Sorry it's been so long, everyone! Game of Thrones got the best of me :) (and, you know, paying bills and other silly things like that - who has time for a job when there's fanfiction waiting to be written?)

Chapter 9: Tightrope, Part II

"I'm not telling you anything about my family," Maggie snarled. "So if that's all you came for, you can just get the hell out now."

"Wow," Negan grinned in response to her ire, which only seemed to rankle Maggie's nerves further. "I'll admit, that is not the response I was looking for. Especially after everyone else – well, most everyone – has been bending over fucking backwards with politeness in hopes of buttering me up enough to get you back home. How disappointed are they going to be, going to all that fucking trouble and here you are not even willing to play ball."

She had nothing to say to that, and Negan watched the muscles twitch around her clenched jaw. Fucking firecracker, this one.

"But maybe it's because our introduction to one another got cut short, what with you almost dying in the middle of the goddamned road and all. Let's start over, see if we can't find some common ground. Hi, I'm Negan." He put out his hand.

"What am I supposed to do with that? Are we just gonna pretend you didn't kill Eugene for no reason? Threaten my family? Take me away from my husband? And now you want us to be friends?"

"Being friendly certainly beats the alternative," Negan tapped his fingers on Lucille's grip.

"I'm not afraid of you."

"I'm not asking for your fear. Respect would be a good idea, though, or at least faking it. Considering you," he ticked off his fingers in a callback to her earlier questions, "don't know where you are, don't know what this place is, and have no fucking clue what I've done, or could still do, to your family. Now, why don't we have ourselves a sit-down," he gestured to the small table and two wooden chairs to the side of her bed, "and see if we can't answer some of each other's burning questions."

Sitting at the table meant that Maggie would have to move around the bed, which she'd been using as a means of keeping space between her and Negan, and he knew it. He also made no move to step aside, forcing Maggie to walk within inches of him to get to either chair.

"What do you want?" she ground out through gritted teeth once she'd settled in her seat. Negan sauntered around to the other side of the small round table and plopped himself down, slouching back and stretching his legs in an exaggerated show of relaxation.

"I told you, I want to get to know you."

"Go to hell."

"I'll take that as a recommendation, you having been there quite recently yourself." Negan reached behind him to grab a folder propped on the bedside table and began thumbing through the doctor's notes on Maggie's condition. "You came awfully fucking close to losing that little one. That's a special kind of hell, fearing for your child. Knowing you could lose them and there's not one goddamned, motherfucking thing you can do to stop it."

Maggie snorted, "Oh, like you'd know something about that."

"I do, as a matter of fact. My wife, THE wife, and I had several miscarriages. One stillbirth." His voice was unexpectedly soft, "Losing a child is a terrible thing. Miscarriages are bad enough. Don't let anyone fool you, 'oh, it happens', 'better luck next time'… you could ask either of us anytime, we both knew exactly how old each of those little ones would have been if they'd lived. But to carry that little life all the way to the finish line, to feel him moving around inside her, to build the crib and paint the nursery and pick out names, then go through hours and hours of labor just for that little heart to flutter once, twice, then nothing… he never made a sound. No one could tell us why. As if knowing the why would somehow make it better. 'I'm sorry for your loss' – must be the most useless fucking sentence in the whole goddamned world. Loss, grief… like those silly little words could ever explain how it feels… not even fucking close. There are no words," he finally leveled a hard stare in her direction.

Maggie swallowed involuntarily but maintained her glare, "So what? I'm supposed to feel sorry for you now? Cut you slack on what you did to us because you've lost something? We've all lost people."

"Wow. Here I am opening up to you, sharing something private, something meaningful, and that's nothing to you? Cold, Mrs. Rhee. Very fucking cold. Okay," he leaned forward, "No pleasantries, then. Straight to the real."

He flipped the file open and started pulling phrases from her chart, "'Multiple cysts ruptured… multiple remaining cysts requiring drainage or removal… Placental separation approximately 40%... fetal development places gestation at approximately 25 weeks but size in the lowest percentile likely due to the mother's moderate but prolonged malnutrition… even with treatment may result in complications possibly including late-term miscarriage, stillbirth, or physical and/or mental deficiencies and delayed development after birth. MANDATORY modified bedrest. MANDATORY limited physical activity. MANDATORY restricted travel. MANDATORY high calorie diet (specifications to follow) throughout the remainder of the pregnancy and while nursing to ensure adequate milk production and nutrition for the infant (up to six months)… MANDATORY weekly medical checks… what in the fucking fuck am I supposed to do with you?"

He flipped the file folder shut and used it to point at Maggie's belly. "That little leech in there is bleeding me dry of food, medical resources, and you can't even work to pay it back. I need people who can contribute, who can do their fair share. According to this, you can't do anything more fucking strenuous than stroll around the fucking block a few times a day, and yet you're consuming at least twice as much food. Not to mention that weekly checks on the fucking rugrat are going to use up a shit-ton of medical gel. Do you know how fucking hard that shit is to produce? We have to grow the fucking beans now to harvest the raw gum paste, it's a whole goddamned process that takes a fucking lot of time for not a fucking lot of return on that investment. That's not a bundle of joy in there, it's a fucking parasite. And your rotten attitude, missy, is giving me abso-fucking-lutely no motivation whatsoever to keep it alive."

"If you kill me, if you kill my baby, there'll be nowhere for you to hide. We'll find you – my family will find you and make you pay."

"No. Two reasons: one, you're not my only hostage. Yeah, you missed out on quite a bit after your dramatic exit that night. Your so-called 'family' has a lot more to worry about than your sorry ass. And two: I don't have to tell them shit. I could pick up Lucille and beat the fuck, fucking, fuck out of you right now and you know what would happen? I'd have to apologize to Dr. Towers for not only wasting her time and efforts but also for the god-awful mess your blood and bones would make on the furniture. Maybe offer to help scrub the walls. But that's it. See, I don't actually need you alive. I just need the folks back home to think you are. I take them this file here, they won't even be expecting you for the better part of a year. Lot can happen in a year. They're bound to fuck up at least once. Depending on how badly they do, I tell them I'm killing you right then and there and it's all their fucking fault, or maybe I mercifully just add a few months to your time away. Stretch it out again and again. Could be years before they even begin to suspect something's up. Meanwhile, you and your little brat don't have to cost me a fucking thing. So you tell me why I shouldn't cut my losses right here and now."

"The people here, Dr. Towers, they – "

"They what?" Negan cut her off, "You think they're on your side because they've been nice to you for a few days? Wake the fuck up, sweetheart. These aren't your fucking people. They're my fucking people. That's not your fucking doctor and this isn't your fucking room or your fucking window or your fucking walls. These people and those walls and everything they're protecting? They're not yours – they're mine. My community to trade with based on relationships built over years of mutual trust and respect. And you think your little sob story is going to change any of that? Go ahead, you tell everyone you meet here how the terrible, horrible monster Negan is threatening you for no good reason. See how it goes over with them."

"You think they're not going to realize that you're using them to keep me prisoner here?"

"You want to leave? Leave. I'll put you on the back of my bike, take you out of here myself. Drop you in the middle of fucking nowhere and you can take your chances. Maybe you'll find your way home. But you will never again be able to come back here. They won't let you. They don't even want you knowing the way here. They've already heard all about you Alexandrians and how you fucking butchered my people at my outpost. And my way of telling it is the only way they're ever going to listen to here. And without their fancy diet plan and medical care, I think we both know your odds."

"So I'm not the hostage – my baby is."

Negan smiled, "Now you're catching on. And if you want that baby healthy, want me to continue forking over my considerable resources to keep it alive, then I want something in return."

"And after all that talk about how hard it was to lose a child, how you could understand what I felt," Maggie snidely remarked.

"Those were my children. I don't give a shit about yours."

"I don't believe you," Maggie's voice was soft in realization. "I think you do actually care what happens to this baby. It might be the one good thing about you."

"You might be right." Negan leaned back and gave Maggie silent permission to take her time, look him over, consider her options. A small surrender that would hopefully pay out in the long run.

After a beat, "What do you want?"

Negan smiled, "I want us to talk. Regularly. Not just today, but every time I check in on things here."

"About what?"

"Whatever. You ever see Silence of the Lambs? 'Quid pro quo, Clarice.' You answer my questions, I answer yours."

"Why?"

"I want to get to know you."

"That's not a good enough answer," Maggie argued.

"Ask better questions. Earlier, you said everybody's lost someone. Who did you lose?"

"Why?"

"Nope, my turn."

"Fine. My step-mom and brother died at our farm. My daddy was murdered by someone a hell of a lot like you. My sister was killed not long after."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have any family left? Other than your husband, I mean."

"Nope, my turn," Maggie mimicked his earlier response. "Why do you care if my baby lives?"

"I believe that children are the future."

"Quoting song lyrics? I thought you wanted me to take this seriously."

Negan grinned, "Just because Whitney Houston was probably higher than a fucking kite when she sang those words doesn't mean I don't think they're worth believing in. You've spent the last five and half years doing what, exactly? While you've been scratching out some kind of meager existence, I've been building something, a network of communities strong enough to push back the dead. An empire that can outlast all this shit. What's the point of building all that if there's no one left to keep it going? I'm going to die. You're going to die. Sooner than later, given the fucked-up odds. But your kid and my kids and all the others we save, they can keep going. And they'll remember what we did to make that possible. So, do you have any other relatives left?"

"No, they're all gone. Why is my family so fascinating to you?"

"I'm trying to understand you people," Negan stuck to his story. "Most people do things for a reason. I might think those reasons are stupid or extremely fucked-up, but that doesn't mean they didn't make sense to them. Your people killed a shit-ton of my people. But then you stopped with that one outpost. I want to understand why."

"You could just ask that."

"I could," Negan acknowledged, "But simple questions get simple answers. I wouldn't be satisfied by that, so I'm asking better questions. Why did you attack my outpost?" He contradicted his own logic to throw Maggie off her game.

"To stop you. To protect Hilltop. What about your family? You said you had kids," Maggie recalled his earlier passing mention of his own children.

"Nine kids. Four boys, five girls, another on the way but we're not sure what, we like to be surprised."

"Nine! How – "

"Seven wives," Negan supplied easily, then waited for the inevitable reaction. Maggie's face didn't disappoint.

"How the hell… seven wives?!"

"Hey now, don't knock it 'til you've tried it," he smiled knowingly. "Might not be everyone's cup of fucking tea, but it works for us. Maybe sometime I'll bring you over to my community, let you see how. You never know, might just change your life."

Tara had thought her return might spark at least a little interest, but no one even met her at the gate. Beyond a cursory 'hey, welcome back' from Francine as she opened the fencing to let her in, Tara was left to her own devices. What the hell had happened while she was gone?

Going to Rick and Michonne's house brought her some answers. While Rick and the others had journeyed to Hilltop, Enid and Carl were left at the house working together, tag-teaming babysitting Judith while working on cataloging all the books. Michonne was an avid reader and had amassed quite a collection in addition to what was already in the home when the Monroe's gifted it to them when they first arrived in Alexandria. Together, the teens explained what had happened, both out on the road and with Negan's unannounced visit.

"So what are we doing to stop him?" Tara asked.

"Nothing," Carl fumed. "Not a damn thing."

"That's not true," Enid spoke up, and, from her tone, Tara got the distinct impression that she'd been forced to play the voice of reason for Carl many times in the last week or so. "The first step to getting rid of them for good is making it so they're here as little as possible, and if making a list of books and furniture does that, then at least that's something. The less we see of Negan, the better. Especially for Judith."

A dark look passed over Carl's face that Tara chose to ignore for the moment. He was wound up tightly enough, and she didn't want to set him off without knowing what she was getting herself into. Instead, Tara reached for the next stack of books to hand over and, in doing so, exposed the rope burns on her wrists.

"What happened?" Carl latched onto her hand and pulled it closer so he could inspect her injuries further. "Was this Negan?"

"No, someone else. And I'm fine, they're just a little protective of their territory."

"Do you think they can help us?" Enid asked.

Tara shook her head, "If anything, they're more likely to help Negan. They're not with him, but they know him."

"How could you tell, did they say something?"

"I saw him," Tara revealed. "With Daryl. The two of them were in a truck trading for supplies. I couldn't see much, they only brought me over so Negan could confirm whether I was part of his group. But if I had to guess, I'd say a good bit of what the Saviors stole from here went straight to these people."

Carl stepped away to get a snack for Judith and Enid slid in a bit closer to Tara, "Whatever's going to happen, I hope we do it soon. You think Carl's being a pain in the butt? Try sharing a house with Glenn. He's going crazy and trying to rein them both in is driving me up the wall."

Negan was careful to keep pace exactly with King Ezekiel as they walked casually towards the Kingdom's front gates. Ezekiel preferred it – leaders on equal footing. Plus Shiva had a habit of growling if she felt someone was crowding her, and Negan had a healthy respect for anything that could pin him down and snap his neck in a single bite. He knew the leader's eccentric ways annoyed some, but they had never been an issue between the two of them. Negan got it – everybody needs a gimmick. He had his trademark leather jacket and scarf ensemble, and more importantly, he had Lucille. Ezekiel had his Shakespearean cadence and a tiger. To each his own.

"I appreciate you being so accommodating," Negan always found respect and a bit of over-the-top civility went a long way with the Kingdom-dwellers. Big on standing on ceremonies, this crowd.

"The Kingdom is always open to those truly in need."

"I sense a 'but' coming on," Negan noted.

"But," Ezekiel paused mid-step and turned to face Negan head-on. "I had expected that you would be taking the Alexandrian with you. She is no longer in crisis. And the hallmark of our great agreement is the Sanctuary's promise of protection from all enemies, both dead and living. Housing a dangerous foe within our walls hardly constitutes protection for the innocents who dwell here in peace."

Negan nodded, "I haven't forgotten. Just like I haven't forgotten how you and your knights came when the distress call from the satellite post went out over the radios. The relationship between our two communities is strong. I'd like to keep it that way."

"A most harrowing event. My people are still in shock that such brutality exists among the living when we should have only the dead to fear. But this is yet another reason to remove the Alexandrian from our realm. The longer she remains, the greater the risk that her people will attack here in retaliation. The Kingdom is a sovereign nation. We are happy to engage in fair trade with you and other communities who deal justly with us, but we want no part in your wars or conquests. Your physicians are as competent and capable as any I have encountered. Surely they can attend to the woman's future care."

"That one certainly looks like he's gearing up for a fight," Negan nodded his head to a man he'd never seen before, a dark-skinned figure masked in shadow as he practiced skillful moves with a single stick on the balcony behind them.

Ezekiel shifted slightly as if to put himself between Negan and the unnamed warrior. "He is a recent arrival to our dominion. A traveler who seeks a place of peace."

"His current behavior would suggest otherwise. I've never seen anyone move like that," Negan was almost as fascinated in the unique fighting style as he was the fact that Ezekiel seemed to be going out of his way to shield him from Negan. "Has he added his name to the list? He may have family or friends looking for him."

The list, or registry, was a common census they'd started in the first years as a means for people who'd been separated in the chaos to find each other. Whenever someone came into one of their communities, they'd add their names, and could also list the names of anyone specific they were searching for. Negan had spread the practice to every community he engaged, an outward gesture of goodwill, and a secret means of tallying his potential enemies. When Beth had arrived at the Sanctuary, she had eagerly added not only her name, but the names of everyone she'd lost track of from the prison, having no idea the information would later come in handy as ammunition Negan could use to keep Alexandria on its toes.

"The man has no family or friends, and he travels alone."

Ezekiel's tone was firm, putting an end to the conversation, but that wasn't what caught Negan's interest. Some people couldn't hold eye contact when they lied, but others, who knew that shifty eyes were a common sign of deception would hold their gaze stiffly, as if staring someone down with increased intensity would force the other to accept what was being said, and Ezekiel was doing that now. Why lie about him traveling alone? Who is he trying to protect, and why the need to hide them from me? Negan's curiosity was piqued, but he knew that now wasn't the time to prod.

"Alexandria has no idea where Maggie or her unborn child are," Negan used her name as an appeal to Ezekiel's humanity, "They don't know the Kingdom exists and even if they did, they have no reason to search here. As you say, the Kingdom is a sovereign nation. They're focused on me, my Sanctuary and its outposts. If that ever changes, if Alexandria attempts to even come close to this place, I will cut them down. You have my word. Dr. Towers informed me that Maggie and her child are still at risk; whatever she's done, that baby inside her is innocent, yes? The child should have the best care possible and, unfortunately, my best doctor isn't at her best at the moment. If it's an issue of resources, I'm happy to provide all that's needed for Maggie and her infant."

"The Kingdom can take care of its own, and its guests. Dr. Towers is a wise woman, and wiser still are those who heed wise words. With your assurances of safety, I will allow the woman from Alexandria to remain until her child is safely delivered into the world and is fit for travel. I am genuinely disheartened to hear of your doctor's troubles."

"Trouble isn't exactly the right word for it. Complications, maybe. We've found her husband."

Ezekiel's exuberant smile was genuine, "This is wonderful news! In her visits here, I have always known Beth Dixon to be a woman of great compassion who brings light and joy to everyone she meets. She and her children deserve every happiness in the world."

Negan nodded in agreement but then added, "Her husband was living in Alexandria. He's part of the war-party that raided our outpost."

"Complications, indeed."

"Um-hmm. He surrendered himself over to us for judgement. Haven't quite decided what to do with him yet," Negan watched Ezekiel for his reaction.

The King was thoughtful, "A noble gesture to be sure, if it's done with sincerity. Regardless, I imagine this unforeseen series of events has left the dear doctor in a difficult and stressful quandary. Her friends have become her foes and even those who know her well may judge her by their actions instead of her own good nature." He paused to consider for a moment before offering, "Please extend my sympathies to Beth, as well as my official invitation. Should she ever desire respite, whether for a moment or for any length of time, the Kingdom will always be a welcome home for her and her children."

Negan shook Ezekiel's hand firmly, "I'll be sure to pass that along." Or not. You lie to me, you can expect lies in return. And I like Beth right where she is.

"Murderer."

It was hardly the first time he'd dealt with insults or slurs, but it had been a few years now, and this was a new one. Still, Daryl had a lifetime of practice ignoring hateful comments and whispers behind his back (or to his face) and kept moving as if he'd heard nothing, hauling yet another load of firewood. The main furnace (and the rest of the original factory, for that matter) was fueled by natural gas straight from wells drilled deep in the earth beneath the compound, but newer buildings weren't connected to the pre-apocalyptic lines, and the cold rain had been unrelenting for several days now. So Daryl was made to chop and haul firewood for the school, the greenhouses, the fire-pit next to the garage. His jobs had changed every day – apparently, he was being rotated through every unpleasant task his jailers could think of to see what broke him. Unloading the supplies from Alexandria. Hauling load after load of wet laundry. Clearing out and retrenching the sewage lines when they backed up from the weather. Cleaning up after the common meal (which he was not allowed to eat – it was still dogfood sandwiches for him). From first light to sundown, Daryl was kept on his feet and on the move. Whatever, he was at his best when he was busy. And if Dwight and the others thought sore muscles, an empty belly, and harsh words were going to break him down, they'd clearly never met the likes of old Will Dixon. Turns out his entire shitty childhood was actually serving him well, preparing him with decades' worth of mental and emotional defenses. A little taunting and hard labor wasn't even making a dent in Daryl's armor.

The midday meals had been the hardest, not for the hunger but for seeing Beth from a distance, watching her juggle feeding two toddlers while trying to get in a few bites of her own meal, while also making sure she spent some quality time talking with the other two children she called her own, and while fielding greetings and questions from others at the table or passing by. And the side-eyed stares, the looks of suspicion. Daryl had noticed those, too. She brushed it all off in their nightly conversations as no big deal, but he could see it wearing on her. She was used to being liked, to easy acceptance in any social circle. And why not? She was friendly and helpful to everyone around her. Given time, even crusty jackasses like Merle had a hard time resisting her genuine smile. Of course, she had made friends here. And bringing in a valuable skill-set like all the natural healing remedies she'd learned both from Hershel and from books she poured over in the late hours between nursing two hungry babies, combined with a bright and gentle bedside manner – it was no wonder she'd become an essential part of life at the Sanctuary. But sometime between Daryl's capture/surrender and his turn from pent-up captive to a one-man chain-gang, the connection between him and Beth had become gossip fodder and spread with predictable results. The Dixon last name that had once been a comfort and a shield to her had now become an unwieldy weapon inflicting wounds on its bearer. To some, Beth's more than two years of dedication to their community meant nothing – she had been one of them once. Guilty by association. Daryl could have told her that. Being a Dixon had never done anyone any good; why would she be any different?

Except she was different; she was Beth. She didn't deserve any of this, and he had no idea how to fix it for her. Another failure. When the prison had fallen, when he'd grabbed her sleeve and pulled her along with him into the woods and away from their broken home, he'd promised himself, for Hershel's sake if not his own, that if they were the only ones left, then he'd do whatever it took to keep this one last member of their family safe. But he hadn't. Couldn't keep her safe from the bastards who'd taken her from the funeral home (which she still wouldn't talk about). And now even his name caused her more harm, at least emotionally.

And hadn't that been the fucking curveball of the century? He'd been caught completely off-guard by her revelation that first night in his cell together. Hi, missed you, haven't seen you in forever, oh by the way I'm your wife. What the hell was he even supposed to say to that? Of all the labels he'd tried to come up with to describe whatever it was they were to each other, husband and wife had never been contenders. Had never even crossed his mind. Daryl Dixon didn't date. He didn't even kiss, much less do anything else with, the bar sluts and hookers Merle had tried to shove his way when they were drifting from one shiftless deal to the next. He definitely didn't kiss (or touch, or look too long at) girls as pretty and good as Beth Green. No, Dixon. Had to get that straight in his head, because there was nothing for it, now. Beth needed him, and if this is what it took to keep Negan from trying to claim her as yet another trophy wife, Daryl would definitely step up and protect her any way he could. He just hadn't quite imagined this.

Because, of course, it wasn't just Beth. If that had been the only layer to this subterfuge, they probably would have been okay. He wasn't allowed any contact with her beyond her daily visits to his cell, and they could say whatever they wanted about what did or did not happen behind that closed door. But Beth had kids. Which meant that Daryl wasn't just playing husband, he was also playing Daddy. Something else he'd sworn he'd never be or do. He'd meant it when he told Beth all those years ago that the Dixon line ought to end with him and Merle, that cutting down the family tree would be the best thing that could happen to it. Even Merle, with all his crazy shenanigans and drunken one-night stands had always make sure that there were no little Dixon bastards running around out there. Because even his hard-headed self had gotten it. No good ever came of being a Dixon – why curse some poor hapless child with their bad blood?

And then there was the practicality of it. Sure, the twins had been born here and would have no memorable ties to him. But the older two kids… Beth had explained that she had never explicitly said that they were hers by blood, but most people just assumed they were. It had been helpful. And it had worked out fine, until this shit-storm hit. Beth had always looked young for her age (and her real age was way too young for Daryl to properly wrap his mind around considering their current supposed status), but a woman comes in with a couple of seven- and five-year-old kids, and people just assume she must be older than she appears. Beth had just never corrected their assumptions – not a lie, exactly, though Negan might take it that way. And Daryl had heard about his rules and didn't want to spend too much time dwelling on what would happen to Beth if he decided that her story constituted a serious enough offence to warrant taking a heated iron to her face. Because seven and five, now ten and seven-soon-to-be-eight, were plenty old enough to remember who their father was. To have some kind of prior relationship with him. Old enough to be expected to share stories about their memories if Negan came around asking. And how were they supposed to fake that? When he'd asked, Beth had simply smiled and told him not to worry about it. Worrying about her was all Daryl seemed to do these days. But Beth, it seemed, already had it covered.

No matter what his other duties changed to, this first job of each day, it seemed, was to be a permanent fixture. Before the sun could even make its appearance on the horizon, Daryl was out beyond the fences to stir up the walkers secured in uneven rows along the outer border. As gruesome as the sight of all the dead shackled in various positions and lengths of chain were, Daryl immediately saw the advantages. The sounds and stench of the 'living' wall formed a natural defense against any unsecured walkers who came near the Sanctuary. Much like Michonne's pet walkers from her solitary days, the walker fence acted as camouflage for the community, masking the sounds and smells of the living. As morbid as it seemed, Daryl wished they'd come up with something like this for the prison. They'd been forever struggling against walkers congregating on the outer chain link, pushing in on the ever-weakening structure. What if they had just allowed a set number to fill the man-made alley between the two fences, sectioning off the gated area so their cars could pass through freely? It wouldn't have stopped the Governor, of course, but it might have slowed down some of his soldiers as they broke down their fencing, bought people more time to escape. And all the months before that, they wouldn't have had to waste nearly as much time walking the fences every day.

The downside to the Sanctuary's walker fence was that, at night when activity died down in the open courtyards, the walkers would stop shuffling and gasping, having no fresh prey to taunt them. And noise they made was part of the protection they unwittingly provided. So, every morning, Daryl was now the designated person who went out to stir them up and deal with any walkers who had wandered up in the night. There were generally no more than a dozen or so, some stumbling in the distance through the open fields that would soon be planted with whatever crops the Sanctuary needed space for beyond what the greenhouses could handle. Others would be mixed in with the secured walkers, meaning they could (and did) lash out at Daryl with nothing to hold them back. Dwight had 'generously' provided Daryl with a couple of lengths of rusted metal rebar and would then disappear for the hour or so it took Daryl to get all the way around the compound. Either a morning smoke or an extra hour of sleep, Daryl didn't know and didn't care. It was quickly becoming his second-favorite time of the day (Beth's visits taking first place); the solitude was a welcome change of pace.

Except he wasn't alone now. On his third morning out, a boy with long-ish wavy light brown hair and hazel eyes was standing awkwardly behind him with a serious, well-crafted compound bow slightly too large for his hands and a quiver of high-grade arrows peeking over the top of his jean-jacket clad shoulder. Tim. It had to be Beth's oldest adopted child. Daryl had only seen glimpses of the kid from across the factory floor, but there was no doubt in Daryl's mind. No one else would have come right up to him like this.

"Do you mind if I practice?"

Daryl wasn't sure how to handle this. On one hand, he'd been ordered not to speak or even make eye contact with anyone, and he wasn't about to jeopardize what little time he had with Beth. On the other hand, this had to be Beth's doing – what ten-year-old willing drags themselves out of bed before sunrise to talk with the Sanctuary's resident 'war criminal' (another term of endearment he'd been given from some of the Sanctuary's residents)? And in the rain, no less? The steady drops were already plastering the boy's hair to his head. It would have been nice if she'd given him a little warning, but if she had some kind of plan in the works, better to go along with it.

"Pretty sure you don't need my permission," Daryl's lips quirked in a slight, rueful grin as glanced down at his jumpsuit, already waterlogged again even after he'd laid it out to dry on the floor after Beth left the night before. Something else he was sure his guards thought would get under his skin. He'd hunted in the rain plenty of times growing up. Didn't they realize that rain just meant free water for him to drink whenever he liked, a free shower and the only washing his clothes were likely to see?

"Not permission exactly, but I have to have an adult with me to be outside the fences. So, do you mind? I'm trying to build up my count." He lifted the bow slightly, as if that explained everything. It didn't. But Daryl wordlessly nodded and made himself more aware of the boy's location as they both worked their way around the fence. It wouldn't do for a stray walker to slip by him and bite Beth's son, after all. Not that Daryl would ever let that happen.

Tim was focused on the stragglers in the field and was, Daryl noted, a pretty good shot. Eight walkers and a bow that was clearly sized for an adult, but the small, skinny boy hit the walkers every time and only missed the kill shot on the first try with two of them. Of course, he also had the advantage of distance, all the walkers being decently far enough away that the kid could take his time lining up each shot. We'll work on that, Daryl found himself thinking. Barely fifteen minutes and it seemed he was already well on his way to stepping into the role Beth had unwittingly chosen for him.

Daryl was pleased to see that Tim had the presence of mind to draw his knife from his belt before going to retrieve his arrows. Beth had clearly taught him well. Or someone had before her. Daryl wondered not for the first time how Tim and his sister (if they were actually related before being adopted by Beth) had ended up in the same place she had. He really wished she would open up about whatever had happened to her. Patience was a lot harder than he thought it would be, at least on this front.

A few days later, and Daryl and Tim had built something of a morning ritual for themselves. Tim always waited until he saw Dwight leave before meeting Daryl on the other side of the gate. Daryl took care of any walkers who had worked their way into the fence line while Tim handled the ones in the fields, mostly working in silence. Occasionally, Daryl would correct Tim's stance or grip with quiet words, or encourage Tim to wait until the dead had come closer before lining up his shot so he'd learn to do it faster. When they were nearly done, Tim would jog out to each body and collect his arrows before slipping back through the main gate and into the factory before Dwight could see him.

But this morning, the rain was a little lighter than it had been for the last several days, only a drizzle, really, and it seemed as good a time as any to change up their routine. "Do you earn points for each kill?"

Tim paused mid-pull on the bowstring but didn't ask for clarification before answering, "Not yet. Once you turn ten, you get to start counting each dead one you put down. When you get to 1,000, you're a grown-up, sort-of. If you hit the mark before you're eighteen, you still go to school, but only half-time. The other half, you can find a mentor, someone who can teach you a trade, and you earn half-points while you're learning from them until they say you're good enough that you don't have to be taught anymore. And you get 1000 points for hitting that mark. Most use it to buy their first gun, 'cause you can't have one until you prove you can take care of yourself without it. If you turn eighteen and you still haven't put down 1,000 walkers, then you stop going to school, but you can't pick any work that would take you outside the fences, and you can't carry a gun. If you're really smart, they might let you pick what job you want to learn, but most people who can't hold their own just go work in the kitchens or laundry or something like that. You get the points from your earlier count, but you can't use them on any kind of weapon. Plus everyone knows you couldn't hack it."

"Don't think you gotta worry about that. Rate you're goin', you'll hit your thousand kills before summer." Daryl wasn't exaggerating by much – roughly ten walkers a day meant somewhere around 300 a month. If Negan was looking to create child soldiers, he was off to a good start. Tim and all his classmates could have guns in hand before they hit puberty. Daryl had seen first-hand how Carl had struggled with handling that power at a young age.

"I doubt it," Tim's dejected tone brought Daryl back to the moment. "I mean, yeah, I'm getting a lot now, but that's just because no one else thought to get out here early enough. Or they couldn't talk their parents into it. You have to have an adult with you until you've hit the mark. Mom tries, but she's awful busy and I don't want to be a bother. Besides, at least 300 have to be hand-to-hand. It'll probably be years before I can do that."

Daryl frowned deeply. No, he didn't want the boy toting a gun and raiding communities with the Saviors, but he also didn't like the self-doubt he heard in the kid's voice. Reminded him too much of himself. He stopped jerking at the chained walkers and stepped in front of Tim, mentally noting the small cluster of walkers ambling towards them in the distance. "First off, your Mama would never think of you as a bother, so you can cut that shit out now. And what makes you think you can't kill a walker close-up? Got a knife, don't ya?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm too short to reach." Tim clearly thought that much was obvious.

Secretly, Daryl agreed that Tim was small for his age. But he hadn't been much taller himself and he'd managed to turn out decent enough. "Bein' short is just like anythin' else. It ain't a weakness unless you let it be. Use it right and being small works in your favor. You ain't too short, they're too tall. You can bring them down to your level, but they always gotta over-reach to get to you, and that puts 'em off balance."

He took one of the lengths of rebar he'd been given to poke at the fence walkers and offered it to Tim. "Shoulder the bow and take this in your right hand, knife in your left."

"But I'm right-handed. Shouldn't I put the blade in my best hand?" Even as he asked, Tim moved to follow Daryl's instructions.

"Your right arm's your strong arm. In a fight, it's the one you bring up first, so it's the one you want to swing and block with. Give the rebar a practice swing."

Tim did and nearly lost control. "It's too long, it doesn't feel right."

"Tuck it in your jacket sleeve and slide it back until the balance feels good."

It took him a few tries to get it right, but now the bar, Daryl explained, was acting as protection for his arm as well as a weapon.

Daryl guided the boy back towards the fence to a walker whose chain gave it a little more leeway than some of the others. "Now watch what I do. I'mma go slow and talk it through."

"But shouldn't we –" Tim pointed back to the approaching cluster. "They're coming up awfully fast."

"Nah," Daryl dismissed, "They're comin' at the same speed they always do. They ain't a problem until they actually get here. You learn to mark the pace, keep time in your head, ya ain't gotta watch 'em. You'll know when they're comin'. When they get here, what you wanna do is bring 'em down at the back of the knee at an angle," Daryl demonstrated by walking directly up to the chained corpse but dodging left when he was just out of reach and swinging his own rebar to connect solidly with the side of the walker's leg at the joint. As he'd anticipated, it fell forward and away from him, not bothering to throw its arms out to catch itself before its face hit the dirt. Daryl pivoted on his foot and mimed a knife strike with his empty left fist to the back of the walker's skull.

"Don't matter how tall you are once it's on the ground. Just don't give it time to turn around on ya. But if it does, step back, let it get to its feet, try again. Think you got it?"

Tim nodded and adjusted his grip on his knife handle. They both turned back to face the oncoming group, four walkers who all seemed to have died around the same time years ago judging by their rate of decay.

"Your Mama teach you how to break up a group?" Another silent nod. "Good, take 'em one at a time. Here we go."

They moved apart, Daryl drawing the three closest while not moving too far away that he couldn't step in if Tim lost his footing or otherwise couldn't hold his own, but the kid had a knack for it. His first swing was a little too hesitant, but he darted backwards and then moved right back in for a more solid hit, dodging to the side just as Daryl had shown him. One by one, Tim brought each down to its knees and finished it off with a quick jab, using the rebar for purchase to pull his blade back out and face the next one.

When they were all down, Tim had a small but satisfied grin on his face, which Daryl returned with an upward jerk of his head in acknowledgement of a job well done.

"Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Daryl turned back to the gate to see Dwight leveling his loaded crossbow in their direction.

"You did nothing wrong," he was quiet but firm with Tim. "You walk right through that gate and straight to your Mama and you let me deal with him."

They walked side by side through the drizzling rain back to the opening in the fence, where Dwight was waiting to grab Daryl by the scruff of his sweatshirt and jerk him inside. "The fuck gives you the right to talk to any of us, huh?"

Despite what Daryl had told him, Tim wasn't going inside, but doing his best to match the two men's quick pace across the courtyard. "Mr. Anders, please, I was just working on my count and he was keeping watch for me, that's all."

But Dwight wasn't hearing any of it, "I told Negan you'd fuck up sooner or later."

"And how exactly did Daryl fuck up, if I may ask?"

Negan's voice was like a gunshot across the empty yard. Dwight whirled around in surprise, dragging Daryl with him and then forcing him to his knees. From the edges of his vision, he could see Tim on one knee as well.

Negan sauntered over from the greenhouse he'd just exited, his belt undone and t-shirt askew, his leather jacket being used by one of his wives as a makeshift umbrella. She should have been using it as an overcoat, Daryl thought to himself. Her silky nightshirt barely covered the tops of her thighs and the fabric wasn't much protection against the wet spring morning's chill.

"Kid, up," he twitched two fingers in Tim's direction until the boy was standing in front of him. "What's your count up to so far?"

"48, Mr. Negan."

Negan nodded his approval, "And you just turned ten, what, couple of months ago?"

"January, yes, sir."

"Damned impressive. That's your mother's bow, am I right? She teach you how to use it?"

Daryl watched Tim nod from his place on the ground, Dwight still bearing down on his neck with a tightly-squeezing hand.

"Well, that's some damned fine work you're doing out there. Not too many your age would take the initiative to get up and at 'em this early in the morning. Not too many adults, either, for that matter." Negan turned to his wife, "This boy's been out there every morning for days now clearing the dead creeping out of the tree line. You think ours will have his drive when they get old enough?"

The woman giggled, "They've got enough fight in them now, that's for sure. I should get in there before they wake up and realize there's no one to stop them from tearing their room apart."

Negan grinned and pulled her in for a kiss, "You do that, I'll be up soon enough."

"I bet you will," her hand brushed across his pant zipper. He caught her lip between his teeth in response before pulling back slowly with a smirk.

"To be continued…" he promised before letting go so she could head inside.

"Sorry about that, kid," though his tone was about as far from apologetic as it could be. "Refresh my memory, what's your name?"

"Tim Dixon, sir."

"And which group are you in, Tim Dixon?"

"Mr. Derek and Ms. Price are our teachers, Mr. Negan."

"Yeah, that doesn't actually help me, kid – what's your team name? What do you call yourselves?"

"We don't have one yet."

"Ah, the new class," Negan looked on, considering. "I'm not in the habit of telling the teaching staff how to run things, but from what I've heard, whenever they have to split off a new youth team, they tend to draft out the misfits from the other groups. The ones who don't belong, the ones the other kids are afraid might hold their team back. But in my experience, underdogs can surprise you. They've got something to prove. You're shaping up to be a hell of a fine shot from what I've seen. You keep up the good work, Tim Dixon. I'm expecting big things out of you. Go on, now, get ready for school."

Once the boy had shut the factory door behind him, Negan rounded on Dwight, whom he still hadn't allowed to stand. "Tell me, Dwighty-boy, that you were not about to interrupt my morning fuck with some stupid-ass bullshit whining."

Daryl had dealt enough bullies in his lifetime to know when to keep his mouth shut. Dwight, apparently, hadn't been blessed with that particular wisdom. "You said he wasn't allowed to speak to anyone, and I just found him not only talking to but – "

"Holy fucking shit, a father teaching his son survival skills – stop the fucking presses, it's a goddamned sign from heaven above! News flash, dick-head, the kid's been going out there for four days now. You'd know that if you weren't dropping Daryl off outside the gate and then hightailing it to the showers to jack off."

Daryl watched with grim satisfaction as the blush rose in Dwight's scarred cheek. "I'll keep a closer eye on him from now on."

"Why fucking bother? He's not going anywhere. So he's teaching his kid a useful skill, the kid will turn around and use it to make our people stronger and safer – the fuck would I care about stopping that? Give Daryl his to-do list for the day and then get yourself back on the job like everybody else, instead of hiding behind him as an excuse to laze about all fucking day long. Vacation's over, D."

That went better than it could have, Daryl thought as Negan strolled away whistling. Crisis averted, at least this time around. Of course, with his luck, the next one was bound to be right around the corner.

Already hard at work on the next chapter. Until then, all reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated!