A/N: The reception this story has been receiving has honestly surprised me. Thank you so much to everyone who has read, and continues to read this! You guys are awesome.


"You have suffered abuse at the hands of your father and also your mother, until age 12 when she died. It's noted here in your medical file."

"It's none of your damn business! It has nothing to do with this!"

The water in the shower feels so damn good on his skin. Daryl runs shampoo through his hair and a groan of relief escapes his mouth. He can go for months without showering if he has to, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy the hot water while it's there. He's only under the hot stream of water for five minutes, tops, when someone else starts banging on the locked door. Daryl had intentionally waited until he was sure everyone else was done using the communal showers to come and wash, but clearly he wasn't the only one looking for some alone time.

"Hang on a minute," he shouts over the water. He quickly rinses the shampoo from his hair before turning off the tap. He doesn't have time to dress, because whoever is on the other side of the door is insistently pounding, now, so he ties his towel tightly around his waist and lifts his pile of dirty laundry high, using it as a shield. He opens the door awkwardly, still pressing his clothes to his chest, and Shane brushes past him. There's a half consumed whiskey bottle in the man's hand and he pays Daryl no mind as he starts to strip his clothes off.

Daryl doesn't stick around to wait for conversation, but hastens to his room – passing no one in the hall.

The small office has a few empty bookshelves and two pathetic, dead plants. Other than the couch, there is no other furniture. Daryl drops his clothes on the floor and lets out a shaky sigh. He hasn't had a close call like that in some time (surprisingly) and he can feel his nerves dancing just beneath his skin.

He toes his laundry out of the way and bends to pick up his bag. In the bottom, there's an almost empty vial – one last dosage before it's done. He fishes a syringe out and preps his shot with efficiency before administering the hormones. Daryl can't help but worry – even though he still has five vials left, they'll run out one day, and the CDC doesn't look too close to curing this thing. His insides churn when he considers not being able to find testosterone, having to tell everyone the truth, having to go back to being trapped in his own body. He drops the syringe and newly empty vial to the floor.

These people don't really care about him – they're just using him for food and protection. Why would they care about him? He hasn't done much for them in the way of anything. He won't have to tell anyone. When his dosages start to get low, he'll leave. He won't carry out Merle's plan of robbing them blind, but he'll pack up his stuff and go. Daryl can't help the dizziness he feels at the thought of not taking testosterone, but at least this new world means that he won't have to be around other people. No one else will see the mess he'll become – no one will think of him as any different.

The light seems to flicker and Daryl swallows a thick sigh before throwing on something to sleep in and flipping the switch. Hopefully he can still get some rest.


After a few hours, sleep still eludes Daryl so he rolls off of the couch and decides to wander the premises. He hasn't had much time, or opportunity, to look around and see what's what other than the few rooms they've all seen together. He put on his binder and a t-shirt before ducking out of his room into the darkened, quiet hallway.

He shuffles down the main walkway, intending to head for the workspace which seems to be central to everything else. Through there, he can check out the rest of the CDC without any interruptions. When he gets close to the doorway, he can hear a murmured conversation – a drunk Rick conversing with their host (for want of a better term). Daryl isn't much of an eavesdropper, he doesn't have time to pussy foot around, but he stops for a moment, hidden in the shadows, and listens.

"We'd have died out there," Rick says. "It was only a matter of time. There's too many of those things." Daryl can tell he's started listening in the middle of a conversation, but he just leans against the wall and strains to hear Rick's quiet voice. "My…my boy. My wife. I never…I never told 'em what I really thought. Never even hinted…just…just kept in. Kept 'em – kept us movin', you know. Just kept it in. Kept…" Rick is rambling and Daryl rolls his eyes, shoving his hands in his pockets. The ex-sheriff must be drunk on the cheap wine Dr. Jenner gave them, and it's no surprise. Everyone seems to be getting wasted tonight – and why wouldn't they?

The doctor's voice sounds a little hollow as he reassures Rick. "It'll all be okay," he says. It doesn't sound like he believe himself, but Daryl is sure that Rick is drunk enough to believe the guy. "It'll be okay."

There are a couple minutes of silence and then Daryl can hear Rick struggle to get up, bump into a few desks and make his way towards the door. Not wanting to be caught lurking, Daryl steps forward and into the lit doorway when he hears the man approaching. "Hey man," Rick says, passing by him with barely a glance. Daryl nods and walks into the command center.

"Hello," Jenner says, eyeing Daryl warily. It's the end of the fucking world and guys like Jenner still don't want to give Daryl the time of day. He ignores the flush of anger that pumps through him and tries to maintain a calm demeanour – he has a favour to ask of the guy, after all. "Something you need? I think there's still a bottle of whiskey here, somewhere."

Daryl grunts. "If I wanted to get drunk, I'd be trashed by now." Jenner nods and watches Daryl with a quiet sort of a fascination. He waits in silence while Daryl picks up a computer mouse and toys with the rubber ball on the bottom. It takes a while for Daryl to work up the courage, but finally he looks up and stares Jenner down. "I wanna know if you have any testosterone."

"Sorry?" Jenner looks sincerely confused and Daryl's stomach drops. He doesn't want to expose his secret to a complete stranger if there isn't a guarantee of some sort of return. He panics, drops the mouse with a clatter that resonates through the large space and moves to bolt. Maybe Jenner will just assume that he misheard Daryl, maybe he'll think it was just a drunk hick's rambling miscommunication. But then some sort of realization seems to dawn on the doctor's face and he nods. It's just a tiny inclination of his jaw, but the motion simultaneously uncoils Daryl's stomach and lowers his blood pressure. "Why would you think we'd have any?" Jenner asks calmly. He doesn't seem to be accusing Daryl of anything, but the man gets his back up all the same.

"Was just askin'," Daryl huffs. His eyes dart around, looking anywhere but at the stranger's face and he moves to leave the room.

"Wait." Jenner's command is just enough to stop Daryl from leaving, but it doesn't make him want to stay. "I think we have a few different types. One of my colleagues was testing the effects of various diseases on hormone distribution. I'm not sure how much we have, but you can take it…whatever there is. Not like I have much use for it." There's a sort of far away look in Jenner's eyes that sets Daryl's nerves on edge, but he just grunts his appreciation and follows Jenner down an unfamiliar hallway.

Using a keycard, the doctor opens the door to a darkened lab. He reaches into his breast pocket to pull out a small flashlight. Daryl hovers around the entrance to the room, holding the door open so that the light from the hallway can spill in. Jenner shuffles over to a cabinet and flips a latch before swinging it open. There's a veritable excess of drugs in the cabinet, bottles, tubes, boxes of stuff. Daryl can't see what any of it is from his position, but Jenner starts pulling various things from the cabinet.

"Do you have a preferred administration method?"

"Did I say it was for me?" Daryl tries to keep himself from barking, but Jenner turns to look at him. The stare isn't quite a glare – it seems more like the doctor's looking through Daryl, searching for something. Perhaps he doesn't see what he's looking for, because he shakes he head and starts to empty the cabinet. He pulls out a little bit of everything and sets it on the counter.

"You've got a few different kinds here – I don't know how much of a difference it made in the test subjects, but…it wasn't my project." He holds up a large bag of what looks like cough drops. "Lozenges, two a day." Then he picks up one of the boxes. "Patches, one a day." There's tube of something, he picks that up next. "Gel, once a day – wash your hands after applying." Finally he picks up a large bottle – Daryl is reminded of the massive aspirin bottles his aunt used to buy from Costco. "Pills. Terrible for the liver. Deteriorate it fast. But these will last the longest."

There's a cache of the hormone right in front of him. What Jenner's showing Daryl could last him for ages, provided it doesn't get too hot or expire. His nerves feel hot – he knows that Jenner isn't stupid. Not amount of big talk or shit is going to convince the man this isn't supplies meant for Daryl. Coming to him in the dead of the night was a sure give away. Daryl's berating himself mentally when the doctor's words cut through his internal monologue.

"I have to go now – things to do." Jenner cocks his head to the side a little, still seemingly wary of Daryl. "You just…take what you need, for…whoever may need it." Without further ado, he scuttles through the doorway, past Daryl and saunters down the hallway, leaving Daryl alone with the stack of hormones.

"I'm just saying, it's definitely a possibility, and one we have to recognize."

"A possibility? You think I feel like this because my daddy fucked me? Lady, he never did nothin' like that to me. Sure, he beat the shit out of me, but that was all. My daddy ain't no pervert. And even if he was – this ain't got nothin' to do with him."

The trip away from the CDC was just one shit storm after another. First the walker horde and then Sophia…Daryl knows they'll find her and he's just trying to keep his cool while he guides the group through the woods. They've left Rick and Shane back at the church with Carl, while Daryl's the one guiding Carol (who's understandably upset), Andrea (who's still pissed at the world), Lori (who's trying to keep her shit together), and Glenn (who's just…Glenn) back to the camp. He knows Rick's a fool for splitting them up, but ignores the worry in his stomach and focuses on getting the ladies back before there's a cat-fight.

He's keeping a pretty tight lid on it – there's nothing much to say as they wander through the woods. But when Carol starts worrying about Sophia out loud again, it's hard for him to hold his tongue. Eventually he stops the conversation by making his opinion clear. "We're gonna find that little girl," he says, making it clear that the topic is closed to any further discussion. "And she's gonna be just fine."

But shortly after some woman comes riding out of nowhere on horseback and whisks Lori away with tidings of a wounded son. Daryl has to suspend his concern and lead the remaining group back to camp.


When Daryl and the remaining members of the group arrive at the farm the next day, the first sight to greet them is a few people loading rocks into a wheelbarrow. He drives up to the front of the farm house cautiously, unsure of what to expect, until Rick and Lori, followed by the rest, come hurrying out of the house.

There's a funeral for Otis – the man who apparently gave his life to save Carl's. He isn't sure what to do at the funeral – Daryl crosses his arms over his chest, gripping the armholes of his leather vest. Death is no stranger to Daryl Dixon, but this…putting meaning and purpose in someone's death, trying to mourn them in a world full of dead reanimated, makes the man markedly uncomfortable. He watches everyone else with a wandering eye, trying to discern how he should act.

When Otis' girlfriend, -Patricia, Daryl thinks her name is – asks Shane to tell them how and why the man died, Daryl can see the uncomfortable shift in Shane's stance. His words come out jumbled and broken; his body is taut with unreleased energy. Daryl doesn't particularly pride himself in reading people well – at least not better than anyone else – but when you've lived your life keeping a massive secret, you learn the tricks to hide it from others. And Shane clearly doesn't know, or isn't practiced enough, in those tricks. He hiding something, and it's weighing heavily on the man's shoulders.


The space is massive and seems like a perfect organization point for the group. After the funeral, Daryl decides to move off, away from the epicentre of everyone's activities. He puts his tent up near an old chimney stack – all that's left of an old, razed building. He's close enough that he can be at the main camp quickly to help, but far enough away that he can get the space he's been aching for.

It hasn't been long since he's lost Merle and most of his brother's belongings remain in the tent as a reminder of his absence. Daryl's no idiot – he knows his brother wasn't a great big brother, but he's the only real family Daryl's ever had. He frowns at Merle's crumpled blanket – which had been thrown, squashed inside of Daryl's tent, in the back of the Grimes' truck in haste – before turning off his lantern and closing his eyes.


He doesn't find much on his first day looking for Sophia – a farm house where she might have hunkered down for the evening to feel safe and few Cherokee roses just outside of it. He plucks one, he isn't sure why, and returns to the farm. His feet, separate of his mind, carry him from his camping spot to the Winnebago. It isn't until he's inside that he realizes he's searching for Carol.

The place looks clean – cleaner than it has in a long time. Even though the funk of people living in it for days on end is still there (Daryl's pretty sure no amount of air fresheners can ever get that smell out), it looks good. Carol's sitting in the back, stitching up a hole in one of their quilts. She offers him a small smile by way of greeting and looks back at her handy work. "Cleaned up," she says. "Wanted it to be nice for her."

"For a second I thought I was in the wrong place," he says, glancing around the camper van.

Daryl remembers how his mother acted, until she died, in the face of his father's abuse. She ignored it when he beat Merle and turned a deaf ear when he said nasty things to Daryl. When she had died, Daryl had mourned her, but only because he was told it was what people did. Now, as an adult, he doesn't miss her one bit.

Carol might have married an abusive asshole, and maybe Sophia suffered to watch the shit Ed put his wife through, but Daryl can see it, clear as day. Carol loves her daughter, and would do anything for her. She is the antithesis of everything that Daryl's mother represented: strong, where she was weak, loving, where she was resentful, caring, where she was absent. His respect for her has grown tenfold in the face of her daughter's disappearance, but he isn't sure how to word it.

So instead, he shifts his feet and gently sets a beer bottle, with the Cherokee rose sitting inside, on the side table in front of Carol. She looks up at him, blinking, clearly confused and unable to take his meaning. "A flower?" she asks him.

"Cherokee rose," he says. He looks at her, trying to tell if she understands now. But there's still a confused look on her face, and he surprises even himself when he jumps into an immediate explanation of the flower's presence. "Story is, that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land, on the trail of tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way: exposure, disease, starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared." Carol watches him closely, still showing no sign of knowing where this explanation is going, so Daryl carries on.

"So the elders, they uh, said a prayer - asked for a sign to uplift the mother's spirits. Give 'em strength, hope." Carol gives the rose her attention once more, and seems now to have more understanding of Daryl's reasoning. "The next day, this rose started to grow right where the mother's tears fell. I'm not fool enough to think there's any flowers bloomin' for my brother." She wipes a few silently shed tears from her cheeks, and Daryl – unsure of how to continue – relies on honesty in the face of this woman's grief. "But, uh, I believe this one…bloomed for your little girl."

Carol lets out a small huff of air – and Daryl isn't sure how to take it. She looks back down at the quilt, tears still rolling slowly down her skin, and Daryl heads for the door. Just before leaving, he turns back and the words come forth, unbidden. "She's gonna really like it in here," he says. When Carol doesn't respond, other than a turn of her head, Daryl leaves. He's not sure what drove him to speak more with her than he ever has with anyone else at the camp, but as he walks away from the Winnebago, he feels a lightness in his chest that he hasn't known in a long time.

"Okay, I understand your anger at my implication. But I need you to be aware, if you're seriously considering this, part of my job is to know why you're interested in hormone replacement therapy. That's how I decide if you're really a viable candidate for the process or not."