A slow chapter after the last one, but I felt needed.

And before groups finally make it back together, we're gonna follow Amanda and Rick with the girls for a while.

XXIV.

As appropriately as the rest of her 30th day went, they were heeding toward south, the opposite direction of the funeral house.

As the gunshots that Lizzie had used to kill the sonofabitches who had been about to leave them wounded for rotters, more of them drew their attention to them from the fences at the north side, and had started limping to them—so they'd had no option but go toward the south.

She guessed they could've made a wide arc after they cleared out of the prison's swarming with rotters grounds now, but the sun was almost down, and Rick—well, Rick wasn't in any condition to make a trekking trip at night.

Her eyes skipped at him as they still hobbled together, his arm over her shoulder for support, hers coiled around his waist, her other hand held the gun she'd taken from Lizzie as the girls walked in front of them a few feet away.

She barely held a sigh as they walked out to the dirt path road, four of them, Amanda, a man who could barely walk on his own, a ten years old girl, and a twelve years old girl with a thing for butchering animals, the same girl who had saved them from a certain death.

The same girl Amanda had no idea what to do with.

Leaving her somewhere out in the woods was the simplest and easiest choice—but…but how could they do it? Not only because she had saved them, but psychopathic tendencies or not, she was still a child. The cat at the board they had found flashed in her mind, but Amanda pushed it away—no… She—she just couldn't think on it, even think on it. She—tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

When Rick started managing to form up coherent sentences more than a few words. She just couldn't deal with this now. Not after everything had happened. It was a long day, such a long day. They—they needed to be practical now. Get themselves to safety, the sky was darkening, in half an hour, they'd have it completely dark.

They needed to find a shelter to hole up. They couldn't stay out, not like this. Especially not when Rick was like this. They needed to deal his wounds before they got infected, and his blood started poisoning. They got priorities. They would happen next was a problem for tomorrow. Not for tonight.

Then suddenly understanding they were heeding at the opposite direction, Rick halted on his wobbling, "This—this's south—" he told her through half split lips, his words coming out rasping as he struggled with each breath. Amanda wondered how many hits he'd taken at his ribs before he'd gotten stabbed as well. One side of his face over his eye was swollen too, bloodied and bruised, and he really looked like shit.

But alive, Amanda reminded himself, that was the bottom line, not like others… Not like Beth's father—not like others she'd seen at the grounds devoured—people she couldn't even recognize anymore—She wished all the other kids, Maggie, Joan and Noah were somewhere safe too—and she had to find them! She didn't know how, but she had to find them too.

They should've left—they just should've left—The harboring anger in her insides was there again with the thought, winding at her edges, and she really—really wanted to turn and scream at him what the hell he'd been thinking, but she didn't. There was also no time for that tonight.

"Girls—" she whispered at the girls who were putting some distance between them when Rick had stopped, "Don't go far away—" she warned again, "Only three steps away."

Three steps—she could grab them quickly, leaving Rick, if something—someone walked out. She turned to Rick then, tightening her arm over his waist to drag him again, "Yes—the closest town is at this side of the road—" she told him, "We need to find a place to pass the night. We can't make a turn at north."

He stopped again, shaking his head, "We—we need to get there—" he opposed.

Amanda yanked him again, resuming walking, "No. The sun's almost down. You're not in a good shape. We need to get you inside."

"No—Carl—"

She cut him off, "Is with Daryl and Beth. Daryl—who took out a tank all on himself," she reminded him, twisting aside to look at him again, "Rick—you need to take care of yourself first. It'll be no good to your kids if you die of an infection or a rotter got a bite of you in the woods at night." She paused, "I told them to wait two days for us. We still have time."

"Is—is it safe?" he questioned with the same rasp low from his throat.

She gave off a shrug with her free shoulder, "We used to try to keep a track of it—make trips in a couple of months if we can manage. We were going to there to check it, too, when Gorman left me behind. It was how I got stranded around the prison's whereabouts," she explained further, "We—we can't stay there indefinitely, but we can hang around for a couple of days."

He shook his head, "I don't like it—I don't like them being there—"

"Would you prefer them being out in the woods?" she asked back, getting cross. It was their best shot. She didn't like it, as well, but it was better than alternative, "With Judith? Really?"

That got him shut up, she sighed out, "First things first," she told him then, "We need to patch you up. You're no good to anyone like this—" she repeated, putting an emphasis on the last word with a hiss.

His head inclined down, his bloodied face gave her a look, and it was still intimidating in his current state, Amanda had to admit. But he didn't say anything in return.

"What about them?" he asked a couple of minutes later as they hobbled towards the skirts of a small suburban town, a couple of white houses with porches and sidings appearing at the each side of the road as the dirt woods road widened into a paved one, long willowy trees sweeping in the air with wind.

It was dark now, the sun finally set down. Amanda shook her head, giving a look at the girls walking a few feet away from them, "That, Rick," she said with a long, loaded sigh, "is a problem for tomorrow."

# # #

Standing leaning against the door's frame, Amanda shot at him a look, then shook her head, "No. You stay back—" she ordered him again, and this was getting…tiring, "I got this."

Tightening the gun in his hand, the gun he'd taken from the little girl, Mika, Rick gave her a terse look, or at least he tried to, "No."

She sighed out. "Rick—" she whispered at him fiercely from the other side, "Which part from 'you're not in a good shape' you didn't get?"

This time he snickered, giving her another look, a retort that that she really looked like adequately in shape to clear the houses off, still standing her sports bra, her face, her neck, her chest, even her flat stomach dirtied and bloodied, but he didn't, because every word caused a fire in his lungs, and his ribs were hurting each time he breathed, and his wounds were throbbing, and he was still losing blood, so yeah, maybe he wasn't in good shape.

"I can do it—" the psychopathic girl suddenly said a few feet away from them at the porch, just Amanda had stationed them, "I can protect you. Carol taught us how. You taught us, too."

Rick wanted to heave out a long sigh then, really did. The reality—the reality that they were saved by the girl had turned his blood to acid, and the bitter irony was there, too, not that Rick would've missed it. Carol taught us…

He had no idea what they were going to do with the girl. Should he send the girl away like he'd done to Carol? The girl—the girl was a psychopath—the animals—that poor cat—that poor cat on the board. She was a timebomb. Rick-he wouldn't risk it, wouldn't risk Carl and Judith like that.

Carl and Judith.

He needed to find them. He needed to protect them.

But Amanda was also right, it was no good to them if he died tonight out there in the woods wounded, or blood poisoned. Like always, sharp, insensitive, and harsh, Amanda was right. He was no use to them dead.

It was just another failure, the worst of the kinds.

For a second, he remembered the hands strangling him, and how it'd felt as he'd thought he was dying—before he'd seen Amanda—failing them again… then his bleak thoughts suddenly interrupted as he saw Amanda nodding at the girl.

His head snapped back at her, Rick shook his head, "No."

No.

Psychopath or no, Rick wasn't going to use any children to cover his ass. No.

But Amanda returned his look with a pointed one, "Rick—"

"No."

She crossed the threshold and came at his side, inches apart from him so the girls couldn't hear them talking, "Look at her, Rick," she whispered at his ear, her voice still having a fierceness, "She's still as cold as ice. She's got a good aim. She shot at them just at the bull's eye." Tilting his head down, he gave her another look, "Rick—I—I—please, let's do it, 'kay. It was a long day today. I just want to go inside and finish it—"

A long, long day. And yes, Rick didn't want anything other than finish it so he could look for his kids tomorrow.

They were good, he told himself again. They were good with Daryl and Beth. If there was anyone Rick would've wished to take care of his kids if something happened to him, it was no one else than Daryl. Daryl—he was like a brother to him, loved Carl and Judith as his own, would always protect them no matter what, keep them safe or die trying. He knew it.

And Beth—Beth would've loved them as her own, too, would care them like she always did. They were lucky, he told himself, Amanda was right. He was still alive, and his kids were out, going somewhere relatively safe within the best company of people Rick would've wanted them to be with.

Still, he couldn't hide behind a twelve years old child.

"'s 'kay—" he mumbled out, holding her upper arm, "'m 'kay—we do it together. You lead."

Understanding, it was a fight she couldn't win, she nodded briskly, "All right. Let's do it."

With her left hand crossed, she held the door's handle, getting into defense position as Rick pulled back at the other side, letting her take the lead, and she opened it with a quick but expert move, gun already trained ahead—Rick covering her back, his legs almost trembling as he stood up on his own.

God, every nerve at his body were aching—but she walked in warily, so he followed, their backs facing the walls, checking out the rooms.

Rick went to the left side as she walked to right—and it wasn't a big house, thank god, there was upstairs but downstairs only had a living room—so they covered it quickly.

"Clean—" he heard her from upstairs a couple of minutes later as he was checking the kitchen.

"Kitchen clean—" he answered back shortly and walked back to the living room.

Clean.

He bowed his head, a prayer at his lips even though he didn't believe in any god, he—he just wanted to thank something today—he didn't even know what…

Amanda quickly climbed down the steps as the girls came inside too, and she closed the door, as Rick bending down, holding his side, tried to push the couch toward the door to secure it.

Running to him, she pushed him aside, "I got it—" she said, placing her hand on the couch's armrest and started pushing it. Too tired of fighting with her, Rick let her do it, and threw himself over it when she was finished.

Amanda turned to the girls then as Rick leaned back at the couch, a sigh at the tip of his lips again, but it just hurt so much—his side burning with fire—every breath felt like someone stabbing at his chest, "Girls, go up and try to find something to wear for us. Shirts or tee shirt…Quick—" she ordered the girls, too, and turning aside, she looked at him, "I'm gonna try to find a first-aid kit or something—" she told him, her eyes fixing at him a warning look, "Wait here."

Rick gave out a little scoff, shaking his head a little— he must've gotten used to get bossing around by her—and the girls came back a few minutes later, holding two white basic tee shirts. He took one of them and started standing up to go to the bathroom to check out his wounds.

She came back from it as the same time, too, and gave him a look, "Nothing—" she fumed in angrily, "Nothing—no antiseptics, no bandages. There's nothing."

He nodded, limping on his good leg, "'s 'kay. I'll handle it."

She shook her head, walking him to the bathroom, holding his elbow, "We need to cleanse the wounds. They can't stay that way." She shook her head again, closing her eyes, Rick caught her as his eyes skipped at her for a second, "There gotta be something."

"Wine—" he told her, "Look if there's wine—if we can boil it, we can use it to cleanse the wounds."

She gave out a sharp breath. "Yes, of course—" She turned aside backward then, "Lizzie—Mika—" she gave out a bit loud call, "We need wine. Look for it." She turned to him then, "You go wait at the couch," she ordered him again, "I'm gonna look if there's still gas at the cooker."

"Amanda—stop bossing me around," he hissed at her, taking his arm away, and limped at the bathroom, "Go look for the cooker. I'm at bathroom."

She glared at him again, her eyes lit, and spat, "Fine," before she turned and walked away to the kitchen.

He wanted to sigh out again, she was right. It'd been such a long day. And he only wanted it to end now, as well.

He walked into the bathroom and found the mirror. There was dust and…other stuff over the tinted glass, and reaching out a hand, he wiped it off, and saw his reflection in its depth…

A mess. A bloodied, marred, ruined wreck.

His lungs firing, he breathed out a sigh, and forced his arms backward to take off the ripped off shirt, holding the blood covered white tee over his wound, his leg throbbing—and giving a sharp hiss of pain, he leaned forward as every muscle, every nerve in his body hurt—and he dropped himself over the toilet, sitting down, his eyes blackened out. Swallowing his pride, muttering a curse under his breath, he called out with a rasp, "Am—Amanda—"

In three seconds, she was back at the bathroom. She didn't say a word, upon seeing him, she walked to him, he barely registered, and wordlessly helped him to take the damn shirt off.

She tried to lower its good side over his shoulder as he hissed with pain, as Rick understood she'd put on the other white tee, too, then stopped her movement, hearing his hiss. She drew back a second, and shook her head, "Forget about it—" She grabbed the shirt, started ripping it off of him, smirking at him down as he lifted his eyes up at her, "Quicker."

Another sigh at the tip of his tongue, Rick didn't say anything. "I found the cooker. Still working," she informed him, taking a step back as Rick nodded, standing up his torso naked to look at the mirror to see his injuries.

"Is that it?" she asked then suddenly from his behind.

He gave her a look back over his shoulder, twisting aside. She pointed at the scare at his backside, "You said you survived worse. Is that it?" she asked, "What you survived?"

Turning back in the mirror, Rick nodded. "Yeah. I—I got shot chasing two preps—" he told her slowly, rasping on his breath, his eyes lowered to check his ribs, "There was a third one. Didn't k-know it. He shot me."

She nodded. Rick saw the gesture in the mirror as he lifted his head. "I got shot once too before, at my shoulder. Nothing that bad—" she pointed at his back with her head, Rick saw from the mirror, "But well, I almost quit." She shook her head with a sigh, and there was something in her tone when she said, something Rick didn't know how to name, "I guess getting shot makes one do that—you know…reconsider your life choices."

Their eyes caught for a second in the mirror again, and Rick couldn't be sure if she were talking about past, or what had happened to her at Grady, then his eyes caught her loose hair again. She—she had untied her hair again. When he'd spoken to them—when he'd told them they could all change, she had freed her hair again.

Rick wasn't an idiot. He knew what the gesture had meant.

He wondered what she was thinking now. He knew she was possibly mad at him, because how things had turned out. He could feel the sentiment…boiling beneath her, under her annoying bossy attitude, simmering. She was trying to keep it off, but Rick still could sense it, but she wasn't making a scene, so Rick wasn't going to, either.

"Yeah—" he said, bowing his head again, "Never had the chance," he told her then, "I was in coma for two months—" he remarked further, his eyes downward at his wounds, and he slowly lifted her shirt to look at the stab wound, "When I woke up, I saw the world I knew had already ended."

"What?" she rasped out with a small voice behind him.

He tried to give a shrug off and failed, "They—sort of forgot me in the hospital," he explained, "It was at the beginning of the outbreak. My partner—he barricaded the door with a roll-away bed when the hospital was overrun, and military started shooting people. So—well, I stayed there until I woke up—a month or so later."

"You survived like that?"

He nodded, turning, "Yeah." He held the washbasin's edge. He motioned his ripped off shirt at the tiles where she'd disposed it off, and bending down, Amanda took it up.

She frowned as she handed him the shirt, "But Carl and—your wife—how did you find them again?" she questioned further.

"After I checked our home, I went to the city—" he explained, starting to tie the ripped off shirt over her tee at the wound, and again failing. He had no idea how this talk had turned to this, but here he was talking what had happened. He tried to make another attempt to tie the shirt, but with a sigh, Amanda walked to him, and took it in silence.

She'd started doing it, and Rick let her again. There was nothing he could do else. He couldn't even turn his damn back. "Glenn was at the city too for a supply run with his group," he told her then as she began wrapping the shirt over hers, "He—he found me in the city. I was about to get devoured by a herd. Hid in a tank—" She lifted her eyes up at him after that, "He helped me. Got me out of there, and out of the city. His group had a camp outside the city. I went with them—I thought Carl and Lori might've left the city, too. I was right. They were at the camp, too. Shane—" his breath hitched, and she darted at him another glance, "My partner got them out when the bombings started."

She swallowed lowly in her throat, Rick—heard it, her eyes trained at his side as she wrapped the shirt around his torso—and shook her head, "I—I thought stuff like this only happens in movies—" she muttered, "People coming back from death—finding their families."

Bracing himself for the pain, he snorted out, "Says the girl who had a memorial done on her name," he muttered back.

She burst out a little laugh at that, lifting her head at him again, her fingers stopping at his side, "Yeah—kettle calling pot, right?"

His eyes on hers, he nodded, "Something like that—" Their eyes lingered on each other for a split of second, a sudden silence befalling on them—

"Amanda!" Lizzie's voice echoed in the bathroom, cutting through it, and they both flinched back at the same time… "I found wine!"

She twisted aside, looking at the girl as Rick bowed his head—breathing out—his lungs on fire—he swallowed.

"Wine—" she breathed out throaty, walking to the girl, and repeated, "Wine…"

She took the bottle from the girl, tightly gripping it, and bowing her head, too, she stayed like that for a second before she turned back to him.

When she spoke the next, her voice was clear, "I'm gonna boil it. You go over the couch and lie down." She paused, "You need to take off your pants, too." Another pause, "Lizzie, help Rick."

With that, she turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving her with the girl.

# # #

As Amanda walked toward the kitchen, she told herself it was nothing, just a slip. They just had…a moment. It—it meant nothing.

It was nothing.

Just the close space of the bathroom, the nostalgia of the past, and the exhaustion of the day—her fucking 30th day!

A day just couldn't end!

And—she was still mad at him! She still kept it…civilized because she damn knew he was already battening himself up for it, but she was still mad at him. Beth and his kids were out there, the other kids were out who-knows-where. She had no idea where Joan and Noah were. She had no idea where Maggie was…. People died!

Hershel Greene, one of the best men she had never know, had died—just because Rick Grimes couldn't have admitted the defeat.

It was stupid—all too stupid.

They could've just left. It still would've been hard, but at least they could've been together now—alive.

She let out a sigh, opening the cupboards in the kitchen to find a pan to boil the wine. God, this was going to suck. It was going to hurt.

Then it happened again, her anger dispelled, leaving its place into sadness again—and she shook her head. She was so tired, so tired. She found a saucepan from of the cupboards and took it out. Opening the bottle with the corkscrew she'd found in the drawer she poured the liquid inside the pan.

She knew it wasn't his fault. Rick hadn't caused this. He hadn't wanted this.

It was—it was that damn bastard's fault, no one else but that bastard…but—but—

She gave out a sigh, stirring the wine, too tired, too tired…

And why—why the hell it was so hard to stay mad at him?

God, perhaps she should've just said yes when Daryl had told her to take the kids out in the woods with Beth. She hadn't thought it could've been this hard with Rick—

She shook her head. No. She was just being dramatic. Like him.

It was just a moment. They were both tired, and lost people today, Rick worse than her, a way worse than her. He'd lost—his home, Amanda knew. The thing was that even though she'd been trying to adapt—even though she had been trying to make her own place in it, the prison had never been her home. Not like how it'd been to Rick.

They were tired, they were wounded, they were—heartsick.

She looked at the pan—the boiling wine—and shook her head. God. This was going to hurt like a bitch.

She heaved out deeply, and turning off the cooker, she brought the pan in the living room. He was waiting for her at the couch as she'd instructed, leaning backward, rested against the couch's back—and his head was tossed back too, his neck—his Adam's apple swelling in his throat, and his eyes were tightly shut closed.

And he looked so…tired…so weary…so heartsick, for a second or so Amanda just wanted to give him a hug—something like Beth would've done—expecting nothing in return, but just companionship, a bond of camaraderie for the shared loss and pain—but Amanda wasn't Beth.

She didn't do it—she even didn't know how—and even if she did, Rick would've only gotten more anxious, because Amanda wasn't Beth, and Rick knew that, as well.

And, he was still wearing his jeans, even his belt she'd looped around was still at its place. "Rick—" she told him, walking to the couch, "We need to do this."

His eyes still closed, he nodded, "I know…" he muttered.

The girls came into the living room, too, and Amanda felt a bit better with the company. But straightening back, Rick gave them a look. "Girls—" he called them with a stern voice, "Go upstairs. Lock the door in. And don't come out until we call you."

Both of the girls gave him a look, and Rick stared at them, "Up. Now."

At the same time, they both bolted at the staircase and started going up, and soon Amanda heard a door locked in. She turned to Rick, almost amused.

"You know what she does, right?" she asked, giving him a look, and even a faint smile played across her lips. God—she was losing it. She was losing it.

Rick shrugged. "They're still kids—" he said back, started unwrapping his ripped shirt he'd tied around his torso, "I'm not gonna let them watch it as you torture me."

Amanda gave out another faint smile, her lips not parting, and placed the saucepan on the ground beside the couch. Rick started taking off the belt over his leg too as she started cutting the sheet the girls had found with a scissors. The sheet even looked clean.

Then slowly, he started unzipping his jeans, and lowered them down over his hips, revealing the bullet wound. Amanda bowed her head a little to give him privacy, she really didn't want to make things harder for him, and a few seconds later, in his boxers, he lay down over the couch—his jeans pooled over below his hips… He took his belt then, and folded it in two, "I'll probably go out, but don't stop," he instructed, rising the belt toward his mouth, as she walked closer to the couch, "Cleanse the wounds and wrap them with the sheet."

She nodded, stopping beside him, and looked at him, "I'm sorry."

"It's 'kay—" he told her back, putting the folded belt between his teeth, and nodded at her, his hands gripping the couch's sides.

Amanda knelt down and started pouring the hot alcohol liquid at his open wounds.

His body jerked up, his fingers turning to white as he clutched the edges, and pain must be intolerable, as his eyes reddened with tears as his head tossed over the armrest, his screams silencing through the belt between his teeth, and her own sight got blurred too, but she kept pouring.

Soon, his body fell down, loosing consciousness out of pain—and Amanda still poured as he had instructed, first the knife wound, then bullet wound—cleansing—making sure he survived—for his family.

# # #

When she was finished, the moon was up in the sky, Amanda saw from through the cracks of the shades at the windows.

And inside the room was dark too, only light source was the dim moonlight barely swept through the cracks of shades. He was still out, his breaths heaved out deeply with his injuries, and without further furniture in the room, Amanda was sitting at the floor, her back resting against the staircase—girls at the upstairs.

She was so tired—she could fall asleep at any moment, but she forced herself to stay awake—the gun in her lap—someone had to keep a watch.

Someone had to keep an eye on him—make sure he was…okay.

For all the things, he'd done for her—for all of them, Amanda could do it at least. She still couldn't know how she could be mad at someone and feel…compassion at the same time… She didn't understand, and it was very…confusing, the very reason why she never wanted things to get complicated…why they should keep their distance, but as of the moment, she felt she was doing a very poor job of it.

He stirred in his unconsciousness pain induced coma-sleep—and she remembered what he'd told her—being in a coma—finding his family again, his kid and wife—and his partner—and she knew there was even more drama there, but all in honesty she didn't want to know more anymore. The danger bells had set off in her again, and she also knew what that meant.

She let out a sigh again, pulling her legs closer to her chest, and rested her head over her knees, her loose hair falling over her shoulders, and she gave out another sigh—stupid, so stupid…

Then he stirred again, his breaths turning to growls—low growls out of his chest—and for a second, all of her thoughts stopped as she listened to the sound—afraid—her insides turning to cold…

No—No… he couldn't.

He—he-he'd just lost consciousness. Out of pain.

He—she swallowed, dread and fear gripping her chest, and pulled back on her feet slowly—slowly walking toward the couch, so—so slowly—afraid—afraid what to see…

His hand dropped over the floor, and trembled—

No…

And he growled out, and she heard it—the sole one utterance of a name, a single syllable, as if it were what mattered "Carl—"

And she blinked, tears suddenly breaking over her eyes, "Safe—stay safe—" he muttered, "Judy—" his baby girl's girl followed, "Safe…"

And Amanda smiled, walking to him, and sat beside him at the couch's side, still smiling, wondering for a second how it would've been having a father like him—then another thought found her, even before she could understand it was there—blossoming out of her mind as if it'd been already there—only waiting for her to realize it—and—and she wondered…wondered how it would be having a child with someone like him, having his baby—suddenly over her eyes they were together again as he held baby girl close to his chest, as a beam of sunlight fell on over them over the barred windows, and she almost sobbed on a breath… The image—the image so vivid in her mind—

Then she heard it—another name—almost a moan—leaving off his lips with such a longing, with such a yearning—and Amanda froze, as if turning into a statue…her limbs made of marmoreal.

She stood up from the couch as Rick moaned again… "Lori…"

So, if anyone wants to throw something at Rick, be my guest. LOL.

But I just had to do it-because I feel like in these parts Rick still was dealing with the loss of her, and his guilt, and the loss of the prison just came at the top of it, I think. I really don't want to make Rick move on from her to Amanda in a matter of blink. He he. That's not Rick. He's-a bit loser...you know... LOL. I'd laughed so hard at Season 2 when he practically put the words of reason in Lori's mouth when Lori couldn't answer him why she slept with Shane-and he told it himself, "you thought me dead-" and Lori was all like-"yeah-?" with a nod. I really laughed out at that...HARD.