Summary: It's an anwer to the following prompt (may contain spoiler for the story): . ?thread=7981076#t7981076

Pairing: None. Just the once already existing in the show.

Word Count: 3700

Warning: It builds on the episodes 5x09/5x10

Disclaimer: Just borrowing these characters. ;9

Note: A very huge thank you goes to the amazing and lovely lotrspnfangirl (on LJ)/ pdlessard07 (on AO3) who corrected the story in no time! THANK YOU! :3

It's slow going.

They haven't had any water in three days. And that was exactly three fucking days too long.

He would accept another dog for sure. He had now reached a point where he would eat anything. They all had. Not that he was picky before, but he still knew where to draw a line and a dog was definitely not on the menu. Well, not until now. It wasn't that bad after all.

Daryl's feet feel heavy as he drags them along the pavement. Sweat drips down his face, into his eyes. His vest is plastered onto his back, feeling disgustingly like a second layer of skin. His crossbow feels heavier than it ever had before. Ahead of him are Maggie and Glenn, walking close next to each other and murmuring in low voices, because of their drained energy and to keep their conservation to themselves.

As he strains his ears, he can hear among the shuffling of boots, Maggie muttering Beth's name. He presses his thumb deep into his temple then, blocking his growing headache and zooming out, away from the voices talking ahead of him.

His gaze wanders to his left where he spots a man lying sprawled down beside the path; forgotten and long dead to the world. He continues looking at the slumped corpse as he slowly passes by and wonders if the man had been gifted the bitter doom to die alone.

Sasha is unaware of him, keeping her head down up ahead of him. He is not sure if she is ignoring him on purpose or lost in her own thoughts, but he doesn't care, not really. Abrahams tries to strike a conservation with her, but fails miserably and it ends abruptly.

He stumbles a bit, as the ground becomes uneven. For a second, he is completely out of breath. It hurts to draw in air, so he just stops. He tries to inhale deeply through his nose. It's hard, but he manages. The knife Carol had given him earlier feels heavy where it is carefully stuck between the denim of his jeans and his shirt; like it knows it doesn't belong there.

He continues walking then, trailing behind Sasha and Abraham.

Neither of them notice. He is grateful for that.

It's Glenn who turns around, holding out a nearly empty water bottle towards him. It's like the most precious gift anyone can receive and now it's offered to him.

"Daryl." There is a hint of concern in the other man's voice.

The hunter looks at the bottle, feels the heat pressing down on his chest. Sweat continues trickling down his forehead, his arms and back. "Nah."

It's not the answer the former pizza delivery man wanted to hear, so he calls his name one more time, this time with force, and thrusts the bottle higher and a little closer to Daryl. It's not a request.

He eyes the bottle, then Glenn.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than Daryl intended to, but it proved his point and Glenn backs off. Together they are trailing along, but he can feel Glenn watching him from the side. It makes him uneasy.

"Hey, we can make it together." Glenn's voice has a serious undertone. He is looking straight at Daryl. He trails off, then adds something before joining his wife up ahead. "But we only can make it together."

Daryl stops dead in his tracks, then.

It's Abraham he announces his plan to.

"Tell `em I'm looking for some water."

With that, he leaves the paths and the group, vanishing into the underbrush.

As he presses the tip of the cigarette down on his hand, he can feel the heat oozing into his flesh, burning his skin. It's a brief and stark pain. Something he hasn't felt in a long time.

He gently presses on and eventually, the fire smoothers out. He mourns it as soon as it's gone. The pain is different now. It's tingling, unpleasant.

But it feels good. Really good. He embraces every second of it.

The cigarette glides out of his hand, landing soundless on the ground between his knees.

He can feel the summer heat on his body, the shadow of the tree he found shelter under was doing only so little to protect him from the agonizing sun, that had been pressing down on them for the last few days. Long withered pine needles that are gathered on the ground, find a way through the fabric of his battered jeans, breaking through a second layer, this time made of human cells and blood. The bark against his uncovered shoulders is rough and hard. The air he breathes in is stale, heavy.

For a blissful moment he feels numb.

It's a cough that breaks the atmosphere, spiking up an ache deep inside his lungs. After catching his breath, he brushes over his new wound. Another scar. It doesn't make a difference, though.

The rest of his hand is covered in ashes. But it might as well be blood.

Merle's. Beth's.

He picks at his nails, trying to push his nails as far up under another one as possible. Absently, he stares in the distance, the barn slowly dissolving from his vision.

He knows it was all on him. He should have done something. But he didn't.

"You are gonna miss me so bad, when I'm gone."

He inhales and holds his breath.

Then eventually, for the first time, he lets go.

It was tempting to take the water, but nature was sympathetic to them. A little overbearing though, because it doesn't start to rain, it starts to pour, followed by thunder and a shit-ass storm.

Nature knows not to do things halfway.

Trying his best to adjust to the overpowering smell of hay and horse dung, he lets himself sink down onto the cold wooden panels, a solid balk pressed into his back. From afar he studies Rick and the others, illuminated by the light the small fire pit has to offer.

It's colder here. But he couldn't sit with them anymore, he needed his space.

Unfortunately, with more room, there is also more room for thoughts to deal with on one's own. That was certainly not the way he was willing to spend the night. As soon as he gets up, he begins to move.

Feeling a growing ache in his lungs, he huffs; coughs once, twice. It's a stabbing pain that evokes in his insides. He really wants to avoid it, but against all odds he needs to cough another time. It leaves him gasping for air.

A chilly breeze makes its way through the planks, another follows suit. Goosebumps begin to form on his uncovered, already damp skin. A bolt lights up the inside of the shelter. It takes a second until the barn is sucked into darkness again, mirroring his feelings. The gates rattle on their hinges, barely holding together by the chain as the wind crashes the doors open over and over again. It's noisy, but he will take any distraction now.

The floor under him becomes slick, his heels getting slippery with every draft that brings in more rain. The rattling gets louder and louder, mimicking his growing headache. Each clap makes his brain feel like it's going to explode. Lightning strikes down again. And another. A peal of thunder echoes. His ears begin to ring.

The iron chain grinds. The doors are pushed open by the force of nature with a loud grown. Carefully, he lies down his crossbow and strides to the only entrance the barn has and forces the doors close.

For a moment the throbbing in his head is gone.

The wind is so strong, the doors are forced open again revealing what lies behind. His heart starts to sink as he catches a glance of their surroundings; A horde of walkers is approaching, unintimidated by the severe weather, coming closer with determination.

Pushing with all the strength he has to give, he slams the doors closed and entangles the bolt tighter. He tries to call out, to give a warning, but it comes out more like a croak that is quickly swallowed by the thunder and the gnawing moans of the dead. Dozens of hands are pushing against the wood boards, five inches thick. The pressure is too much. The stale scent of rotting, human flesh makes his gut clench.

It's Maggie who senses his distress, even while sleeping, because she is suddenly at his side, pressing her body into the brittle frame. A brief moment later, the former fire-fighter joins, not being so ignorant of her surroundings after all.

He slips, tries to regain his footing in the softened mud, but can't. His chest is burning, his lungs aching. He huffs in little puffs of air that don't seem to reach his lungs. The three of them try, but they are shorthanded against the waiting crowd outside.

For a second, the weight he fights against is lifted of him as Rick is at his left side, Michonne at the other, more and more joining. Strong hands come up above his head, a slim female figure pressing into him from behind, bracing against the constant and never fading thrusts from outside.

He tries to even out his breathing while he just leans his body against the wooden panes, becoming light-head with every passing moment.

It's only when all them are bundled together, leaning and pushing against the door with all the strength they have left that Glenn's voice from earlier that day is echoing loudly in his ears.

It's quiet.

The thunderstorm died out along with the battle against the heap of hungry mouths. A drizzle settled in and replaced the storm. The air moisture is heavy in his lungs and it's still kind of hard to take in a deep breath every now and then.

Daryl muffles his cough as best as he can. Everyone except him is huddled together close to the front of the barn. It is like a pack of wolves that can't bear being too far away from each other, afraid of being torn apart by others. Abraham is the only one awake, staring blankly into the distance.

He lets his eyes wander over the prone, sleeping figures. Judith is gathered close by Rick, he can hear the little bundle snoring even from this distance, Carl laying somewhere behind. Maggie and Glenn are laying close to them. His eyes rest on the little box tucked away beneath the woman's feet. He remembers her carrying around that stupid thing all week, never letting it stay behind wherever they went. She tried to wind it a few times, but it never worked. When he caught a look, he could see the disappointment and hardness in her face, her lips forming a grim line as she closed the lid. She held onto it, though.

He considers his possibility of an achievement, and even though he knows it is downright zero, he gets up regardless. He winces, his limbs feeling sore as he stands and slowly walks over. His feet shuffle as he drags them along the floor, pulling hatches of wet straws with him. He presses the crotch of his elbow hard against his lips as another cough builds up inside of him. It takes a lot of effort to even try to hold it down, the pressure is suddenly too straining. He manages to choke it in his arm. Glenn's girl stirs a little, Abraham now looking over to him, boring a hole into his back. Unaware of his presence, he bends down and carefully snatches the pink box.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, he settles down in front of the dying out fire. The case is small in his hands, he can barely feel the weight. On the outside, some color is already chipped of, sprinkling it with white and yellow dots and making it look old and used. He gently removes the litter that is plastered on the sides, moist from the rain.

It takes him a minute to open it. For a moment he is taken aback as he stares at red rimmed and exhausted eyes he doesn't recognize. He closes it, then gently opens it again, this time avoiding the tiny mirror that is glued to the cap. Inside it barely looks (any better than the outside: it's stuffed in an ugly pink velvet, but to his surprise, it is mostly free from dirt. His attention shifts on the little lean doll, triumphing with her arms above her head. She is smiling, pale wings stretching wide on her back.

Far away in the distance he can hear a laughter, so happy and carefree, the kind only children can have. He warily touches the doll, who bends a little to the side under the pressure of the tip of his finger. As he lets go, she bounces back, regaining her prior position. Invincible and unharmed. A mop of shoulder-length blond hair appears in front of his vision the longer her stares at the figure, blending into rumpled and dirty hair. The high pitched laughter is exchanged for a snarl, a never fading growling. A bright and clear singing voice joins, louder than the hissing. It's beautiful, a blessing to his ears, even if he would never admit that. It ends in a flash, as a gunshot tears through the vocals, spattering the unspoiled velvet with blood.

Hastily, Daryl closes the lid.

Pinching his eyes closed, he buries his fingers deep inside his eye sockets, ignoring the wet trail that made its way down his chin. He concentrates on breathing then, cursing for letting his mind wander.

He coughs, brings away his hand. For a short period he can't see, not the fire, the box, the faces, the blood. It's better this way.

As his vision comes into focus he flips the case over, opening the back. There are a lot of strings attached to a cord and barrel. There is dirt in between, so he carefully tries to remove it. Daryl wipes his hand on his jeans before he touches the thin cords and rotates the roller. A faint sound hums. Well, at least it still works, he just has to figure out how to keep that baby going again. It's hard to get a firm grip while his fingers are trembling. He adjust a few cords, closes the back. Flips it over again, twists the dial. No sound appears.

He turns and opens it. Sweat drips into his eyes. He coughs again. A little chord he had just put into place sprang out again. Fuck.

His heart rate spikes up, as he hears a thud behind him, nearly making him drop the box. The ex-soldier is up in an instant walking over to him, wanting to explore what had caused the noise. One remaining walker is clawing uselessly at the barrier, somehow it must have survived the storm and was drawn to them by the light, like a frigging mosquito flying into a light bulb and into his own death.

He exchanges a look with the man, who is at least two heads taller than him. They nod and if rehearsed, Daryl walks over to his bow, drawing a bolt out of the holster while the other man steps closer to the barrier, leaning his body against it and pressing his hand flat against the gap that separates the wooden beams. The once human body goes nuts then, trying to push its teeth through the split, desperately wanting to taste that fresh meat. It even howls louder.

Despite the danger, especially with his hand being exposed to the dead, Abraham remains calm. Daryl thoughts wander back, when he was as reckless as Abraham was now, where he liked playing with fire as well. But things have changed. The walker continues squashing its jaw through the gap, though there is no way it can make it. Daryl adjust his aim, the bolt starting to slip in his sweaty palms. It stills the moment when the tip of the arrow bores into its hairline. With a sickening crunch it lands on the ground, as he pulls out his weapon.

Both of them share a glance before they each back to their previous task without another word, as if nothing had happened. Save them, no one was aware of the disturbance.

He pulls a few cords, adjusts the gear and winds up the box. Still, it makes no sound.

He tries again. Nothing.

It must have been a while when finally a sweet melody rings out and the little fairy inside begins to spin. But it is loud, even to his own ears, so he shuts the lid closed. It's Sasha who was alerted by the music. Without trying to make a sound she gets up, and goes over to his side of the barn, piles up some hay with her feet and nestles on top of it. Some parts of her face reflect the light of the fire, nearly burnt down now. New tears begin to form as she stares into the flames, her mind far away with some else.

Clearly uncomfortable with the situation, Daryl shifts his gaze to the now fixed box resting in his lap. Absently, he stars to pick his nails and listens the soothing crackling of the last flames.

"You should go to sleep." Her voice sounds worn out and drained as she whispers. "You look tired."

"Mmmpf." It's a muffled protest from him, his full attention on his shoelaces now. He brings a hand to his mouth, nagging on his nails, then biting it. A habit he never seem to cast of. "Sleep`s overrated anyway.`M not tired."

But he is. His eyes feel heavy and it becomes hard to keep them open.

"You can, Glenn has taken over watch." With that she shuts down, trying to find a bearable position to sleep in.

Complete exhaustion is tugging at him, trying to pull him under. A dulling, constant ache is in his lungs, he tries to successfully ignore. There is no chance that he lets himself rest, there is no one dying on his watch ever again.

So he forces his eyes back open.

Stay awake, he orders himself and repeats it like a mantra.

And for a moment longer, he really does.

Someone is touching him, an unknown hand on his arm, then on his shoulder. For a moment he thinks it is a walker, but the hand is gentle as it grazes over him.

Daryl cracks open his eyes and stares at mud laced boots with strands of hay attached to them. His neck feels stiff and in his left arm has completely lost its feeling. Gritting his teeth, he tries recollecting his surroundings.

"Doesn't look very comfortable." She crouches next to him, as he attempts to sit up, her hands sneak up and under him, supporting his weight. Dizziness washes over him once he sits upright. Beth's knife is nagging at his spine, but he doesn't move it. His mouth is dry, his gut rolling.

Maggie hands him a water bottle, he gratefully accepts.

"We've got plenty now." It's all he needs to hear as he unscrews the cap. The water is cool in his mouth, he lets it roll over his tongue before he swallows it. More than half of the bottle following suit. He had forgotten what water tasted like. In between gulps he needs to stop, a cough hinders him from going on.

They sit in silence for a moment, both of them looking at Sasha, who is still huddled on the ground. He thinks of the dead weight he had gathered into his arms and carried out of the hospital, fresh blood oozing into the hem of his vest as her head rested against his shoulder, some strands of once blond hair now coated with blood, sticking to his neck. He'll never really get rid of all that blood, regardless how hard he tries.

But he was not the only one who lost someone important.

His voice is hoarse as he speaks. "He was tough." She agrees, as they continue staring into space, not exactly looking at the woman anymore.

"So was she. She didn't know it. But she was."

Maggie looks at him now, smiling sadly. A grin is forming on his face as well as memories are popping up in his head. She could be so stubborn, but so very, very caring. Carol was right, in a way she did save him. And he would never get the chance to thank her for that.

In his line of vision, he can see Maggie's smile faltering, looking completely heartbroken. Like she was thrown back to the moment she saw her sister's dead body, all her hope and happiness she gained from hearing her sister was alive just days before, crushed

With care he grabs the box beside him and hands it to her. The corner of her lips light up as the familiar weight rests in her hand. "The box has some great tunes in it." He adds.

She looks at him in earnest. "Thanks."

It's another coughing fit that hits him out of the blue. It's harder now, his lungs straining and bursting as he tries to take in air between the hacks. He is wheezing once he is finished.

His hair is plastered to his forehead, her hand resting on his shoulder, trying to calm him.

"What's wrong?" There is a hint of worry in her voice.

He needs a moment before he dares to speak. "'S nothing." He inhales deep through his nose, air rushing through his lungs. As she is not satisfied with the answer, he adds. "Must've caught a cold."

There is a nagging feeling inside of him that told him that he was wrong.

TBC...

Hope, you enjoyed reading it!