it on her eyelashes was a mystery to both of them and one, they both silently agreed was to be rehashed at a later date.

Her enthusiasm was contagious, promptly crushing the tension in the room and bringing back the lightness. Judith's shenanigans proved to be just the panacea Michonne and Carl needed, both taking in the joy generated by something as simple as Judith cheering her own birthday. This would have been nothing special in the old world. Now, it was extraordinary.

"Oh Carl, of course she is," Michonne declared, reaching out to tenderly stroke his cheek. "Of course, she does."

She could scarcely believe how much he's grown since he let her enter their world that fateful day at the fence. She was so proud of the man this boy was becoming. He was kind. He was thoughtful. He was true.

I love this boy with all my heart. Her own tears threatened to announce their appearance.

As it often did these days, her memory drifted back to the boy she once knew who had these same attributes. The boy she used to make honey pound cakes for on his birthday. She clung tightly to the memories of those three glorious years she was allowed that honor. It was something she didn't like to share, choosing to keep it mostly to herself, buried deep in the nooks and crannies of her heart.

Looking from Carl to Judith, it was inconceivable that, in this decimated world, she would have gotten so lucky to find motherhood again. She could feel her tears reaching the precipice, so she inhaled deeply, forcing them back down. Carl was such an empathetic soul. If she started, he would join her. She didn't want to bring any more blackness to the fun they'd been having all afternoon.

These days, the sadness was still there, and she knew it always would be. But, she was rejuvenated by the opportunity to once again give love and be loved. The very thought made her melancholy at times, yet still brought a smile to her lips.

Carl nodded slowly, looking back at her. Noticing her eyes misting, he hastily changed the subject, sorry for ruining their good time.

"Did you tell Dad about the baby?" he blurted out. Right away, he could tell this wasn't a topic she wanted to discuss.

Michonne gave him an unyielding look, followed by a protracted eye-roll.

"You know what? You, my dear, can be such a busybody sometimes. You weren't even supposed to know before I told him."

Sighing, she continued, "I'll tell him when he gets back."

Looking at the wall clock over the kitchen sink, she added, "they should be back soon, which is just as well. I'll need your dad's help with decorations. He promised to– "

Carl cut her off posthaste, "For the record, I wasn't being nosy," Carl stated. "I– I was looking for soap to wash my hands and found it under the sink. Technically, you were being careless."

Pleased with himself, he gave her his signature cat-who-licked-the-cream smile. Truthfully, he was a little bit put out that she would think he had been nosy. He really hadn't been. What he was, was... surprised. Surprised, but happy for her. He was happy for them. They deserved it. He loved her with all his heart and knew better than most how much this meant to her.

"Oh, so, I was careless huh? I think someone's being a little too–" Sharp rapping at the door interrupted their banter.

Michonne shook her head, as she got up from her stool and walked towards the front door.

"This isn't over young man," Michonne declared. "Not by a long shot!"

Opening the door, her smile instantly dissolved as she took in Scott's stricken face. Seeing her alarm, Scott dropped his chin to his chest and took a step back onto the porch. Michonne held her ground in the doorway, eying Scott's subdued stance, waiting for him to say something. Say anything. Whatever had brought him to her doorstep in such a state, it couldn't be good. She girded herself for what was to come.

They stood there, seemingly at a stalemate, for several seconds. She turned to look over her shoulder when she heard Carl's footsteps coming towards them.

"Hey Scott! What's going on?" Carl asked, immediately noting the distress on the man's face.

"We– We ran into some trouble... at the outpost," he started. "The walkies weren't working right, so we couldn't give you a heads-up."

Scott looked back and forth, from Michonne to Carl, eventually letting his eyes land on the ground between them. He was crestfallen.

"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry."

As he lay amidst the grit and grime of the van's cargo hold, waiting for Daryl and the rest to come back for him, it slowly dawned on him that this was likely the end of the road. He was angry. Furious actually. But mostly at himself.

How had he been so careless? Had they gotten too cocky again? How the hell had he missed that Savior trap?

Struggling to stay alert, he listened to the faint sounds of his friends, his family really, outside the van, valiantly fighting to clear the path and bring him home to her. The cacophony of battle cries rang in his ears; their efforts soothed his weary heart. He was grateful.

Nearly immobile, his eyes tightly shut, he tried to force down the gnawing ache fanning out from the back of his neck and down his shoulder. Despite the acuteness of his injury, a strange compulsion forced him to move. Hesitantly, he lifted his head from the blankets propping him up and sluggishly rolled his body a few inches to the left. His whole body convulsed, tormented, as he reached behind his shoulder to pressed his fingertips to the jagged edges of the bite.

This is really it, he thought. Fuck!

Until he touched the bite, his mind had been static, suspended in the realm of magical thinking where, perhaps, being saved was a possibility. He now knew better. The bite was too bad for anything to help. After what had been an incredibly long run of good luck, for these times, his had come to an abrupt end. At least, they were lucky enough to get away without more casualties.

It's just me this time, he thought.

The air stilled for a moment, allowing him to focus on the steady thumping of his own heart. The silence was suddenly broken by Daryl's shouts.

He thought back to Daryl's SOS, just as he and the rest of his run crew began wrapping up work at the construction site. They had loaded the materials needed to patch up Alexandria's walls, and were preparing to hitch the earth-moving vehicles to the back of the van, when the call for help came in. They didn't hesitate, hopping into the van and rushing to the outpost.

By the time they arrived, walkers swarmed the entrance. Spreading out in an arc, they expeditiously dispatched the walkers and brought the scene under control. As the construction site team moved through the outpost, he inadvertently set off a tripwire, unleashing walkers from hidden panels near a bank of student lockers. It all happened so quickly. There hadn't even been enough time to get his gun up, before he felt the clasp of fingers, ice cold and fetid, snatching his right arm and pulling him back towards the lockers.

The bite sent him instantaneously into shock, shrouding his recollection of what came afterwards. He vaguely remembered screams and loud arguing. Tara and Heath cutting through walkers and clearing the path to the front entrance. Daryl standing in front of him, holding him up. Behind him, he felt arms hook underneath his armpits and across his chest, helping to keep him on his feet, as he was half walked, half dragged out of the building.

He had flashes where he saw Tara lead them outside, and to the back door of the outpost run van. Though his eyes were hardly open at this point, he tried to scan for the construction site van, where the rest of his crew were, hoping they were safe. He sensed the hands under his arms relinquish their hold, and heard a sharp squeak as someone jumped into the back of the van.

Shaking his head in an attempt to steady his vision, his eyes landed back on Daryl, who was obviously wading through his own pain. Despite this, Daryl grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him up into the van. Another pair of arms found their way back under his arms, dragging him towards the front of the van's interior, and then pulling blankets from the corner of the van to shove under his head.

"Sit tight, I'll be back," Daryl said, retreating from the back of the van, and slamming the doors behind him.

Missing those tripwires was stupid. Stupid and sloppy, he thought.

Tears lurching at the brink, he prayed to see Michonne one last time. She, who had graced him with her singular brand of brilliance, bringing a newfound luster to his dull world. She, who had given his life renewed meaning, purpose. When he had been so angry and dispirited, she had brought him back and given him a home again. She had shown him the way. The man he was today was because of her. Truly, she had saved him. For that alone, he would be eternally grateful.

Ebbing in and out of wakefulness, his mind's eye was, miraculously, able to conjure her clearly. He could see her as she had been that last morning, giddy and laughing, as they lay in bed. Her bright, beautiful smile set off by the divine sun streaming through the curtains of their bedroom. If this was to be his last image of her, it would be enough.

They had ended their last night together naked, his arms wrapped securely around her torso, her back tucked snuggly against his chest. He could feel her rapid heartbeat as she came down from her high. He pulled her closer, sensing her breathing smooth out, until it matched his own calm cadence. Rapturously entwined, they slipped into peaceful slumber.

When he awoke that last morning, his eyes remained closed, savoring those final few minutes before leaving his bed, leaving his Michonne. He loved watching her sleep. He often purposefully woke early just to get a glimpse of a disarmed Michonne. Her face, relaxed and at peace, a small smile appearing on her lips, making him wish for the power to understand the dream that had put it there.

The gentle pull of daylight drew him in as the sun's rays filtered through the sheer curtains and slowly heated his exposed arm. He turned from his stomach to his side to pause and study the intricacies of her face. Her countenance, a master's thesis on elegant beauty, was one he hoped to ace one day.

She lay on her side, her body curved slightly towards him, the sheet pulled up to her hip, leaving the rest of her exquisite body delectably exposed. His eyes never left her face, so enthralled by the soft sounds of her contented breathing, the only sound his ears wanted to register.

God, how he loved every square inch of her. The soft, supple smoothness of her skin, occasionally interrupted by pebbly scars that yielded to the gentle touch of his fingertips. Her response to his touch brought a small smile to his lips. How ticklish she was just below her navel, goosebumps visible on her flesh the minute he strayed too close to her center.

How unabashedly free she was with him. He had made it his life's mission to map each and every scar on her body. She was unashamed, letting him see all of her. Letting him love all of her.

He took his right hand and swept her hair over her shoulders and off her neck. With his fingertips, he traced a path down her arm, slowing down at the deep curve of her waist, then speeding up at the upward slope from her waist to her hips, finally landing on one of his favorite places to touch.

That curiously seductive, indented scar caused by a bullet from so long ago. He wasn't sure why, but it always intrigued him. The fact that she had survived so much, yet was still standing, still striving, made him recognize how truly fortunate he was to have her. With all of his flaws, she loved him anyway. Her love had been the hallmark of his life.

All of it... every minute of his life with Michonne had been... perfection. For a bit of time, he had the privilege of basking in her light. Reveling in the splendor that was loving Michonne. Being loved by her had been an astonishing gift, one he didn't take lightly. After losing so much, it was more than he expected in this life. Maybe more than he had earned.

She had trusted him enough to bestow on him something he never imagined he would have in this life, in this world. That he would leave her like this was inconceivable. After all she'd been through, she didn't deserve it. Not like this.

The van unexpectedly pitched side to side, callously snatching him from his daydream. He murmured to himself, as both front doors creaked open and indecipherable cries reached him from the front seats.

Moments later, the back door swung open onto the visage of a bloodied and disheveled Daryl. Cradling his left arm, he turned, hopped backwards in the back of the van, and rolled into a crouched position. He slammed the doors shut and hobbled towards him.

"Hey man, how's it?" Daryl asked, worriedly.

"Well, I suppose I've been better," he joked, earning a snort from Daryl.

Daryl reached for his hand, noting how it felt like he had his hands pressed against a blazing fire.

"Can you tell Michonne tha– that I loved her without knowing how?" he asked, briefly smiling. "She'll know what it means."

"Yup, 'course I will," Daryl choked, hardly able to get the words out.

He paused, trying to capture Daryl's wandering eyes and bring them back to his own.

"Gaining a friend… a brother in all of this?" he said, shaking his head, giving Daryl's hand a tight squeeze.

Daryl looked up, desperately trying to keep the tears from falling.

"I'll getcha back to 'er. I promise," Daryl declared.

"I know you will," he quietly replied, his eyes closing, as little by little, everything faded into nothingness.

Daryl pounded on the van wall, signaling they were ready to leave.

"C'mon. Let's get the fuck out of here!" Daryl howled, as the van's engine thundered into motion.

Pacing back and forth between the guard tower and the gates, Michonne tried desperately to control the terror creeping up her spine, to beg for refuge in her heart. Distraught, the only balm for her tortured soul was her hope of seeing him once more.

How could this happen? Why now?

The fear caused her stomach to churn, leading her to dry heave into the red clay dirt at the front of the guard tower. Steeling herself, she rubbed the tiny bump she could just feel below her navel, the rhythmic motion calming her.

The second van had been back for hours. All anyone could tell her was that they had been attacked and he had been bitten. They had had to make a speedy getaway due to the outpost being overrun by walkers. Thankfully, the second run crew had been able to successfully retrieve him and, if they had taken the same route, should be only a few hours behind them.

A shout came from the guard tower. "They're coming! I see the van!"

Michonne rushed forward, catching Rosita as she sped down the tower steps on her way to the gates. They both grabbed the levers, hurriedly opening it for the van to drive through.

As the van passed by them, Michonne's eyes feverishly hunted for him through the filth-coated windows. She briskly made her way to the driver's side as the doors opened.

Tara hopped out; the other two exited on the passenger side. Tara looked down as Michonne came into sight.

"Where is he?!" Michonne sobbed.

Tears streamed down Tara's face as she looked up to meet Michonne's dazed expression.

"He's in the back," Tara sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry Michonne. We tri–"

Not waiting to hear what more Tara had to say, Michonne spun around and ran towards the back of the van, just as Daryl hopped down. She caught him by the left arm, causing him to wince and wrench it from her grasp.

"What the hell happened?!" she screamed, her voice a trembling mix of anger and disbelief.

His eyes fixed on hers, he said, "I'm so sorry Chonne. We ran up on three Saviors at the outpost. Fuckers got the jump on us... had to call 'em back from the other spot. He got bit tryin' to get us out. Jesus Christ, we tried. It went too fast. Nuthin' else we coulda' done."

A lump formed in his throat, his eyes spontaneously clouding over as he took in the bewilderment on her face. Needing to escape her penetrating stare, he peered down at his feet, meditating on the dirt caked onto his boots.

Trying to look past Daryl and into the darkened van, dread cloaked Michonne's heart.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"In the back," Daryl replied, finally lifting his head and gesturing with his right hand, while pushing the door wider to give her access.

He took her hand and helped her into the back of the van. There he lay, his feet crossed at the ankles and pointed towards the door. She scrambled into the van and into his arms.

Willing himself to stay awake and say what he needed to say, he turned his head to peer down at her. He wanted to memorize every last detail of her face, happily spend his final moments lost in those deep brown orbs. Those eyes that held a promise. Those eyes that told him he was loved.

While his feverish body continuously shook, his eyes never left hers.

"Babe, I'm so sorry," he began, in a whisper. "I'm not sure what I ever did to deserve you, but I'm grateful. You've been my shining star in this fucked up world. You taught me what it really means to be brave and how important it is to live and love...even in this life. I would give anything for more time, but I'm thankful that I even got any with you. So thankful that I got to love you. Got to be loved by you."

Looking at her, he mustered up his remaining strength to reach down and caress her cheek, using his fingertips to wipe away the tears running in broken patterns across her cheeks and down the bridge of her nose.

"No!" she wailed. "You can't leave me. I won't let you. Plea– Please don't leave me."

Her heart-wrenching sobs echoed in the enclosed space.

"I'm so sorry," he said, mournfully. "I wish I could fix this. I'd give anything to–" He grimaced, trying to go on, but the pain firmly latched on.

"I need one thing from you," he implored. "He promised me he would take care of you. Please, babe. Please promise me you'll let him. Promise me."

Gazing at him, she gave a nod, but remained silent. Michonne lowered her head, resting it on his chest. She listened to his heartbeat as his chest rose and fell against her cheek. He lifted his head a bit higher to peek down at her.

"I love you," he stated. "With all my heart, I love you. I know you know that. You're going to be ok. The baby is going to be ok."

Looking down at her, he tried one last time.

"He loves you too. I know he does, and… so do you. Promise me you'll let him in. Promise me, Michonne."

He cocked his head to the side, turning slightly towards the open van door. His vision was blurred, but he could just make out a figure emerging from the shadows cast as the waning sunlight hit the open van door. Finally, the figure came into full view. From his prone position, he gave a slight nod, which was returned by a nod, and a small, complicit smile.

Secure in the knowledge that Michonne and their baby would be taken care of, he began to let go.

Michonne turned towards the door, her eyes briefly adjusting to the light, then turned back to lay her head on his chest. Her weeping intensified as she felt his heartbeat slow down precipitously. She looked up at him. His eyes were now closed. She brought her cheek back to his chest.

"I love you too. And I promise," she whispered.

She lay there until she felt one final big inhale of breath, then... stillness. Wracked with grief, her tears tumbled down her cheeks and pooled on his blood-soaked t-shirt.

A call came from the open van door. "Chonne, I'm sorry, but it's time."

Michonne lifted her head, studying his face one last time. She stroked his cheek, feeling the hot, prickly flesh beneath her fingertips. Pulling herself up, she gave him one last kiss on the lips, her tears falling onto his now still face.

"I love you. I promise," she said once more.

As she scooted towards the open door, Rick reached into the van, placing his hands on either side of her waist as he lifted her down to the ground. Moving his hands upwards, he held her tightly by the arms, taking a moment to lose himself in the devastated sorrow of her eyes.

Her heart was broken and he knew there would be no easy fix. If it would cure her heartache, Rick would have gladly absorbed all the sadness that life had ever delivered to her doorstep. But he couldn't, so he stood there, doing the little that he could to console her.

After several moments feeling her shake uncontrollably, Rick pulled her towards him, hugging her tightly, while laying a soft kiss on her temple. Carefully releasing her, he stepped towards the open van door.

"Please, turn 'round," Rick implored.

She stood stock-still, seemingly paralyzed and oblivious to his command. Gently, he turned her around, squeezing her shoulder before relinquishing his hold on her.

With her back towards him, he climbed into the van, the rusty vehicle screeching loudly as he inched forward.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you," she heard him murmur.

Her heart leapt into her throat as the unmistakable sound of a knife running through flesh and bone reached her ears. Tears sprang to her eyes.

She turned back around, staring at the ground, as Rick jumped back down to join her. He drew her towards him, wrapping his arms around her and slowly, softly, rubbing circles into the center of her back.

"I'm so sorry Chonne, I'm so sorry," he chanted, his voice cracking.

Michonne raised her head to meet his eyes, finding regret and compassion in their deep blue oceans, now red-rimmed and teeming with tears.

"Me too," she murmured.

Overcome, she raised her hands to cover her face, trying to barricade herself from the horror of this world. The horror of this day. She faltered, unsteady on her feet and light-headed, as her stomach roiled and the universe went askew. Instinctively, Rick reached out, catching Michonne as she sank to her knees.