Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

Warnings: Please keep in mind that in this particular fiction: I am simply building off where the first season finale left off. (This was written before the season two premier).*Contains adult language, adult situations, very, very vague possiblity of slash, possible past OC reference, and allusions to drug use.

Authors Note: For this story I was really going for something that Norman Reedus mentioned in an AMC interview. Where he focused on how he sees his character, terming Daryl as a character that boasts "a different shades of redneck." In writing this, I was really trying to delve into this 'imperfect' character a bit more and get introspective on what would be going through his head after where the season finale left us last October.

Show me your Teeth

After the CDC everyone looked pretty much shell shocked, bludgeoned into a strange, discomforting kind of silence that made the flesh underneath his skin crawl. But unlike the others, he had forced himself to breathe it in. The anger, the frustration, hell, even the acrid tint of singed chemicals still drifting in the lazy mid summer breeze; fall out from the rising clouds that had chased them past the city limits and beyond.

…That being said, for the first time since the world had gone completely arse over tit, the raw, burning need for the gentle singe of nicotine had all but died out completely… In a way he wasn't sure if he should be grateful or perturbed.

He tried not to pay the others any mind, seeing no sense in getting caught up in their melodramatics and tears. The situation simply was what it was. Nothin' more and certainly nothin' less. However, even he had to admit that there was one aspect of the whole thing that was really starting to wear on him. It wasn't just the giant cluster fuck that had been Atlanta, or even the god damned CDC. It was the sheer unpredictable nature of this disease, this virus. Who it struck, who it took, and who it left..

It was as random as a side winding twister and ten times as deadly.

How could you fight something like this? How could you win? He supposed that the point of the matter was that you couldn't. That's what was really galling. Sure you could fight your way through walker after walker, you could camp out in the middle of butt fuck no where and survive on just your skills and the size of your balls. But in the end, what happens when you shut your eyes? Even if it was just for one moment?

It was all left to chance…fate.

And that was the catch of the thing, because he didn't believe in fate. He believed in himself. The only thing…the only person in this whole messed up world that he knew he could always count on. He didn't need anyone else. He didn't need any Promised Land, 'we have a future' bullshit either. He'd take his reality stone cold, bloody, and served up raw on a big fucking platter thank you very much.

But for the others it was different. The loss of the CDC had been far more cut throat and keen for the likes of them. They had allowed themselves to hope that maybe they didn't have to run anymore. That maybe, despite it all, they could be safe again. And to have that hope ripped away like that, gone in less time then it took to blink, had been absolutely devastating to the lot of them. In a way he understood it. Yet in another way he didn't. Sure the grub and the hot running water had been something to savour. And sure the feel of a real box spring mattress and those overly indulgent silk sheets had certainly been a marvel to the senses. But even then, he hadn't exactly been planning on setting down roots in the place either.

Life's a bitch and then you die.

They'd get over it. It wasn't like things had gone exactly the way he'd wanted them too either. At least they'd gotten a few square meals and a shower out of the deal. These days you really couldn't ask for anymore then that. In fact, by his reasoning they had actually been lucky. After all, who could boast nearly two days of three square meals a day, hot running water, and all the booze they could properly drink? And it was done all without having to worry about getting dive bombed and hamstringed by a walker or three when all you wanted to do was to take a god damned piss.

It was a tall order to be sure, especially these days.

But for the others the feeling remained, festering out in the open like a wound that wouldn't mend, cloyingly thick and pervasive in the still Georgian air. And like moths to a flame, each and every one of them had come to sit together around a single, rather sickly looking fire. Dead eyes glinted in the near light like they weren't really seeing anything at all.

There were no words being spoken, with no one saying much of anything save for a few half muted whispers here and there. And even then, the words were stilted. Nothing much to say he supposed. Nothing save for that single burning question that was still reverberating through his mind like a bloody brass band. The one question that no one seemed to be asking anymore..at least not since the CDC.

Now what?

The soles of his boots ground deeply into the crumbling black top, nudging a few badly mixed chunks to the side as he dropped down from the tail gate of his old Ford. Hanging back deliberately as he took in the others still ringed around the main fire, bundled up against a greater chill that came from within. Apparently he wasn't the only one that could still smell the scent of burning cordierite on the air..

After a long moment of deliberation he left the sidelines and joined the others, saying nothing as he sank down on his haunches in the space that had been left for him between Glenn and T-dog. Ignoring the way a collective sigh seemed to issue from around the breadth of the circle as he took his place. As if by his presence alone the group somehow gained some small semblance of peace for the first time since they had made camp that evening.

And while he said nothing, simply staring into the fire with a critical eye, weaving a river reed in between his fingers as he pondered on the longevity of the coals, privately he wasn't exactly sure what to do with the fact that it felt almost as though they had not only expected him to join them, but had wanted him to as well.. He chewed on the inside of his cheek at the thought. Not even noticing what he had done until the metallic trickle of raw copper assault his taste buds. He didn't even blink when he forced himself to swallow. Wouldn't be the first time he had tasted his own blood, and he reckoned it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Everyone seemed to be sitting just a fraction of an inch too close, as if by close quarters alone they could glean some small measure of safety from the uncertainty that now spiralled out before each of them. He was careful to preserve his space, sitting directly in the center of the spot he'd claimed for his own. But all that didn't count for shit when despite both his glare, and a few rather pointed attempts to avoid body contact, Glenn moved closer beside him, fussing about until their shoulders brushed, apparently oblivious to the fact that he seemed to have more then enough space on his other side.

He felt like the filling in a god damned sandwich.

And for a long, tense moment where he actually debated the merits of just getting up and telling the kid to fuck off, in the end, he decided against it when the young Korean shivered. Hunching his shoulders another impossible inch inward until the man looked a whole lot like a sea turtle trying to retreat into its shell. To anyone else it might have looked endearing.

'City folk.' He snorted. 'They didn't know the first thing about a cold, Georgian night. Bunch of fuckin' pussies, the lot of 'em.'

Through hooded eyes he took stock of his companions. Wondering, not for the first time, how any of them had managed to make it this far in the first place. It wasn't that he believed that some people deserved to live more then others. It wasn't that at all. He didn't think that anything, man, woman, child, or beast deserved to die like that. But he did believe that there were some people out there that wanted it. That wanted to live more then just the average jerk off that wandered around the city streets.

He was talking about the survivors. The real ones.

And for the last few weeks he had almost come to believe that he was in the company of just such a group. For the most part they wanted it. Couldn't find their assholes with a flashlight mind you, but the desire to make it was still the same. But now, what he was seeing around the fire certainly wasn't making much sense.

..It was as if the fight had suddenly left them. The fire, the raw want, the need, it had all vanished. Dissipating into the air like water hitting a red hot skillet. Getting absorbed back into the air like it hadn't even been there in the first place…

He glanced at Rick from across the fire, the man was still holding tight to his wife and son, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was being watched by someone other then himself. By the man's own ex-partner no less. He had no idea why the man couldn't sense it, or even see it in the way the man's fingers clenched, twitching sporadically whenever Lori moved, snuggling closer into the curve of the man's shoulder like she didn't have a care in the world. The man was a ticking time bomb, and everyone but Rick seemed to know it..

Or perhaps he did know. It was hard to tell with Grimes. The man had one hell of a poker face.

Giving the tense threesome a calculating eye, he shook his head minutely. Now there was a fucked up situation for you. The world had all but ended around them and people were still making the same old mistakes. Even when he and Merle had run across them in those first few days, anyone and an idiot could tell that Lori wasn't his woman. Because despite their overly familiar nature, something was just…off about them. Besides, they weren't nearly as discrete as they thought they were. Everyone knew. Save for maybe the little ones. That kind of noise carries in the woods.

Discrete his pale white ass.

It was none of his business, but he privately wondered when that sordid little soap opera was going to explode into the open for good. Rick might be a cop, but he sure as hell wasn't stupid. The man was going to find out, if he didn't suspect it already. It was just a matter of time. That kind of stuff just doesn't keep, even in the best of times, and it certainly wasn't going last long now. Privately, he just hoped that Shane would have his Mossberg in hand when it did.

He didn't trust Shane, hadn't from the beginning. There was just something about him that made the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. Something that was just..off. The man was damn near unstable, and had a shorter fuse then a defective piece of dynamite. Especially after that whole episode with the gun in the CDC.. And they had the balls to call him hot headed?

He figured it was the return of Grimes that had done it. When he'd shown up, rolling into camp as he was later told, with much fanfare and beaten up heroics, it had snapped that delicate balance the man had been nursing in his brain since this whole mess had started. The man had protected Grime's family throughout this whole fucked up mess, and before you did anything else, you had to respect a man for that. But in the end, he had banked far too much on those two, his heart, his mind, hell, probably even his sanity. And now that Rick had returned, and they were no longer his to protect, well… All the signs were there. He knew the look.

Some people just couldn't take it. Merle was a good enough example of that, what with the drugs and all. Merle had always been fucked up, especially after his time in the slam. But never like this. Because nowadays Merle used like it was some sort of crutch, like he needed then more then ever. 'Just to take the edge off..' He'd say, forcing a smile across his trembling lips even as he reached for that cursed little bag in his vest's inner pocket. But in the end it was just a fuckin' excuse and even Merle knew it.

Grimes though, he was different. Because despite his rather unceremonious introduction into this brand new, fucked up world, he had to admit that the man was taking it remarkable well. Or as well as anyone could at any rate. Maybe it was the difference in his temperament, or maybe it was the fact that at the end of the day, he knew he had his family to come back to. Regardless, whatever it was seemed to temper and balance out the bad, providing him with a very visible sort of stability, the very same stability that Shane had only recently lost with his unexpected return.

He could tell though, if everything hadn't gone to shit, that Grimes would have been the kind of guy that he and Merle would have loved to hate. He was the long arm of the law personified. A do-gooder riddled through with so many good intentions that he could have made sugar cane rot. The man was outdated, like a relic from a different age. Because good intentions and a handsome face didn't mean dick out here these days.

But for the moment, despite what he'd done to Merle, the man excluded a sort of natural leadership that most men could only sit back and envy. It was a temperament that had drawn the others in like flies to honey. Hell, the man hadn't been in camp longer then a day before their loyalties had shifted. Not that he particularly blamed them mind you. Shane was a fucked up fucker with a short fuse and a big ass gun. Even a fool could tell that the man wasn't exactly stable.

Besides that, not many people would walk willingly back into a death trap. Especially for some stupid, hot headed asshole that was just as likely to shank you when your back was turned, solely to right a wrong. You had to respect a man for something like that. It would seem that at the end of the day, for as little as it was worth, Rick Grimes was a good man. A man you could actually trust to hold his word.

T-Dawg he still didn't know much about. And honestly he didn't much care to, especially after what had happened on the rooftop with Merle. He and Jacquie had rolled in together in that beaten up church van not long after Morales and his brood had followed the radio broadcasts from Shane's CB. But he supposed it had to be said that the man was reasonably good in a fight. Being just that much of a do-gooder that he figured he could probably trust the man to watch his back if the situation called for it. Still, he had sneered at the man's apologies. Apologies wouldn't bring Merle back. Nor right the wrong that had been done to him. Merle might have been a fucked up son of a bitch, but what they'd done, leaving him up on the roof like that, chained like some sort of rabid dog just hadn't been right.

Plain and bloody simply. They knew it, and he knew it.

Deep in his gut, the resentment for that injustice still burned. Because he knew not that long ago, there had been a time when all he would have had to do was make the smallest of peeps and Merle would have been right there by his side. Still just as bad tempered, hot headed, impulsive, and crude as he always was, but there nonetheless, and ready to crack heads for the sake of his kid brother. But when Merle had gotten out of prison a lot of things changed, it had broken something in him. It had snapped off some vital part and replaced it with something inferior, something less reliable and sturdy. Merle had tried to hide it, taking cover behind bow legged swagger and lie encrusted lips, but even then it hadn't taken him long. He knew Merle better then he reckoned Merle even knew himself. Because this time it wasn't just about the blow or the booze, this time it was something worse..

Merle had changed. And it certainly hadn't been for the better.

The woman, Carol, was damaged goods. You could see it in her eyes. She had been abused too much for too long. He had recognized the signs right away, because whether she knew it out not, the woman wore her pain like a banner. Her hair was cut short, clipped right to the scalp in an effort to diminish it as a tempting target to yank on in the middle of an argument. Hell, he hadn't been the only one to notice that her bruises were getting replaced far too frequently to be easily explained as being by-products of living outdoors.

Privately his blood had boiled. Anger and disgust flaring like nausea in his gut every time he was forced to look across camp and see that bastard's ugly ass face. He might be a lot of things, but if there was one thing he wouldn't stand for in this world, it was beating on your wife and kid. To have a good woman and a child of your own was a privilege. Not a right. Just as being a father and a husband was the same. You're supposed to protect your own, and fight tooth and nail to keep them.

Hell, even Merle knew that.

He'd even considered doing the world a favour and quietly offing the son of a bitch before that deadhead had gone and done it for him. But in the end, he had to admit, he had been quite pleased with results. The bastard had gotten what he deserved. But still, that didn't change the fact that the damage had already been done. The woman was broken. Her spirit shot through with far too many holes then anyone had the right to take. And even with her old man gone, her eyes still reflected hollow, and empty in the banked firelight, as if the only reason she was still hanging on was for the sake of her little one. In fact, if Sophia hadn't been pressed firmly to her side throughout the entirety of this whole mess, he wouldn't have been surprised if she had decided to chuck it in with the others at the CDC.

His eyes roved around the circle one more time, head canting from side to side as he ran a hand across the uneven stubble that peppered across the span of his cheeks. Shaking his head as a sore joint in his shoulder throbbed, the pain muted and almost sullen as he flexed the sore muscles, testing their give before he stretched. His pose deliberately exaggerated as he arched his body into the movement itself. The others didn't even look in his direction.

..All in all they were a pretty pathetic bunch. There just weren't any two ways to get around it anymore..

He snorted in derision, unable to contain his frustration as the others went almost doe eyed in response. With the noise earning him a series of rather startled looks from both Lori and Carol and a suspicious one from Shane, the man's dark eyes promising violence in the low light. Even the kid shifted beside him, brushing the tattered shirt sleeves of his blazer across the span of his upper arm as he twisted in place, eyeing him through his sable fringe as if the man was expecting something more to follow. God only knows what that was. But save for that, the others didn't even look up, their eyes dull and lifeless as they stared into the depths of the glowing amber coals…

Anger coiled deep in the pit of his stomach. People had died so that they could live, and this was how they replayed that debt?...Sure, life had been hard. And sure it seemed as though they couldn't catch a fucking break, but damn! They were still alive weren't they? That had to be worth something. But apparently the others didn't seem to see it that way.

And it was exactly this kind of shit that took him back to that moment after the CDC. The moment where he'd seriously considered just cutting ties completely and heading off on his on. No more dead weight. No more blundering idiots getting him him killed…or worse. No more eternal optimists or passive aggressive do-gooders, too blind to do what was necessary in order to survive. He had to admit that the thought had been pretty damn tempting.

But that train of thought had only lasted as far as Amal Heights, just outside of Atlanta proper. And from that rest stop, just on the outskirts of that podunk little town, they had watched Atlanta burn. The smoking ruins of the massive complex darkening the sky behind them with a premature haze of acrid, black smoke. And for a time he had watched with them, body still reeling from yet another near miss. Trying to organize his mind around the fact that not only had fate had once again thrown them out on their collective asses, but also coming to grips with the idea that they might have just lost humanities best chance at fixing this whole mess.

But after a while he had turned away. Away from the others as they watched the looming pillars of smoke and ash, away from the crumpled faces and the violent retching sounds that echoed in the still air as Andrea dry heaved against the side of the RV, and the children cried. Instead, his fingers were already reaching for the outline of the truck keys he'd shoved into his pocket, the motion unconscious but keenly honest. …Feet itchin' to be moving again.

He hadn't been able to stand the gawping… Besides, it wasn't like lookin' was going to change anything anyway..

But as he turned away, feet angling back towards the crumbling old blacktop, he was forced to take in the faces of the others standing around him. And it was in that moment where he had that single, rather irritating moment of clarity. Because he realized that if he did just get up and leave, that these people wouldn't make it. Flat out. If the walkers didn't get them, then starvation and stupid choices eventually would. They weren't made to live outside their cushy cities, with their manicured lawns, white picket fences, and cookie cutter houses. Not like he was. He had been born and bred out in the woods. Hell, as a Dixon he'd had a hunting knife plunked in his hand long before he did a spoon.

He was built for this shit.

But at the same time, it was thoughts like this that inevitably made him wonder exactly when he had begun to actually give a shit. To care. Like taking it personally when placed in a situation where the others could either live or die…Shit. He didn't like it. It stank of a responsibility. And he didn't do responsibilities, especially if it was responsibilities to other people. Not since -... He shook the memories away. Shaking off the sudden discomfort like a coon dog coming in from the rain. There was no use in dwelling anyway. It wasn't his way.

He spared a look back towards the flames as one of the logs shifted. The movement sending up a pathetically small burst of sparks as the half burned oak settled further into the low burning coals. But it was enough to light up the circle, sending macabre shadows flickering across lengths of ten identically pale faces, playing with the darkening ripples as the shadows etched temporary scars across their skin. It provided a stark contrast when he considered the heady grins and happy flushes that had graced the very same faces less then a day before. Back when they had a full set of contended bellies, and the ringing echoes of unrestrained laughter reverberating in their tired ears.

..Back when there had been enough wine and Southern Comfort to forget.. At least for a little while... Enough to mute the demons and the guilt.. It was advice he'd enjoyed to excess in fact, if his hangover the next morning had been any indication..

There were tears running down Andrea's face. Or 'the spitfire' as Merle had privately taken to calling her only a day and a half into their stay. Only now the reference had never seemed more inappropriate. Because now the woman wasn't even hiding it, doing nothing to stem the flow as the tears fell. Letting the salt tracks set like age lines down her cheeks and chin. Even the old man seemed at a loss, holding a clutch of napkins in his hand from his place beside her at the fire, having seemingly not worked up the courage to even so much as offer them to her yet. Not that she would have noticed however. Because she wouldn't even look at the man, her eyes downcast and haunted, broken like a dog that had been beaten one too many times.

Anger bubbled up like toxins in his gut, because for some reason, the sight didn't instil sympathy or even pity. It just made him mad. Real mad. Did they really think that they had been the only ones that had lost something in this whole mess? Were they that selfish and short-sighted? He had lost a lot too, lost everything in fact. But was he dwelling on it? Letting it rule him like fear?

..Not bloody likely…

A/N: Please let me know if you think I should continue. Reviews and constructive criticism are love!

A/N#2: Let me repeat. I wrote this story months before the season two opener and have only worked on it over last two days in order to edit it. It took the back burner as I worked on my other WD story: "Rotation." This is meant to fill in the gap immediately after the last Season One episode. I haven't had a moment to see the Season Two premier so I have no idea how this will or will not fix in. So take it as you will.

"All that is really necessary for survival of the fittest, it seems, is an interest in life, good, bad or peculiar." -Grace Paley