Part One

Daryl sprinted through the pitch-black woods, spurred by the frenzied moans of the herd on his tail. The prison was gone. Everyone in it was gone, or dead. He was alone. Spotting an abandoned car on the side of the road, he quickly checked the ignition for keys. Nothing. So he went for the next best thing- he climbed inside the trunk and wedged it shut. He used the red rag placed perpetually in his back pocket to keep it latched, and with his other hand, held his crossbow taut and at the ready. It stayed pointed at the small crack of light where the trunk lid failed to meet the body of the vehicle, all night long.

Bleary-eyed and woozy from no sleep, Daryl stumbled when he got out of the trunk the next morning, scraping his leg along the edge of the trunk and managing to rip it open fairly wide. He used his dirty red rag to tie off the cut, and stop the bleeding. But it wouldn't hold for long. He needed to find medical supplies, and fast.

It took another six hours to get anywhere close to civilization again. He'd managed to stumble upon a cul-de-sac, lined with white picket fences, blue shutters and red doors. He stormed into the closest house and ascended the stairs, heading straight for the master bathroom. He found a bottle marked Amoxicillin and another marked Asprin. Daryl took two of each, threw the bottles into his pack, then went about the slow and dutiful business of raiding the rest of the house.

No food in sight, typical. But Daryl was beginning to feel unsteady again. He told himself that if he got back to the woods he could hunt himself something to eat. He was just hungry, that was all. Daryl stumbled out into the street, suddenly unable to control the movements of his own body. The sun burned his eyes. He was sweating and panting, feeling feverish. Two more steps and he went to his knees. Then, everything was black.

TWDTWDTWDTWD

Daryl awoke to warm, delicate hands lightly stroking the side of his face. His forehead felt cool, but the rest of his body was on fire, and he quickly surmised that a damp cloth had been placed on his head. Something deep inside of him wanted to flinch away from whomever was touching him. But it just felt so damn good, that he couldn't bring himself to move.

He opened his eyes slowly, trying to clear them, and immediately set eyes on a young woman. She had pale blue eyes, nearly grey, and dirty blonde hair reaching down to her clavicle. He blinked several times, trying to clear his head, but she remained static as ever, the image of her never wavering. She was so beautiful that he thought, at first, she must not be real.

"Wh-where am I?" he asked hoarsely. Fuck was he thirsty.

"Just about where you passed out," the girl said softly, her voice melodic and feminine. "We're in the house across the street now. I saw you go down, got you inside before any walkers could get you. Here, drink." She handed him a large bottle of water and he downed it hungrily.

Daryl wasn't sure how to respond. This tiny little girl had saved him? "Uh, thanks," he said shyly, trying to sit up. The pounding in his head sent him straight back down to the couch below him.

"Easy," she murmured, pressing the back of her hand to the side of his cheek. "You're hurt, okay? Don't try to get up so quick. What's your name?"

"Daryl...Dixon. Daryl Dixon. What's wrong with me?" his blood felt as if it would burn through his veins like acid at any moment, and though his head ached to some degree and he felt dizzy, he also felt truly and undeniably alive. He could feel everything: denim against his skin, her breath on his neck. His every nerve was alight. Something was very, very wrong.

"I'm not sure yet. I'm going to help you Daryl, okay? But I need to get you clean before I can survey the damage here. Are you alright with that?" the girl asked him.

He nodded numbly, "Don't think I'll be able to stay standin' to wash off though."

She smiled knowingly at him, "I realize that, Daryl. I'll bring some water in here and help you." When his eyes met hers she could plainly see his panic, so she ran a reassuring hand through his hair. "Just let me help you, okay?"

"Okay," he said quietly, watching her walk out of the room. She returned several minutes later with a large bucket sloshing with sudsy water in one hand, and a washcloth in the other.

"Ya got a name?" Daryl asked gruffly as the girl knelt by his side.

"Mmhmm," she responded idly, busying herself with unlacing and removing his boots. She looked up to find him eyeing him expectantly.

"Oh, did you want it now?" she laughed, "My name's Abby. Now let's get these gross clothes off, huh?"

"Ain't nothin' wrong with my clothes," Daryl grumbled, but abruptly discontinued his griping when he felt her begin to unbutton his shirt. Abby could feel Daryl's nervousness radiating off of him, but his anxiety seemed ridiculous to her. He had the biceps of a construction worker- not someone who went to the gym to tone their muscles, but a man who worked with his hands. And his eyes were the coolest, deepest blue. What could he possibly have to be embarrassed about?

With his help, she shucked his vest and plaid shirt to the side, and helped him slip out of his jeans and socks. He was down to his boxers now, blushing lightly as she watched him unabashedly. The cut in his left thigh extended up towards his hip. Daryl watched Abby look at it and frown.

"You've got to take the boxers off too. Otherwise I won't be able to get to the cut," Abby said definitively. Her eyes darted up to Daryl's and he looked understandably distressed. "I'll put a towel over you. Won't even peek. I promise," she said lightly, winking at him.

Daryl lifted his hips off of the couch, and closed his eyes tightly, letting her take away his last line of defense. His heart was hammering wildly against his chest, and he was just about positive she could hear it. She placed a thin, flowery towel over his groin, then dipped her washcloth into the warm soapy water.

Abby set about cleaning Daryl's hair first, slowly dampening his dirty locks. She massaged a dollop of shampoo into his strands, her fingers magic against his scalp. Her massaging felt unbelievably good, and he couldn't suppress a groan when she scratched at the spot behind his ears. Abby bit back a smile. Daryl continued to let out small grunts and sighs as she worked the dirt out of his hair. He found his mind wandering, wondering what her fingers would feel like elsewhere on his body.

Abruptly, Daryl's eyes shot open. "Somethin's wrong with me," he muttered.

"You're in pain?" she asked worriedly.

"No, it's kinda the opposite..." he mumbled, almost inaudibly. But she understood his meaning. "Took some shit for the cut before. Shoulda kicked in by now."

"What did you take?"

"Dunno, bottles are in my pack though." Abby reached into his worn bag and found two orange bottles. She opened the bottle marked Amoxicillin, and poured a few of the pills into her hand. They were small, amorphous, white, and marked with a lower-case 'e.' Definitely not Amoxicillin.

"I hate to tell you this, Daryl, but you didn't take antibiotics. It was E- as in Ecstasy," Abby told him, chuckling a bit to herself.

"Shit," Daryl groaned, "No wonder I feel so fuckin' weird. When's it gonna stop?"

"Well, how many did you take?"

"Two of 'em, just before ya found me."

Abby gave him a soft smile, "Get comfortable, it'll be a while. Twelve hours at least, I'd guess."

"Fuck," Daryl carped, bringing his palm to his face.

"You've never tried it?" Abby asked him as she rinsed the suds from his hair.

"Nah, didn't do no drugs. That was Merle's thing."

"Merle?"

"My brother," Daryl grunted, frowning at some ghost in his own mind. Abby let the topic drop.

She began to run the washcloth in small circles across his chest, leaving a burning trial in her wake. Daryl shifted restlessly under her caresses, his breaths becoming shallow and rapid as she touched him. Despite his best efforts to control himself, he could feel all the blood in his body slowly travelling south.

The small circles continued further down his chest, crossing his stomach then finally reaching his hipbones. He watched her hands intently, in awe of the way she was caressing him. Then to his surprise, she dropped the washcloth back into the bucket of water and traced along his hipbones with the tips of her fingers. He jolted, a breathy groan escaping his lips, to his great embarrassment.

Her fingers continued down the tops of his thighs, finally reaching the jagged cut that had instigated this whole mess. "I'll take care of that last," she murmured to herself, then picked up the washcloth and began to clean his legs, starting at his feet. He jerked away from her touch when she ran the cloth over the pads of his feet.

She gave him a confused glance. "Ticklish," he muttered, cheeks perpetually red, and she smiled. Daryl found himself entranced with the way her lips stretched over her teeth, displaying her bright, white, loving grin. He couldn't stop watching her mouth, wondering how the red, pouty lips that outlined it would feel against his own lips, or on his chest, or elsewhere...

Daryl was undeniably hard now, and he knew Abby knew it. She was staring determinedly at the muscles in his strong thighs as she kneaded them with soap, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth told him she was just trying to preserve his modesty. But fuck, the way her hands were working his sore muscles felt so damn good, he couldn't be bothered to care.

Her fingernails raked the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs, and he throbbed ludicrously in response, gasping for air. Abby had been feigning ignorance so far, but no one could pretend to have failed to notice that large of a reaction. Daryl knew he should still be feeling embarrassment, but every nerve in his body had shifted towards longing and desire. He'd lost everything, everyone- every last person he'd ever cared about was gone or dead or both. And all he wanted, so desperately now, was some kind of human contact. Abby was scratching that itch, with expert poise, and he was putty in the palm of her hand, breath bated for her next move.

When she reached for the cloth that covered his groin, his eyes shot open wide. "S-stop," he gasped, because he had to. He had to try once, at least once, to stop this before it went any further. Before they could no longer ignore the massive pole still growing in his lap, or his labored breathing, or his racing heart. Daryl had never felt attraction like this, so potent. The arousal dizzied him and left him trembling. He wanted her, and he couldn't deny it to himself. Not if she didn't stop him.

She ignored his plea and removed the towel, revealing his throbbing manhood for all to see. He watched her eyes warily, prepared for rejection, or disgust. He wasn't a virgin, but a slew of drunk fucks didn't exactly constitute a whole lot of familiarity. But then again, the hazy stimulation from the drugs in his system felt oddly familiar, making the whole experience all the more comforting. Abby's fingers were tracing small figure eights at his hipbones, descending slowly. "Abby, if ya don't stop..." he tried once more, for good measure.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, "Do you want me to?" Her voice was sultry and thick, leaving him breathless. He bobbed his head slowly, up and down. And when she wrapped her warm fingers around his length, his hips bucked off the couch entirely, a whine emerging from deep in his chest. She stroked him firmly, with long, deliberate strokes. He was already leaking considerably, and she used the moistness pooling at his head to slick the way, smiling softly at him when he cursed and groaned. Daryl was finding it difficult to stay still as she worked him over, squirming, hips stuttering, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Fuuuck," he groaned loudly, when she rubbed his head with the palm of her hand. Her free digits made easy work of rolling and fondling his tightening balls. If his skin was burning, then his cock was alight, her hand stoking the flames. Daryl found it in him to meet her eyes, and found her watching him intently, biting her lip. She wanted him. His lips parted into a shallow pant, unable to look away from her. So fucking pretty.

"Abby..." he moaned in warning, when he felt the familiar tingling at the base of his spine. But this wasn't his usual road to climax. This was far too powerful. Pleasure radiated from every corner of his body. He was shivering with the force of it, almost frightened of the intensity.

His balls drew up, his body tensed, and suddenly he was shooting onto her hand and his chest. Lightning bolts of pleasure burst through him and he trembled as they overcame his vision, everything going white. He heard loud, unashamed moans from somewhere in the room, and realized a moment later they were coming from him. And through it all, he never stopped watching her. Those misty, perfect eyes.

After what felt like minutes of agony, and bliss, Daryl slumped back against the couch, trying desperately to catch his breath.