This story contains spoilers for the TV show. Also: slow build. Trust first, romance second.

Part I: First Light

Chapter 1: Restless

"When you live in the dark for so long, you begin to love it. And it loves you back, and isn't that the point? You think, the face turns to the shadows, and just as well. It accepts, it heals, it allows.

But it also devours."

— Raymond Carver. Late Fragment.

Maybe this is the day he's meant to die.

Fuck. He's tired. Tired of running, tired of being afraid of the dark. Ever since everything went to shit, it feels like he's just chugging through like running on borrowed time. He's got the scar to back It up. Maybe he's just running on borrowed fucking luck and he's finally run out. Just how many more sleepless nights is his body supposed to handle? Scared of every guttural sound that echoes from the shadows he can't see? Not many more, he figures. Especially given the situation he's stuck in.

His breaths come quick and ragged, and his legs feel just about ready to give out under him. Man. He'd been reckless. No – fuck – he'd been stupid. It's too fucking easy to become careless when the days start to blur into one unrecognizable memory. There really isn't anything to ground him to the now. Nothing but the bone-chilling fear of trying to make it through another day alone. Usually it's a quiet thing, like a whisper in the breeze, but… it isn't quiet now.

His heart's pounding in his chest. He can't… he can't catch his breath. Panic's starting to settle into his nerves. He wants to run – he needs to run – but his body just won't fucking move. He can't… He can't keep at it anymore. Not like this. His hands are shaking something fierce and just how is he supposed to aim if he can't even keep his them steady? He closes his eyes and tries to will his breathing steady. Three breaths. That's all he gets before he lifts his chin up and opens his eyes, letting the patchy rays of sunlight gleaming through the leaves warm his face.

The wind whips at the short waves of his dirty blond hair and just for a second he can mute out all the groans echoing around him. He won't go out like this. This can't be how his story ends. Civilization might've gone to shit, but nature? Nature's still alive and kicking. If it can keep at it… So can he. That's the one thing that gives him comfort. Even if it's darker, even if it's quitter and scarier than any horror movie he might've seen when he was younger, the world's still going, and he has no plans of giving up just yet.

He has no plans of dying. Not yet. Not here. There's got to be more than just… this.

Everything snaps into focus then and he lets out one final shudder before managing to still his hands. There's a rotting woman snarling only a few feet ahead of him, but she isn't the only one, oh no. He hears more of them coming from all corners. He takes a step back before lining up his shot and letting his arrow fly clean through its skull. That's one arrow gone. He reaches for the quiver on his hip and nocks another arrow before taking another step back, shifting his gaze around him. Fuck. This isn't good.

They're all round him. He turns in place, sizing up the challenge. There's at least six that he won't be able to outrun. Damn it… He'd fucked up big time. Fuck. Fuck! Rage starts to stir in his chest and he narrows his eyes. It can't end like this. Not after all the paranoia, all the fear, and the loneliness, and the people he'd watched die without stepping in. He can't die with that on his conscience. He just can't. He refuses to.

"Fuck you!" He hisses as he looses his arrow into one of the approaching walkers, watching with a sick satisfaction as it crumples to the ground, and hops over it.

He grunts when he realizes his compound bow won't be of anymore use up this close and shoulders it before unhooking the climbing pick on his belt and gripping it tight. He gives it a twirl once before swinging at the second walker, digging deep into its skull with a wet crunch. Marshall grunts as he yanks his weapon back roughly, rewarding himself with a spray of putrid blood. He pushes the disgust back as he keeps moving. At least he has his scarf covering his mouth.

He's got a clear path for now, but he still has more walkers following him than he can handle… and not enough arrows to take them out. He lets out a tight breath as he glances down at his quiver. He's only got three arrows left. Yeah. He can't take the risk. Three's already too few, but it's better than none. He nods stiffly to himself, making up his mind. If he can't take them out, he'll have to lose them. Somehow. Even if he's running on dry.

"Fuck…" He murmurs. He's exhausted. He's already been running for… he doesn't even know how long. He'd lost track and that alone's enough to have him breaking out into a sick laugh. Oh man. Everything's fucked. It doesn't seem like he's got any other option but to run some more – even if it hurts. Even if it makes him want to break down. He has to keep going because there is no way in fucking hell that he's going to lay down and let himself get torn apart. There's got to be more than this out there, somewhere.

With that tiny sliver of hope in mind, he pushes himself roughly around a tree before setting off on a jog as quick as his aching body lets him. He clenches his eyes shut, breathing in roughly as he keeps running even as his legs scream at him to stop, but he can't. He can't stop. Stopping means dying, and… He's not ready. He's not ready to die and he grits his teeth until it hurts. Eventually, he just… can't keep at it anymore. He crashes against a tree and leans against it for support. He can barely keep his breathing steady.

Clumsily, he rounds the tree and slides roughly down the bark before shaking off his rucksack. There's only one thing he can try now… And it's a risk, but he's got no choice. The distance he put between them won't buy him much time before they catch up to him and he's… he can't run anymore. He rummages through it, feeling around the bag and huffing when he realizes just how much shit he lugs around with him. Then his fingers feel it: a kitchen timer.

Marshall lets out a shaky breath as he brings it up to his lips and gives it a quick, dry kiss. Thank God he'd grabbed it thinking it might come in handy. Now's the time to test it out. Molly'd taught him that enough sound could draw the biters away like clockwork. Hell, he'd been with her when she rung the church bells in Savannah to draw them out, but this? A kitchen timer's not a bell. He just prays it's loud enough to save his ass. He seals his rucksack and slides it back on before pushing himself up to standing.

The timer's set to go off in thirty seconds. He sucks in a deep breath and takes a step away from the tree, lobbing it as far as he can, away from where he's heading. Then he presses himself against the tree and waits as the seconds tick on by. The barks rough against his exposed hands and he can feel his blood pumping through his ears with every breath he takes. He doesn't dare to move. Then he hears it, a mechanical ringing echoing in the distance. Oh man. He just hopes it works.

A few minutes pass before he figures it's safe enough to keep going. He peeks around the corner and lets out a shaky breath when he spots nothing but leaves and shrubs. Thank God. He glances up past the leaves before smiling faintly. The sun's starting to set. He needs to find somewhere safe for the night. With a huff, he pushed himself away from the tree and takes tired steps forward. He's not sure where he's going, but… hopefully there's something nearby. A cabin, or a shack, or… something. After a few minutes of trudging aimless, he spots what looks like an overgrown backyard.

Edging around the house, he makes sure the street is clear before climbing up onto the front porch, taking careful steps. He reaches for the front door slowly, twisting the knob and giving it a gentle shove open before drawing his pick and smacking the frame of the door twice loudly. Taking a step back, he takes careful breaths, readying himself for a fight. Seconds pass, eventually minutes, without nothing coming out so he makes his way inside, shutting the door behind him quietly. This was a decent home once, but judging from the look of the torn up furniture and clutter scattered over the floor… the house had long since been looted. The first floor's clear.

He makes his way up to the stairs, idly wondering who used to live here before shaking the thoughts away. Slowly, he checks every room before letting himself relax. The house is clear. He steps into the master bedroom before hooking his pick back onto one of his belt loops. He frowns under his scarf when he spots his reflection on a large cracked mirror looming over a messy dresser. He looks like shit, drenches in sweat and covered in dirt and blood (fucking disgusting). A shaky breath escapes his lips as he tugs his scarf down and grabs the cleanest part of the hem of his shirt and rubs his face as clean as he can get it. It isn't much, but… it's something. His fingers glide over the cracks on the mirror for a few seconds before he sighs and pulls away.

He wanders over the dusty window and presses his forehead against the cooling glass, watching as the sun just barely peeks out from behind the tree line in the distance. Maybe one day he'd get to watch it one day without being worried about his safety, but he wonders a lot of things lately. Sometimes he doesn't even know why he keeps trying. Pure animalistic instinct, he figures. He grimaces as he eases away from the pane. He's exhausted, but… even in the room he's in, he doesn't feel safe, even in this room. Even as tempting as the bed may be.

Marshall runs his fingers along the frame of the window, finding the locks and snapping them off. The windows slides open and he's halfway through it when he glances back over his shoulder and spots a knitted blanket strewn on top of the bed. Hm. He's not going to lie… it looks comfortable. He stares at it for a few seconds before stepping back inside and grabbing it, clambering back out the window shortly after and hoisting himself up onto the roof. Being in a room sets his nerves on edge… and they're pretty frayed as it is. It's not the walkers that scare him. It's people. People can break down doors. People can catch him off guard. Knowing that no one's likely to check a roof for a survivor's enough to set his mind at ease.

There's a nook where two slants meet and he settles down there, perching his gear nearby so they don't slide off. Once he's comfortable, he finally undoes the scarf wrapped around his neck, thankful for the cool air that hits his skin. Absentmindedly, he scratches at his stubbly cheek. His eyes are locked on the starts starting to shimmer in the darkening sky. The one good thing about the end of world? There's no more light pollution to block out the stars.

He stays that way watching the flickering lights in the sky until there's no trace of sunlight left. A lot of times he wonders what it'd be like to be up there, away from all the troubles that just breathing brings nowadays. It's depressing to think about, but it's a better thought than acknowledging the quiet of being alone. He thought he'd be fine alone, but… lately he's been feeling himself… crack, as though he were fragmenting and fuck if that doesn't scare him. He huffs softly, pulling the blanket up closer to his chin.

He curls into it, rubbing circles idly over the burn scar on his wrist beneath. He kept away for a reason. He'd gotten bit. He'd cauterized it, yeah, but the fear of all the fucking unknowns terrified him. What if he turned in the middle of the night one day? It happened months ago, but the thought still haunts him. Maybe… Maybe he's fine. If nothing's happened yet, then maybe it'd be safe to try and find a group again. The thought brings a smile to his lips and helps ease him into a comfortable sleep.

Something's better than nothing, even if hope is scary.