Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead.

Chapter Warning: Mentions of abuse. Dixon mouth.

Chapter 4

Daryl remembered, as he sat waiting in the chair in Williams and Mamet law firm, why he had always hated lawyers. The stuffy music, the starched clothes, it was all something out of his convict nightmares.

He swallowed as the girl at the counter eyed him once again. She had offered him a drink no less than six times since he sat down to wait for Andrea and he was pretty sure that she was about to offer again.

"Daryl!" He snapped his gaze away from the uncomfortable receptionist as Andrea appeared in the doorway.

In truth, he remembered her name more than he remembered her. He hadn't afforded any of his memories to the best friend of the girl he had loved. He was surprised then, to see that she hadn't really changed much. Well, unless you count that her mousy brown hair was now platinum blonde and he was pretty sure her boobs were not naturally that perky. Her personality though, was the same. All bullshit and bullets, the bitch had always been tough as nails but now it seemed to suit her.

"It's good to see you." She said as he stood up and she reached out, offering her hand. "I'm sorry to hear about your father."

"I ain't." He grumbled and he could have sworn he saw the corner of her lips curve up before it disappeared just as quick.

"I don't suppose so." She sighed. "In any case, if you want to step in to my office there are some things I need to go over with you."

He nodded and allowed her to lead him back in through the door she had appeared from, shutting it firmly behind him.

"Sorry about that. Hope Stacey didn't scar you. She can get a bit…overzealous." She laughed at his expression before she clarified. "My receptionist. Great lady, a little dumb."

He watched as she crossed behind her desk, taking her chair behind her massive desk and gesturing for him to do the same in one of the studded leather chairs that sat opposite her. He complied, his posture rigid as he watched her shuffle some papers around on her desk.

"I wish I could say that we had everything ready, but unfortunately, it wasn't as easy as a case as we thought it would be. Your father was a… difficult man to say the least, though I'm sure you already knew that." She eyed him as she opened up a manila folder, her polished fingernail running along a white sheet of paper perched inside. "In any case, I think I can have this settled in a couple of weeks. Maybe less."

Daryl stopped, his mouth going dry as he watched her continue to peruse the paperwork. "A couple a'weeks?"

She looked up at his tone, her brow furrowed. "Yes, I mean if we had been able to get him to sign things when we asked then maybe…"

"Hell," Daryl started. "What the hell would take so long? The damn man ain't had a lick of anything to his name. Spent it all on Jack and Marlboros..."

"Daryl…"

"And hell, I'm sure Merle'd want the house, and I ain't got nothin' left in it so…"

"Daryl, he already took care of that." She said, cutting him off and leaning on her desk, her arms crossed in front of her, the folder forgotten. "Everything he had left, he left it to you. His house, his truck, it's all in your name."

"I don't want it." Daryl choked, his voice nearly failing him. "Give it to Merle."

"See, that's the problem. There are other…things; we have to take care of first. Like I said, if the man would have returned a phone call or signed any of the letters we sent him…"

Daryl sat in shock. He wished he could say it was because his daddy had left him everything he had left in the world. That in his last moments, he had wanted to make amends for all the shit he had ever said or done to his youngest son. But Daryl knew better. This wasn't a parting gift; it wasn't an apology from the grave. This was his father's way of making sure that Daryl Dixon never got away from the ill legacy that he was born to. This was a sentencing and it was far worse than any time in the clink ever could be.

Andrea had assured him that she would be able to sort things out in two weeks or less. Two weeks of being in Temple and then he could move on with his life she had said.

Two weeks.

That was how he found himself outside of the only place in town that Temple had to lodge in.

His key had never left the ignition; he just sat there, staring at the white building.

Some years ago it used to be a luxury to stay there, to rent a room and wait for the next ride on the railroads. But that was before shit had dried up. Before the rest of the world had chewed up this tiny little shithole and spit it out, waiting for some other poor sap to step in it.

To other people, this sad white building was a reminder of what Temple once was. To Daryl, it was a reminder of what it always would be.

"Daryl, I know you're in there." She called, the pounding on the door intensifying. "Open up this door or I'm gonna have Herschel come break it down."

He sighed and moved from where he was sitting on the bed, unlocking the deadbolt and unlatching the chain before sitting back down on the tiny bed.

"Where the hell have you been?" She said, not wasting any time as she entered the room, the door slamming shut behind her. "You tell me you're gonna be there and then you don't show. Is this some kind of joke?"

He shook his head, his shoulders shaking as he watched her feet pace back and forth.

"Fuck you Daryl." She all but yelled. "You can't do this to me. I'm your best friend, I get it. If you don't want to go out with me then don't lead me on just tell me you don't think of me like that and move the hell on…"

He looked up then, sharply, and the flashing pain in his shoulder made his vision blur. "That ain't it. Shit."

"Then what…." She stopped pacing, her voice trailing off as her eyes landed on his face. "Oh Daryl."

Her hands were gentle as she pushed the hair away from his face, the strands with blood had dried to his forehead, creating a Band-Aid type effect and he felt the tug at the scabs that had already formed.

"Stop." He said, moving away from her hand, wincing at the pain.

"No." She said, her voice soft but firm as she inched closer, running her hand down his neck and pulling at the shirt that was unbuttoned, gasping at the sight before her. "I'm sorry."

"What you have to be sorry for?" He grunted as she ran a finger over a long since healed scar. "You ain't did it."

"Daryl, he can't keep doing this…" she said, and he hated the way her voice broke. He hated making her cry. "He's going to kill you."

"I can take it." He said as her palm slid over a fresh bruise, the warmth seeping in to his chilled bones.

"You shouldn't have to." She said, kneeling down in front of him, cupping his face with her hands. "Daryl, you shouldn't have to."

He sighed then, leaning in to her touch, before her lips gently found his.