Morning brought gloomy clouds with it, hinting strongly of rain that would fall sooner or later. The kitchen was uncharacteristically cool, despite being filled with warm food and the majority of the household. Carol had settled herself at the table, and she was speaking in low tones to Hershel. Daryl swept his eye over the crowd, thinking back over the night before. After their brief conversation, he and Rick had fallen into a companionable silence. Rick had seemed…tired, as if he knew that he had an unpleasant task ahead of him, but he was determined to face it. Neither had said a word as Daryl headed off to bed and Rick grudgingly made his way to the kitchen.

Now, in the gray light of the morning, Daryl slowly ate a bowl of hot oatmeal that was loaded with cinnamon and sugar. Why was I so worried about him in the first place? he wondered silently. It's not as though he can't take care of himself. He's a lord. Someone is looking out for him, right? He frowned. I'm sure somebody would've noticed that he hadn't eaten last night. Or the idiot would've gotten himself something once he was done thinking about whatever it was he had on his mind. Daryl shook his head at himself. Rick doesn't need a nursemaid, moron.

As if on cue, Rick chose that moment to stride into the kitchen, clad in a white t-shirt and dark blue jeans. Daryl lowered his spoon, eyes narrowing as he took in their leader. Rick's eyes were cold and hard, distant in a way that Daryl hadn't seen since coming to the manor. The usual susurrus quieted as the other members of the household became aware of him. Rick positioned himself between the heavy wooden table he typically ate at and the head of the long dining table in the adjoining room. Once all eyes were fixed on him, he cleared his throat.

"I have news for everyone," he announced in a rough voice. "My biggest supporter, Lady Alberich, was found dead in her home yesterday afternoon. She and the rest of her household had been poisoned, and every servant she had was Pacified before they were murdered." Silence met his statement. "Later today, I will need to attend an emergency meeting to deal with her loss in the state council. I will, of course, be taking Michonne with me." His already grim expression grew even darker. "I know what you're thinking, and I agree. She was attacked because she held anti-Pacification sympathies, and whoever did it wanted us all to know that. We've been careful this far, but we'll need to increase our efforts to make sure that no unauthorized people ever gain access to our home."

After a moment, Maggie spoke up. "Do the police have any leads?"

Rick shook his head. "No. Somehow, the house has virtually no evidence left behind." He grimaced. "Apparently, the Pacified servants cleaned thoroughly before administering and consuming the poison that killed them all."

Beside Daryl, Glenn made a soft noise. Daryl spared a glance at him, noting his sharp gaze.

"How many servants did she have?" Glenn asked abruptly. Rick turned to him, frowning.

"At least fifteen, as far as I know."

"Any signs of struggle?"

Rick's frown deepened. "Aside from them holding Lady Alberich still, no."

Glenn sat up straight at the table. "Then how the hell did they manage to Pacify everyone? Wouldn't someone have fought back or tried to run?"

Everyone tensed. No one could imagine an entire household getting Pacified without someone violently disagreeing. Daryl himself had to fight a sudden wave of nausea. If the government could Pacify large groups of people, what would stop them from deciding that trials weren't worth the hassle? How else would they use that technology? He couldn't think of any possibilities that didn't make his stomach churn.

In the pregnant silence that followed Glenn's question, Carol leaned across the table.

"So what are you saying?"

Glenn bit his lip. "It shouldn't be possible, but… What if they've figured out how to Pacify large groups of people at once?"

At that, quiet, distressed murmurs broke out in the kitchen and the dining room. Rick raised a hand for silence, and everyone quieted down once more.

"If that's the case, all the more reason for us to do what we're doing," he stated firmly. "If someone had the ability to pull off mass Pacification, we need to figure out why they're doing it, how they did it, and who did it."

"It has to be the Governor," someone replied from the dining room. "Who else would have that kind of technology?"

Rick nodded slowly. "He's probably our most likely suspect," Rick agreed, "but we don't want to rule anyone out, either. We need proof, and we need to know what the hell he's up to, if he did it."

"How are we supposed to get proof?" Karen asked, her eyebrows furrowed with concern.

"I'll see if I can get a read on him at the emergency meeting," Rick replied. His expression grew distant for a moment, and then he seemed to snap back to the present. "In the meantime, everyone stay sharp. I doubt he'd risk coming after us so soon after murdering her, but there's no point in taking unnecessary risks." He cast a long, stoic look around the group. "We can do this, people. We'll stop the son of a bitch before he uses this to destroy anyone else."

His quiet confidence seemed to reassure a decent portion of the group, but Daryl couldn't help but frown. Are they reassured because they believe in Rick, or because it's easier than the alternative?

Rick kept his chin up, no doubt lingering over his posture as he made eye contact with everyone in turn. "If anyone has concerns or questions, you can come to me," he told them firmly. "This is serious, but we can handle it. I have faith in all of us." When several people nodded at him, he took a step back. "You can go back to your meals now."

The dining room dissolved into conversations, but Daryl was pleasantly surprised to hear snippets of tactics instead of the fear and doubt he'd expected. Finished with his announcement, Rick came over to the table and grabbed a muffin. He gave them a brief nod, then made his way back out of the kitchen. Daryl watched him go. Lost in thought, he tentatively resumed eating.

Glenn caught Daryl's arm when he stood up after finishing his breakfast. The younger man plastered a weak smile on his face.

"I promised to show you the gym," he reminded Daryl gently. "You still up for seeing it?"

Daryl thought about their recent revelation. He rolled his shoulders. "I could stand to burn off some steam," he replied grimly. Glenn nodded sympathetically.

"Yeah, I hear you." He stood from the table, brushing a hand against his wife's shoulder. Maggie reached up to gently clasp his hand in hers, patted it, and let it go. Turning to Daryl, he nodded at the entryway. "Well, let's get moving, then. We've all got things to do today."

That last bit held an unusually dark tone, but Daryl simply tipped his head in acknowledgement. Together, they made their way down the hallway. They lapsed into an uneasy silence as they walked, Glenn with his mind clearly miles away. Eventually, they reached a door on the far side of the east wing. They came to a stop.

"Alright, here it is," Glenn informed Daryl calmly, waving an arm at the unassuming door in front of them. The doorknob turned easily in his grip, and the door swung open to reveal a narrow, lit stairwell. They made their way down the concrete steps, footsteps echoing off reinforced walls. Glenn looked at him over his shoulder, grinning weakly.

"I won't be able to stay down here with you," he said apologetically. "I have to help coordinate our new patrols and figure out what we're going to do about this new mess." He clapped Daryl on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll manage, though."

Daryl grunted. "You said I would be meeting with trainers?" he asked when they reached the bottom of the stairs. A massive steel door stood in front of them, its visible weight imposing. Glenn reached out and pressed his thumb against the panel beside the door. Daryl followed suit.

Glenn nodded. "Yeah, though you've probably met all of them by now," he replied thoughtfully. The door slid open, revealing a sprawling underground complex. The gym spanned the entire length and width of the manor, gleaming with white plaster walls and occasionally dotted with tall, wide mirrors. It was clearly sectioned off, with weights in one area, a boxing ring in another, bikes, treadmills, and two series of enclosed rooms that looked like shooting galleries. Other members of the household were hard at it, fists audibly smacking bags and pads. Glenn and Daryl moved inside, and they found themselves joined shortly by others who had been at the troubling breakfast. Karen nodded at them as she passed, and she heard towards a set of doors at the south side of the complex. When Daryl glanced at Glenn, the other man bobbed his head in Karen's direction.

"Locker rooms are back there," he explained simply. "Karen teaches kickboxing, if you're interested."

Daryl turned to stare at him. "Kickboxing? The hell would I want to learn that for?"

Glenn's lips quirked up in a smile. "You never know. It's kind of awesome to roundhouse kick an enemy."

Daryl's lips flattened. "That shit would get you killed in a street fight."

"Still could be worth learning," Glenn reported easily. "Never hurts to figure out what you're good at."

Daryl stopped near the edge of a boxing ring. A tall, muscular man Daryl usually saw on patrol was wrapping tape around his knuckles. He looked at Daryl curiously. Glenn leaned closer.

"Meet Sven, one of our boxing coaches. He's pretty damn good at it."

Daryl gave the tall man a nod, then deliberately walked away. He pulled to a stop in a relatively empty area, then turned to face the Asian man.

"Are these 'classes' mandatory?" he asked warily. Glenn's eyebrows rose.

"No, but most of us like trying to learn new things, or they like to share what skills they have with the group." He gave Daryl an odd look. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Daryl. You know that, right?"

Daryl grunted. He gave the huge complex another long, assessing glance. "So do you teach anything?"

Glenn grinned. "Accounting," he replied cheekily. At Daryl's lifted eyebrow, he continued, "What, you thought it would be martial arts? Don't be racist."

Catching the other man's playful tone, Daryl lifted both eyebrows. "So who does teach it?"

Glenn's grin grew. "Maggie," he replied proudly.

Surprised, Daryl placed a hand on his hip. "Maggie, huh?"

"Don't fuck with my wife!" Glenn patted him companionably on the shoulder. "She'll tear you to shreds."

Daryl snorted. "Got it." Looking around, he noticed a thick running track that looped around the edges of the complex. He made his way over to it, Glenn trailing behind him.

"You know, you can teach lessons, too, if you want to."

Daryl paused, one foot on the rubber track. He gave Glenn a startled glance. "The fuck would I teach? I'm nobody."

Glenn blinked at that. "You could teach plenty of things. Tracking, for one."

The redneck grimaced. "Has everyone heard about that?" he grumbled. "Michonne can track, too, you know."

"Yeah, she can. And even she was impressed." Glenn lifted a challenging eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to impress her?"

Shaking his head, Daryl stepped up onto the slightly elevated track. It rebounded gently beneath his feet.

"Ain't nothin' I can teach that somebody else can't manage better," he shot back dismissively. "You'll be fine."

Glenn posed his lips thoughtfully. "If you say so. At any rate, it's your choice." His eyebrows furrowed. "If you're thinking of going for a run, shouldn't you change clothes first?"

Until that moment, Daryl had only been vaguely considering it. He gave the other man a dry look. "If you gotta run in real life, you think it'll always be when you're wearing workout clothes?"

When Glenn's lips twitched, Daryl started running. His boots sprang up off the track with each step. It was comfortable, but not very practical, he noted disdainfully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Glenn shake his head, turn, and head back upstairs. The steel door guarding them slid open and shut with a well-oiled whisper. Breathing evenly, Daryl focused on running. The rhythmic pounding of his feet slowly calmed his thoughts.

Daryl actually lost track of time as he ran, sweat running down his neck and pooling in his dark blue shirt. A sudden bang to his right caught his attention, and he staggered to a stop. Several more bangs followed the first in quick succession. Gunshots. The muffled sounds were coming from one of the shooting ranges beside him. Curious, Daryl dropped down off the elevated track and walked over to the room. He lifted an arm distractedly to mop at the sweat on his brow. When he reached the door to the shooting range, he hesitated, listening to the steady shots within. If he startled whoever was inside, it could end badly for everyone.

Finally, the shots came to a halt. Daryl cautiously opened the door and stepped inside.

Rick was standing in one of the lanes, reloading a handgun with a grim expression. A pair of protective headphones hung around his neck. He looked up when Daryl entered the room. The nobleman gave him a blank stare for a moment, as if he couldn't fathom why Daryl was there. Eventually, Rick blinked and cleared his throat.

"Daryl? Do you need something?"

The redneck frowned. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he moved closer. "Why do you think I need somethin'?"

Rick's eyebrows furrowed momentarily, then cleared. "You didn't know it was me in here." For some reason, tension dropped from the nobleman's shoulders. Daryl's frown deepened.

"Why would that matter?"

Rick shrugged his broad shoulders, dropping his gaze to his gun. He popped the last bullet into the chamber, then slid the chamber back into place. "Most people tend to leave me alone," he replied matter-of-factly. Rick gestured at the other lanes. "You're welcome to stay, though."

Daryl only spared the other lanes a fleeting glance, his mind caught on Rick's last statement. He shrugged.

"Guns aren't really my weapon of choice."

Rick shot a look at him out of the corner of his eye. With a press of a button, he sent a fresh target sheet to the back off the range. He didn't lift his headphones to his ears; instead, he just stared at the target, his hands loosely gripping his gun.

"What is your weapon of choice, then?" he asked. Daryl shifted his weight.

"Crossbow."

That made Rick turn to face him, eyebrows raised. "A bowman, huh? Interesting."

Daryl bristled instinctively. "Why's it interesting?"

Rick's lips twitched, but he didn't smile. "Because we don't have any archers in our group yet. Or rather, we didn't. It's a nice change of pace."

Daryl shrugged, dropping his eyes. Archery was actually something his mom had loved, back before things were bad. Once she got sick, Daryl decided to pick it up, and he'd discovered a talent for it. On her lucid days, he'd take her out into the woods behind their house and hit a few makeshift targets.

Her smile had been radiant.

Like hell was he going to tell Rick all that, though. In the following silence, Rick fiddled idly with his gun.

"Do you want a new crossbow?" he asked suddenly. Daryl blinked in surprise.

"A new one wouldn't hurt, I guess…" he replied warily. He thought wistfully of his beloved crossbow at home. It had probably been sold off with the rest of his possessions, he realized abruptly. He glowered, suddenly irritated with this man who had everything. "Probably the least you could do for me."

Rick gave him a long, assessing stare. He nodded slowly. "Probably."

And just like that, Daryl felt guilty for snapping at him. He shifted his weight awkwardly. Rick watched him for a few seconds, then turned to face his lane. He set his gun down on the ledge, plucked the used sheet off the counter, and tossed it at a large trash can behind him. It landed awkwardly, hanging over the edge. Rick picked up his headgear, hesitating before he put it on.

"I'll talk to Michonne about getting you to a store," he told Daryl stiffly. "But if you're not going to stay, I'd like to get back to it."

Daryl nodded quickly, and he took a step back. Rick eyed him, then put the headphones on his ears. He lifted his gun and paused, clearly waiting for the other man to leave. Obligingly, the archer turned away, but as he did, he caught a glimpse of the used target sheet. It had a tight cluster of four bullets through the heart, and one in each eye.

Unsure what to make of that, Daryl left the room. After a moment, shots rang out again, muffled by the soundproofed walls.

Rick paused after he unloaded his next round of bullets. His eyes strayed to the door, and his eyebrows furrowed. Sighing heavily, he lowered his gun and punched the button to retract his target sheet. Once again, his clusters were perfect, piercing the heart and the head. He took a deep breath and held out his hands. They were steady. Closing his eyes briefly, he mentally steeled himself.

He'd have to shower and dress for the meeting ahead. Taking another slow breath, he pulled himself into the cool, calm mentality he always used when forced to be The Lord. His chin came up instinctively, and he opened his eyes. He was ready.

The Governor smiled, running his hands through a Walker's curly blonde hair. Its back was passed flush against an antique bookshelf, and its empty gray eyes stated at him emotionlessly. Dust motes drifted through the air in the tiny, barely used office, highlighted by the weak light streaming in through the small window. He leaned forward, brushing his lips against its. His hands tangled in its hair. Grinning, he pulled back and tugged on its locks.

"Not very defiant now, are we?" he murmured into his former secretary's ear. "I'd ask if you like it, but it doesn't really matter, does it?"

The Walker didn't respond, of course. The Governor's grin took on a vicious edge, and he tightened his grip. A few hairs came loose. The Walker didn't flinch. The Governor dropped one of his hands, skimming it down the Walker's side. He stepped forward, pressing himself against it. His thumb slipped inside the Walker's jeans.

Before he could progress further, a hesitant knock rapped against the door to the office. Sighing, the Governor placed both hands firmly on the Walker's hips and stepped back. He glanced at the door.

"Come in."

The doorknob turned, and Milton tentatively entered the room. His eyes ran quickly over the Walker passed against the bookshelf, and he hesitated. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"Sir, the other nobility have arrived. The meeting is about to start," he demurred. "We should head to the council chamber."

Raising an eyebrow, the Governor stepped away from the Walker. He absently straightened his waistcoat.

"Remind me to thank the treasurer for the use of his accountant's office," he tossed out casually. Milton nodded, but his eyes kept straying to the Walker. The Governor glanced at it, then looked back at his assistant. "Is there a problem?"

Milton flinched. "No, sir. I just…didn't realize that you'd Pacified her. I thought you liked her."

The Governor smiled. "What makes you think I didn't?"

Milton wisely said nothing. He fiddled nervously with his glasses. Smiling amicably, the Governor stepped past him. He beckoned for the Walker to follow him, and it obediently trailed along behind him.

As he moved into the brightly lit hallway, the Governor gazed at the stream of noblemen and noblewomen in formal dress.

"I hope our dear Lord Grimes will be joining us today," he remarked casually. Milton's head bobbed affirmatively.

"Yes, sir. He's already in the chamber."

The Governor smiled. "Excellent." He walked ahead, waving a negligent hand at the Walker behind him. "Do take care of this for me, will you?"

Milton looked at the thing that was once a proud, defiant woman. He nodded.

"Yes, sir," he replied quietly.

Daryl stepped outside, grimacing up at the darkening clouds above. The muscles in his arms jumped and twitched, shaky after his workout. He shrugged the sensation off and turned to the flowerbed running along the east wing. Someone had left the hose out after watering the plants the previous day, and it lay in the mulch, thick and stiff with water. Lips tightening with annoyance, Daryl walked to the hose's front end and picked up the sprayer.

He absently coiled the hose over his arm as he slowly traced it back to the spout. Condensation slid off the hose's plastic shell and pooled on his already sweat-slick skin.

A soft rap on a nearby window made him look up. Daryl blinked at the face of a teenage boy behind the glass. The boy's hair was a bit too long for his face, and it curled freely around his cheeks and forehead. When Daryl frowned reflexively at him, the boy simply gave him a quick smile and spun around, ducking away from the window. After a few moments, the outer door exciting the east wing opened, and the boy tentatively stepped outside. He looked around warily. Frown deepening, Daryl did the same. Two people were on the south wall, patrolling slowly. Their backs were to the manor.

With a grin, the boy slipped through the door, and he strode to Daryl's side. His boots, which had been pulled over a pair of inexpensive jeans, clacked against the cobblestone.

"Hey," the boy started. His eyes glinted. "You're the new guy, right? Dixon?"

"What's it to you?" Daryl replied irritably. He resumed winding the house around his arm. The boy followed him. Daryl glared at him. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk," the boy returned. He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I heard that you knocked out a guard at your auction."

Daryl came to a stop, and he turned to face the boy. He raised an eyebrow. "You heard about that, huh?"

The boy shrugged. "Everyone knows about it." He rocked once on his heels. "Do you think you could teach me to fight like that?"

Daryl frowned. "Kid, I don't think you want to learn anything I might have to teach you," he replied ruefully. A faint suspicion crossed his mind, and he narrowed his eyes. "Wait a second. Don't they have classes or somethin' for you guys? You ain't the only kid here, are you?"

The kid grimaced. "No, but I don't have any lessons today," he replied defensively. His eyes darted back and forth. "I mean, we don't have classes today. Not just me."

"Uh huh," Daryl replied sarcastically. "Sure, I buy that."

The kid eyed him, then winced. "You gonna tell on me?" he asked in a resigned tone. Daryl watched him for a moment, then shrugged.

"Nah. I ain't a squealer." He was rewarded with a grin. Shaking his head, he adjusted the house on his arm. "So you're playin' hooky just to ask me if I'll teach you how to clock a guy in the head?"

The kid's grin widened. "If you'll do it, yeah. Dad's been letting me learn some stuff, like how to shoot and a little bit of self-defense, but he hasn't taught me any of the cool stuff yet."

"The 'cool stuff'?" Daryl mimicked. He snorted. "Kid, let's get one thing straight. I'm not cool. Nothin' I know is cool. You're better off learning something from Sven or Maggie."

He looked unconvinced. "Sven only knows traditional boxing, and Maggie won't fight with me. She thinks it'll upset my dad."

Daryl paused. Maggie didn't seem to care much about what anybody thought, and he highly doubted she'd ever hurt a kid. Narrowing his eyes, Daryl took another look at the teenager.

"What's your name, Squirt?"

He scowled at the nickname. "It's…" The kid hesitated, then sighed. "Carl. I'm Carl."

"Carl," Daryl repeated slowly. "As in, Lord Grimes' kid?"

Carl deflated a bit, his shoulders dropping. "Does that mean you're not gonna teach me?"

"I didn't agree to teach you in the first place," he replied absently. This kid, who had no posh accent that that Daryl could hear, was the lord's son? This was the kid they were so desperate to keep hidden from him until they decided that Daryl was a safe risk? A horrible thought occurred to him, and he started looking around wildly. "Where the fuck is Michonne? Is she gonna pop out of nowhere and skin me?"

Carl snorted. "She's with Dad at the emergency meeting. And besides, you're one of us now, right?"

Daryl stared at him. "Yeah, but not everyone seems to believe that."

Carl studied him intently. "Dad believes in you."

Those words, spoken with quiet, firm confidence, startled him, and Daryl found himself blinking at the teenager. After a moment, the redneck swallowed hard.

"He does?"

Carl nodded. "I think Dad's liked you from day one. He talked about you."

He did? Daryl thought incredulously. He frowned. The fuck did he say?

Carl took a step closer, his hands still wedged in his pockets. He glanced back at the row of windows behind him. Biting his lip, he leaned forward conspiratorially.

"So you'll teach me, right?" he asked again, hissing under his breath. Daryl eyed him, then sighed.

"I don't know why the fuck any of you thinks I know what the hell I'm doing, but I ain't teaching you nothing without your dad's okay." He casually lifted the hose's spray nozzle and loosened the topmost loop around his arm.

Predictably, the kid groaned. In a flash, Daryl aimed the hose at him and squeezed the trigger on the nozzle. A jet of water nailed the kid in the chest. Carl's jaw dropped open in shock. Daryl smirked.

"No bitching. You get your dad's permission, then you come to me and we'll talk," he stated matter-of-factly.

For a second, Carl's chest puffed out like a peacock's, and Daryl could feel the kid's inner lordling rising to the surface. Interestingly, the moment passed just as quickly as it came, and the kid just gave him a resigned but annoyed look, his shoulders drooping. Carl nodded grudgingly.

"Alright, alright. I'll talk to Dad first."

Daryl nodded approvingly. "Good choice, Squirt."

Carl rolled his eyes. "That isn't going to become a thing with you, is it?" he asked wearily.

Daryl aimed the hose at him again. Carl instinctively took a step back. "Maybe. Now get out of here before somebody comes looking for you and decides I'm corrupting you or something."

Carl sighed. "Yeah, okay." At his brief hesitation, Daryl squirted a tiny jet of water at the kid's feet. Carl jumped, then gave Daryl a dry look. "I'm going, I'm going!"

The archer watched as the lord's son scampered back to the door entering the east wing. The kid paused with his hand on the handle, and he glanced back over his shoulder.

"Nice to meet you, Daryl."

The redneck grunted. "Back atcha, Squirt."

The teenager audibly sighed, then retreated back into the house. Shaking his head, Daryl finished coiling up the hose. When he reached the spout, he turned off the water. Squeezing the nozzle, he poured the remaining water out into a thick bed of mulch. He hummed quietly to himself.

"Rick's kid, huh?" he muttered to himself. Not a bad apple.

Shaking the last bit of water out of the hose, he tossed it onto the ground in a heap. A few stray drops of rain splattered against the back of his neck. Daryl tipped his head back and looked at the dark sky.

With a brief shake of his head, he went back inside the manor. Rain or no rain, there were probably some chores he could be helping with.

Rick watched impassively as the other nobles in the room bickered "politely" over who should be nominated to replace Lady Alberich in the State House of Lords, the nobility's counterpart to the House of Representatives. Due to Lady Alberich's lack of heirs, votes in the House of Lords would now be skewed. For over two hours now, Rick had watched the others posture and express false regrets as they issued nominations for the vacant seat. Most were insisting on relatives or friends of their own, presumably ones they themselves had some control over or owed a favor. Rick's hands were folded over a closed leather tome, and the fingers on his left hand curled over the edge of the binding. He kept his fingers still with practiced ease. Beneath the pads of his fingers, the heavy, gleaming oak table was cool and smooth.

As the highest ranking nobleman in the room, he was seated at the "head" of the oval table. His chair was slightly more ornate than the others, gold etched in the intricately carved backrest and armrests. He was the third person to sit in this seat in the past month, and from the tense glances everyone stole at him, they were all very aware of that fact.

Keeping his face impassive, Rick cast his eyes over the other nobles. Of the fifteen present, five were moderately progressive, six were conservative, and four were—as the older members of the nobility would say—idealists. Those four were the ones who tended to side with Rick regarding his views on Pacification, but they strongly disliked him for appearing to take advantage of his indentured servants. The moderates would listen to him so long as his statements held a reasonable amount of logic. To appeal to the conservatives, who wanted everything to stay precisely the way it was, he'd have to appeal to their financial nature—the system as it was would eventually destroy the economy of Georgia. For all that they benefited from the status quo, that wouldn't remain the case for long. Rick suppressed a sigh. He'd had a plan to deal with them all, to get them all working together.

But now that Lady Alberich had been murdered, everyone was watching everyone else with a certain degree of wariness, and no one appeared to trust Rick. After all, no one moved up two ranks in a month in noble circles without having a hand in it. He let the edges of his lips curl down slightly.

No one would ever believe that he wasn't behind the deaths of Lord Brooks and Lady Alberich. Not unless someone took him out, too.

Rick determinedly did not look at the Governor, who was sitting in a chair on a tiny dais to the side of the room. Theoretically, no members outside of the nobility were allowed to enter this room in the State Council Building, but as the foremost politician in the state, he was granted an honorary title of sorts. Enough to be present, though not enough to be seated at the table or to speak without being spoken to. Typically, the head of the group would acknowledge the Governor in some way, allowing him or her to speak. Rick did not. He refused to so much as look at him, even though he could see the man out of the corner of his eye. The other nobles caught the insult, but they did nothing. Even before all of this, they'd considered Rick to be something like a tamed beast, and they feared crossing him.

Now, it was more like they thought Rick was a caged beast, and they were locked inside with him. Without his verbal or nonverbal permission, they probably wouldn't interact with the Governor even if the man were on fire.

A somewhat rotund nobleman to Rick's right shifted in his chair, emitting a loud harrumph that snapped Rick out of his thoughts. The man leaned back in his chair, one hand lifting to toy with his ridiculous handlebar mustache.

"All of this discussion is nonsense," the man blustered. "What we need is to bring in some fresh blood, get this state's government running again!" He stroked at his mustache again. "My niece would be an excellent choice, in fact."

Predictably, this set off another torrent of protests. Wordlessly, Rick picked his hands up and placed them flat on the table. The other nobles immediately fell quiet, watching him carefully. He opened the tome in front of him, flipping leisurely through the stiff pages. Family after family went by, their information and crests printed in the overly flowery style that most of the nobility preferred. Finally, he reached a family that had not yet had a member promoted to the state council. He ran a finger over the genealogy, stopping when he reached a name he recognized. He tapped his finger and looked up.

"Lady Amelia Collins," he intoned smoothly. "Her family has been a part of Georgia for eight generations, and yet they have never been invited to participate in the council or the House of Lords. I think they have been overlooked long enough." He paused, but the other nobles simply stared at him with vary expressions of dismay, curiosity, or suspicion. "Any objections?"

A few of the more conservative members of the council shifted in their seats, their discomfort obvious. The Collins' were famous for their progressive outlook, and the young Lady Amelia had been making waves on the anti-Pacification front. None of them were willing to speak up, however. After one last look around the table, Rick nodded firmly.

"All in favor?" The entire group reluctantly raised their hands. "All opposed?" No one budged. "Then we're in agreement. Lady Amelia Collins will take the place of our dear, departed friend, Lady Alberich." Frustration lowered his voice, bringing a shard of ice into his tone. Some of the other nobles flinched and nervously looked away. Rick ignored them. "This emergency meeting is adjourned."

The others rose quickly and silently, gathering their belongings and straightening their extravagant clothes. They managed to rush-without-rushing to the door, and once it was open, they fluttered out like a group of magpies. Whispers floated back into the now-quiet room, the other nobles glancing over their shoulders at him as their waiting servants flowed seamlessly to their sides. Picking up a pen, Rick made a notation in the registry by Lady Amelia's name, blew on the ink until it dried, and then closed the tome. He rose to his feet, tucking the book under his arm.

The Governor rose to his feet as well, his eyes burning holes in Rick's side. Ignoring the other man, he strode out of the room. The Governor smoothly followed behind him, no longer allowed to be within the council chamber without a noble present. The moment they stepped through the doorway, Michonne materialized at Rick's side. She gripped the hilt of her sword, glaring openly at the Governor. Out of the corner of his eye, Rick watched the man smile indulgently at Michonne, as if she were a particularly amusing pet. Clenching his jaw, Rick moved away down the marble-floored hallway. Michonne fell into step beside him, though she continued to glare over her shoulder.

"How did it go?" she hissed at him. Rick's lips pursed momentarily.

"I deliberately insulted him," he replied in a low voice. "He'll be along."

Michonne grimaced. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

He glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow. "I can protect myself, you know." She glared at him until he ended up suppressing another sigh. "Just stay nearby. He won't try anything in a public space."

She gave him a doubtful look, but she held her peace. Rick proceeded to the records room, where a brief nod of his head was all it took to send a clerk scrambling for the key to let him in. He entered the room and glanced over the well-maintained shelves. Books, files, and boxes were neatly categorized on one end of the room. On the other, a series of tables and chairs lined a bay of large windows. A thick dividing screen blocked the light from reaching the more precious books. Rick returned the registry to its original spot, then made his way over to the windows. A peal of thunder rolled through the room.

Folding his arms behind his back, Rick stared out of the windows and watched silently as rain pelted the glass. A small, dignified courtyard in front of the council building was filled with large umbrellas as people rushed to their vehicles. Rick's jaw tightened as he watched them hurry. It wouldn't be long before the Governor used his powers to enter the records room as well. Rick inhaled and exhaled slowly. Behind him, Michonne was a welcome and solid presence. Even though Rick was confident in his ability to protect himself…he didn't trust the Governor to stick to the rules. If he were behind the murders of Lady Alberich and Lord Brooks, that would make him a threat to be reckoned with, even more so than he was before. Rick's eyes narrowed in the gloomy light.

What possible reason could he have for killing two nobles? he found himself wondering for the thousandth time. He has nothing to gain by removing them. What's the point? He fought a scowl that threatened to appear. But who else could it be, if not him?

The door opened once more, and Rick tensed instinctively. He focused his eyes on the glass instead of the scenery beyond it, and the faint reflection of the room behind him came into focus. The Governor, resplendent in a perfectly tailored suit, looked over at him from the doorway and smiled. The politician sauntered over, giving Michonne a faintly sarcastic nod.

"I assume you won't have any trouble with my speaking now, Lord Grimes," the Governor drawled as he drew to a stop beside Rick. The politician placed his hands in his pockets. "Particularly since you didn't see fit to include me in the proceedings earlier."

"You had nothing to add," Rick returned coldly. The Governor heaved an exaggerated sigh.

"You don't like me," he mourned, blithely stating the obvious.

"You're destroying the state."

The other man raised his eyebrows. "Destroying it? By making sure that the filth of this good country are forced to put back into it what they took out?"

Rick turned his head just enough to spear the politician with an icy glare. "You're destroying the work force and the consumer base. At this rate, Georgia won't have anyone left to actually generate revenue."

The Governor clicked his tongue. "Lord Grimes, I'm creating the perfect work force. Pacified workers require no funds, no motivation. Just orders. I'm sure there will always be enough people in our good state with disposable income."

"Not when Pacified and indentured servants fill all the roles that actual, hardworking citizens could fill," Rick argued smoothly. "Your new laws are dangerously shortsighted."

The Governor smiled. "Then why are people voting for them?" He stepped closer, almost invading Rick's personal space. "My laws make people feel safe. All of the dangerous elements in our society are being rounded up and, to put it simply, disposed of. By the time I'm done, everyone will know that anyone they meet is a good citizen, just like them."

Rick let his upper lip curl in disgust. "You're a fool."

Shaking his head, the Governor sighed. "It's not necessary to start name calling, Lord Grimes." He gave Rick a slow onceover that made his stomach curdle. "You and I should be on the same side."

"Why on earth would you think that?" Rick asked, finally turning to face the other man.

The Governor smiled. "We have similar…predilections." He glanced briefly at Michonne. "My laws suit you just as much as they do me. How else would you get your toys?"

Michonne, bless her, didn't move a muscle. Rick raised his chin imperiously.

"My tastes are none of your business," he replied coldly. He gave Michonne a calculated glance. "And at any rate, I prefer my servants thinking. From what I hear, your mansion is staffed almost entirely by Pacified."

The Governor's smile remained fixed. "Either way, it seems we both enjoy partners who can't say no."

Rick sent a brief prayer of thanks to his late father for teaching him to hold his "lordly" expression at all costs. His stomach twisted violently. He's fucking his Walkers? What kind of a sick, depraved soul is he? Taking a measured breath, he turned back to the window.

"We are nothing alike," Rick replied, his tone icy. He paused, then continued, "In fact, I'm surprised that you're even talking to me. You must know that you'll never have me in your pocket."

The Governor hummed idly, running his eyes slowly down Rick's frame. Rick's fingers twitched, and rage and disgust rose up inside him. As always, he quickly put his rage on a tight leash. Eyes narrowing, he slanted a sideways look at the other man.

"I thought you only liked your partners unwilling," Rick accused, his voice lowered with restrained anger. The Governor flinched slightly at his tone, making a smug curl of dark satisfaction unfurl in Rick's chest. The politician gave him a smile that was a parody of the word "charming."

"I have many tastes, my dear Lord Grimes," he replied smoothly. "I have to admit, there's something interesting about being with a noble." When Rick frowned, the Governor tapped his own temple. "No chip."

Rick felt his disgust swell in his throat, rising alongside bile at the thought of having any sort of sexual encounter with this man. He turned away.

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Governor," he returned. "Chip or no chip."

The Governor waved a hand. "I think you'll find that I can be very persuasive, Lord Grimes," the politician replied cajolingly. "You and I, we should be friends."

Rick raised his chin slightly. "I can only think of one similarity between us."

The Governor's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"

"You try to intimidate people into giving you your way." He shifted his eyes, catching the Governor's gaze in the window's reflection. "People are intimidated by me. I tend to get my way as a result."

The Governor's smile faded. Rick returned his eyes to the people milling about in the rain.

"Perhaps that was a poor example," Rick mused aloud. For a split second, the Governor's eyes narrowed dangerously, but the other man quickly pasted a smile on his face.

"Strong people will need to band together in the days to come, Lord Grimes. Don't count me out until you're sure that you don't need me." His tone heavily implied that he thought Rick would need him at some point. He gave Rick a short bow. "I suppose I'll have to take my leave of you, my lord." The Governor's smarmy tone had a sharp edge to it, but Rick deliberately didn't react, forcing himself to gaze out the window as though the other man had already left. Smirking, the Governor backed away, nodded at Michonne, and walked out of the records room. The door closed behind him with a quiet click.

Rick exhaled slowly, his stomach still churning. He turned to Michonne, who was staring at the door as if she expected the man to come back through it at any moment.

"I'm sorry," Rick apologized softly. She raised an eyebrow at him. Sighing, he continued, "I'm sorry that you had to deal with him implying…that."

Her other eyebrow joined the first. "This isn't the first time I've been mistaken for a sex slave, Rick. And besides, isn't that the point?"

Rick grimaced. His stomach soured further. The problem was, it was the point. If everyone thought he was buying sex slaves, they wouldn't look any closer for reasons why he chose the people he chose. He closed his eyes briefly, listening to the sound of the rain. The thought of being with a man didn't bother him at all—the entire state government knew he was bisexual, and they always had. It was part of the reason anyone believed the façade he put up to cover his purchases—how could he have a harem of sex slaves if he were heterosexual and continued purchasing men?

The thought of anyone believing that Rick was simply one step away from the monster that walked around in the Governor's charming skin… He took another measured breath. At least the Governor's comments had strongly implied that he bought Rick's cover. With any luck, he wouldn't look any more closely for a while.

Michonne shifted her weight. "So, what do you think? Did he engineer Lady Alberich's murder?"

Rick opened his eyes and frowned. "I don't know. I can't see what he has to gain from it."

Michonne hummed. "From what I can see, you're the only one benefiting from it at the moment."

"That's what concerns me," he replied darkly. "Rumors are going to start flying." He sighed. "At least I have a solid alibi."

Michonne gently bumped shoulders with him. "Lucky for you, they'll actually care about your alibi."

Rick gave her a weak smile, but his heart wasn't in it. He pulled his usual stoic mask back on, smoothing out his features. Straightening his posture, he marched out of the records room. The clerk gave him a wide-eyed stare as he walked away, Michonne a threatening shadow at his heels. Her words rolled around in his mind. Had he been anyone else, he'd have been Pacified long ago for the things he'd done. Because he was a lord, he could get away with rumors of him forcing himself on his servants. He could get away with the horrible events of his past, the things he'd done before and after Lori died. He could literally get away with murder.

He fucking hated himself sometimes.

Daryl tapped his fingers on the table, watching the group surrounding him. Rick had remembered to join them this time, giving Daryl a weak smile as he entered the room in his formal shirt, pants, and boots, but aside from informing the others that he had no leads and that he'd chosen the late noblewoman's replacement, he'd been silent, picking at his meal with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. Michonne was one again nowhere to be seen. As Daryl watched, Carol gave the lord a tall glass of water. He thanked her quietly as he took the glass, and she gave him a gentle smile. She ran a hand across Rick's shoulders as she pulled away.

Rick, sensing Daryl's eyes on him, looked up. After a moment, the nobleman dropped his eyes and stood. Daryl frowned, as did a few of the others.

"Rick?" Maggie leaned back to get a better look at him. "Are you alright?"

Rick gave her a fleeting smile. "I'm fine. I'm just not hungry."

"You should probably eat," Carol stated softly, her eyebrows furrowed. Rick shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Carol. It was delicious, as always, but I just don't have much of an appetite tonight." He gave the table a nod. "I need to get some work done. I'll see you all tomorrow."

With that, the man carried his mostly full plate to the counter. He left the kitchen without a backwards glance, his shoulders stiff beneath his crisp white shirt. Daryl chewed slowly, then twisted in his seat to face Carol. He tipped his head towards the entrance.

"He okay?"

She sighed. "Yeah, he'll be fine. Rick is never in a good mood after he's been forced to put on his game face for the crowd. He just needs to be alone for a bit."

Daryl nodded doubtfully. "Why does he hate it so much?"

Carol gave him a weak smile. "You'll have to ask him. I can't say that I understand all of his little quirks."

"Have you asked him?"

Overhearing, T-Dog leaned closer from Carol's left. "We try to give him some privacy, man. What little we can, anyway. Rick has a lot of extra pressure on him."

"Yeah..." Dropping it, Daryl went back to his meal. Carol eyed him, then gave him a nudge on the shoulder.

"So how are you holding up? I haven't had time to ask."

Daryl looked up, then shrugged. "I'm fine. Nothin's really changed. I just know why you're all fucking crazy now, that's all."

She rolled her eyes, smiling. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." She glanced around, then leaned closer to him. "Nobody's given you any trouble?"

Daryl's eyebrows furrowed. "Why would they?"

"Sometimes the meatheads like to give the new guys a bit of trouble. They like to think they're testing them." She grimaced. "If anyone bothers you, just let me know. I'll put a stop to it."

Daryl started at her, a faint fish of warmth and embarrassment riding within his chest. He stamped on those feelings as best he could and cleared his throat. "What are you, my mother?"

She smacked him with her spoon. "I'm nowhere near old enough to be your mother, thank you. Shut up and eat."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied meekly. He dodged a second swing of her spoon. Grinning, he lifted a fork to his mouth, but then he hesitated. Biting his lip briefly, he muttered, "And…thanks."

She looked over at him and smiled. "Of course. It's what I'm here for." She took a sip of soup. "Besides, I have to keep the pretty ones pretty."

Daryl groaned. "Stop."

She chuckled and resumed eating. Cheeks flushed, Daryl did the same. The atmosphere in the kitchen was faintly tenser than it had been this morning, but everyone seemed calm and relatively confident, ready to weather whatever storm came. Daryl felt himself relaxing. I guess it's good to be surrounded with people who decide to get shit done instead of panic, he mused.

Time flew as Daryl soaked in the warm company around him; even though he didn't join any of the conversations at the table, most of them would look at him and smile, including him in some small way. Once he finished eating, Daryl took his plate to the sink and ran some water over it. His hands paused. Did Rick's kid ever get a chance to tell him that we met up? he wondered suddenly. His lips curled down. Rick might be okay with me being a part of the crew, but who the fuck knows if he's okay with me meeting his son just yet. After a brief moment of indecision, Daryl sighed. I'd better go tell him, just in case.

Daryl walked slowly down the long hallways, his fingers twitching anxiously. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. According to Carl, Rick likes me. His brows furrowed. Why does he like me? All I usually do is give him shit. Frowning, Daryl thought back over the quiet moments he and Rick had shared together. It seemed crazy, but…did the nobleman actually enjoy them as much as Daryl did? He shook his head firmly. Rick ain't looking for a friend, dumbass. He just needs another soldier.

He reached the closed door to Rick's office and hesitated, the toes of his boots illuminated by the sliver of light spilling out beneath the door. Grimly, he reached out and rapped his fist against the door. There was no response. Frowning, Daryl tried the doorknob. The door swung open.

Rick was seated behind his desk, his cheek resting on his left fist. His eyes were staring at the desk in front of him, but it was clear of any papers. A half-full bottle rested next to his right elbow. Gingerly, Daryl stepped inside and closed the door. Rick didn't look up.

"Uh…Rick?" he tried tentatively. The nobleman blinked, and then he dragged his eyes up from the dark wood of his desk. He stared at Daryl for a long moment.

"Hi, Daryl." His voice was blank, and his eyes were vacant. "Found me again, have you?"

Daryl frowned. He slowly came closer to Rick's desk. "You want me to leave?"

Rick snorted. "No." The nobleman paused, his eyes dropping to his empty workspace. "Just surprised to see you. Surprised that nobody's warned you off."

Daryl reached the desk and leaned down, trying to catch Rick's eye. A strong whiff of alcohol hit his nose. The redneck frowned.

"How much you been drinking?"

Rick smiled abruptly, and he leaned back in his chair. The seatback rocked with the force of his motion. He looked up at Daryl and gestured expansively at the bottle beside him.

"Not enough. Not yet, anyway." His smile faltered. "Never seems to be enough."

Daryl picked up the bottle. Eighteen-year-old scotch. He had to admit, if you were looking to get drunk, it was a good choice. He set the bottle back down, but he placed it out of the other man's reach.

"You're drinking because you had to go put on your 'I'm a badass lord, don't fuck with me' routine?" he asked casually, leaning against Rick's desk.

Rick's smile remained unchanged, but his glassy eyes took on a haunted glint. "That and the 'I'm a sexual predator' act that goes with it." He bared his teeth. "My father would be so proud."

"But you ain't." Daryl shifted his weight. "You've never touched anyone here."

Rick laughed. "But I have to make everyone think I have. My pretty little pets, and my taste for defiance. What kind of man am I, that that's so easy to believe?" He pointed an unsteady hand at Daryl. "You believed it. You thought I bought you as a sex slave. Hell, I think a part of you still believes it, and you know what? I can't blame you." He laughed again, then rubbed his left hand over his eyes. "You must hate me for all this."

Daryl flinched. "I don't hate you, man. And…ok, yeah, it's hard to let that first impression go. But that ain't your fault."

"It is. It's just one more thing on the list of shit that's my fault." Rick tipped his head back and stared up at the ceiling. "It isn't right. Owning people. The fact that society just accepts that anyone who owns an attractive contractor can fuck them with or without consent. The fact that all of you have to look like you're sex slaves, or else you'll be put in even more danger. It's bullshit, Daryl."

"We all gotta do what we gotta do," Daryl returned awkwardly. "So people will talk. At least they're fucking blind. Just makes our job easier in the long run."

Rick considered that as he stared at the ceiling. "They're making it harder and harder for anyone to work off their debts to society, you know," he stated abruptly. His eyes rolled down so that he could see the other man. "You didn't even do anything. Do you know what your contract is worth?"

Frowning, Daryl shook his head. Rick returned his gaze to the ceiling.

"One hundred thousand credits."

Daryl's insides froze. A hundred thousand? He'd thought the two hundred credits Rick had used to buy his contract had been a lot of money. How the hell could he ever work off a hundred thousand bucks? As if he heard Daryl's thoughts, Rick's lips twitched.

"Your contract stipulates that you earn a little over two credits a day." He sat up, exhaling heavily. "It'd take you a little over a hundred years to pay it all off." He gave Daryl a pained smile. "It's a life sentence."

Daryl's heart started pounding. He'd known that he was sentenced to life as a slave, but…he'd always assumed that he'd end up working it off and spending the last few years of his life in an ex-con nursing home. These contracts were supposed to be proportionate to the crime committed. How the fuck was this fair?

Rick sighed, leaning his forearms on his knees. "They've made the amounts higher and higher. For the people the government doesn't want to be sold at all, they set the price so high that even the wealthy don't want to be that deep in debt. After all, buying a contract is just like putting a down payment on a nice car. Cars and people devalue over time. They ask themselves, 'What's the point?'"

Daryl swallowed hard. "Can you even…if we win, can you even afford to pay off all of our contracts?"

Rick looked up so sharply that his balance wavered, and he sank clumsily against the side of his chair. He glared up at Daryl.

"Of fucking course I can. You think I'd have bought you if I couldn't? You see the size of this place? I could sell all of it, pay off your contracts, and still have enough money left over to get Carl and Judith a mansion of their own." He paused. "Well, a smaller mansion, anyway. A big house. Really big."

Daryl sighed. "Alright, that's good to know, I guess." He hesitated, then reached out to place a hand on Rick's shoulder. The nobleman started, but he didn't pull away. He looked up at Daryl with bleak, drunk eyes. Daryl shook his head. "You should go to bed. I think you've had enough."

"It's never enough," Rick replied in a low, quiet voice. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I can't make them…I can't make it stop."

"I'll make it stop," Daryl promised unthinkingly. Rick lowered his hand and looked up at him, his expression inscrutable. Daryl squeezed his shoulder. "Whatever it is, I'll make it stop, okay? Just…lay off the booze. For your kids."

Rick stared at him for so long that Daryl started to get worried. Eventually, the nobleman gave him a slow nod.

"I'll try." Rick rose to his feet, but he almost immediately tipped to the side. Daryl darted forward, slipping the nobleman's arm over his shoulder. Rick lowered his eyes. "Sorry."

"'S no problem," Daryl muttered. "Let's get you to bed."

Rick nodded. Together, they managed to work their way out of the office and up the stairs. Rick stumbled a few times as they climbed, but he seemed reasonably steady for the most part. On the third landing, Daryl brought them to a clumsy halt. Rick's shoulders hunched, and he twisted so that he was facing away from the wall. Daryl frowned at him.

"Which floor is your bedroom on, anyway?" The nobleman didn't reply. Annoyed, Daryl used the arm he had wrapped around Rick's waist to jostle him. "Rick?"

"Fifth. I'm on the fifth floor." Rick's eyes were wide, and he looked hunted. His breath, reeking of alcohol, blew into Daryl's face. Daryl frowned, though he didn't terribly mind. He'd certainly smelled worse over the course of his life. He sighed.

"Fifth floor it is." He began walking up the stairs again, but Rick startled him by taking the stairs a bit faster than before. Daryl forced him to slow down. "Easy there, man. No need to rush."

"Sorry."

Shaking his head, Daryl kept them to a pace that he figured probably wouldn't end with the two of them cracking their heads open on the stairs. After a small eternity of climbing, they finally reached the fifth floor of the east wing. With Rick's vague directions, Daryl managed to find the lord of the manor's room. He opened the door with difficulty, pushed it wide open, and then hauled Rick inside. Surprisingly, the room wasn't the expansive cavern he'd always assumed it must be. It was tastefully—if sparsely—furnished, and its dimensions were only a little larger than Daryl's room. The four-poster bed took up most of the room's empty space, and it was dressed with what looked like soft linen sheets. At the bottom of the duvet, a hand-knitted quilt had been folded with care and set atop the soft, fluffy blanket. The room was startlingly cold compared to the hallway.

Daryl managed to get Rick to the bed, and he sat the other man down upon it. Rick bounced once upon landing, then frowned at his feet. When the nobleman leaned forward to tackle his expensive boots, Daryl quickly placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him upright.

"I got it, man. Just relax." Once Rick nodded his agreement, Daryl set to the laces on Rick's stupidly complicated boots. He managed to loosen them enough to tug the boots off Rick's feet. He chucked them at the wall behind him, where they landed with dull thuds. Rick smiled.

"Beth designed those, you know. If you scuffed them, she's going to be pissed."

Daryl snorted. "She can take it out of both of our hides. You're the one too drunk to get them off yourself."

Rick frowned. "I could have done it myself."

"Really?" Daryl raised an eyebrow as he rose to his feet. Rick dropped his eyes.

"…Probably." With a sigh, the nobleman fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. He managed to get out of the long sleeves, and his hands immediately dropped to the hem of his white undershirt. He peeled it off awkwardly, revealing a surprisingly well-muscled chest. Daryl awkwardly cleared his throat and looked away. Rick huffed a short laugh. "I'm not a woman, Daryl. You're allowed to look."

Daryl scowled, folding his arms over his chest. "Shut up and finish getting ready for bed."

"Ordering me to strip, are we?" Rick teased. Daryl's cheeks flooded with heat, and he turned his back on the other man.

"Dick," he grumbled. "See if I help you again."

Rick fell quiet for a moment. His belt buckle clicked in the silence, followed shortly by the whisper of fabric sliding down his legs. Daryl shifted uncomfortably. Finally, he heard the rustle of the duvet as Rick pulled it back. Turning back, he moved to the nobleman's side and helped him get into bed. His hands brushed over warm skin, and he awkwardly snatched them back. Rick settled beneath the blanket, sighing heavily and closing his eyes. Daryl hovered for a moment more, then turned to leave. He stopped by the wall panel, squinted at it, and pressed a button that killed the lights in the room.

Before he could leave, Rick's voice floated through the darkness.

"Thank you, Daryl."

The faint vulnerability in the nobleman's tone made Daryl turn back. Rick, still visible in the light from the hallway, was looking at him through barely open eyes. Daryl nodded.

"Like I said, it's no problem."

"Most people don't really…" Rick trailed off. Daryl frowned.

"They don't what?" The nobleman didn't reply. "Rick?"

No response. Sighing, Daryl stepped through the doorway and reached to close the door behind him. Just before it clicked shut, he heard Rick mutter, "Please make it stop."

Daryl paused, then pushed the door open a bit. Rick's eyes were closed. After a moment, Daryl decided to reply anyway.

"You got it." He watched as Rick made a contorted face and rolled over in his giant bed. Wordlessly, he closed the door. He made his way back down the stairs, frowning thoughtfully. When he reached the third landing, he finally noticed the painting on the wall. A beautiful, dark-haired woman looked at him through the frame, her eyes soft and faintly sad. Remembering the way Rick had reacted to stopping here, and abruptly recalling Carol's warning from his first morning at the manor, he inhaled sharply.

"You must be Lady Grimes," he realized aloud, his voice soft. A strange part of him wanted to reach out and touch the painting, but he stifled the impulse. His frown grew, and he pulled away from the painting. Turning, he continued down the stairs.

Somehow, he could feel her gaze on his back with every step he took.

A/N: Thank you guys SO MUCH for the encouragement! I really, really appreciated it. ^_^ Hopefully, I'll be able to get my chapters out a bit more quickly from now on-I bought a tablet so I can write during my 5-hour daily commute. -_-