A/N: If you're trying to avoid spoilers for the early seasons of the show, I would wait to read the following chapters until after you've seen all of season 2. I'll try to remember to put another warning in once you should see season 3 before reading.

Hope you guys are enjoying it!

XxXxX

Chapter 33.

Stories.

"It was just before nighttime."

Amy seemed ten years old again, that little tremor in her voice – the same one she had when she admitted that she had stolen and broken a whole case of jewelry from their mother. Andrea wanted to pull her close, to protect her from her words, but she had wanted to hear this story for a while.

"I was in the living room talking to mom, and dad was… he was in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, I think." Amy pressed a smile, her eyes beginning to glisten. "We heard him shout, because he saw something out the window. I'm not sure what it was, really, but he ran out the back door. When me and mom got to the door, he was already…"

Andrea scooted closer to her sister, wrapped an arm around her.

Amy said, "Mom went to help him, but I was just frozen. I couldn't move. I couldn't move."

So, that was how it happened. Andrea could see the scene in her head. Her tough old dad going out to help someone, probably, and her mom, loyal, faithful, doing what came naturally. When she arrived the next day, having spent the whole night pushing through the city in her sedan, she found Amy locked in the house by herself, with no sign of their parents. Her sister couldn't speak. She only cried. Andrea put her in the car and took her on the highway, trying to get out of the city.

It only got worse from there.

"You did the right thing by staying inside," Andrea said, at last, knowing it was what the kid needed to hear. "You know that the moment the walker bit them, it was over."

Amy's tears spilled over, and she gave a little whimper, said nothing.

It was nighttime at the quarry, appropriate, given the dark nature of that story. Andrea and Amy sat against the RV tire together, at the edge of the firelight. Everyone was grim that night, coming off of a strange few days. Daryl was back, staying after Shane tried to vote him out. Supplies were low and everyone was starving. Imminent runs hung over them. Andrea would be going out first thing in the morning. She wanted to spend this one last night with Amy, in case she never made it back. She wanted her sister to have this memory.

"You know, you were all they would talk about," Andrea said, holding Amy a little tighter, as if she could keep her alive by sheer force of will. "Every time I talked to mom on the phone, she gushed about you."

"I'm not very impressive."

"You were to them – and you are to me."

"You're gonna make me throw up." Amy looked up, gave one of her girlish grins.

Andrea smiled. "Yeah, you're right. You're a little brat."

Amy was quiet for a moment, and then, "If I asked you not to go tomorrow, would you stay?"

Andrea stroked her hair, took to staring into the firelight. "No."

XxXxX

Carl was in the middle of a story about how he won a footrace in second grade when Sophia interrupted him.

She said, "I had a bad dream last night."

Her tone, her sad face, pinched his insides.

Carl said, "About walkers?"

Sophia shook her head, pulled her knees up to her chest. In the shade of the RV, the hand-shaped bruise on her upper arm seemed like just another shadow. "It was about my daddy."

Carl stiffened, aware that Ed was in the vehicle behind them. Sophia insisted on being nearby, despite her aversion to her dad. Carl never understood it and they fought when he tried to get her to move. He wanted to be near her, so he had to let it go.

"What about him?" Carl said, lowering his voice.

She sunk into a whisper, "One time he hit my momma so hard that we ran away together. We stayed in this place overnight and went home the next morning. Daddy was so mad that he hit her again, but we didn't leave that time."

"Was that the dream?"

"We were in that place again," Sophia said, glancing at him, somber. "Only when we went back, and he hit momma again, I… I took one of his guns and shot him dead."

Carl was jolted, unable to find a response.

Sophia went on, "And in my dream I was sad, and momma was sad… but when I woke up, I was happy." She had pleading on her face now, her whisper shaking like a whimper, "Does that make me a bad person, Carl?"

He responded viscerally to her weakness, all the parts of his dad surfacing within him, "No. Nothing could ever make you a bad person."

She gave a little, unbelieving smile.

Carl hopped up, held out his hand, "Wanna look for cool rocks in the lake?"

She had not moved much in the past few days, reluctant to talk, to play, but his hope for her was renewed when she took his hand. She held on to it, too, and they walked down to the lake together that way. Carl felt safer when he had a hold on her. Sophia seemed like someone who might slip away any second. He hated to see her sad, needed to make her feel better. Whatever she wanted.

"Stay out in the open, you two," Dale called as they descended the side of the cliff.

Carl nodded firmly, though he had gained a strange confidence now, thinking he could probably fight a dozen walkers if it meant keeping his friend safe.

XxXxX

Daryl had the open sky above him, the ground below him, and he still felt like he was trapped, like he could scarcely breathe. He teetered between the pain in his shoulder, thoughts of his brother, and the suffocating atmosphere of the camp. He had Shane on one hand, an antagonistic glare always thrown in his direction, and Carl on the other, who couldn't leave him alone for one solid day. He had the guilt of being the reason they were short on food, the reason they looked gaunt and sad all the time, and the anger that he had ended up back here, right where he started.

Only now, he had lost his brother, and he was alone.

He thought about leaving a lot, circled back to it, discounted it over and over again. He had never been tied to anything but Merle. It was hard to imagine fitting in with anyone else.

He was held back by one person – strangely, the person he thought he should dislike on principle.

Rick, the sheriff.

He came over very early that morning, the morning after the vote that determined Daryl would be allowed to stay with them. Rick was the one who insisted he should stay, stood up for him, put himself out there, even directly opposed his buddy Shane. It was baffling, unreasonable.

"How's the arm?" Rick asked.

Daryl looked over, finding Rick as gaunt and hungry as the rest.

"Fine," Daryl lied. It was burning, throbbing. He had been out just before dawn collecting squirrels from snares and he had overextended his shoulder climbing a tree. He only got three for his trouble. Five miles of walking for nothing more than a morsel.

Rick glanced at the squirrels, hanging there, waiting to be gutted.

"I'll get to it," Daryl said, feeling the pressure of expectation.

Rick shook his head, "I'm not pressuring you. You got shot. I know how painful that is. You shouldn't even be out there on your own."

"You come over here to tell me that?"

Rick snorted, "No. I came to tell you that a few groups are going out. I need you here keeping watch."

Daryl resisted orders, conditioned to distrust the police, but he swallowed that instinct. He gave a curt nod.

Rick nodded, satisfied, "Rest up while you can."

Daryl sat up to watch the groups get organized. Most of the adults had volunteered – those that were worth shit, anyway. Some of the women were about as useful as a sack of potatoes and some of the men were so old they could stroke out any second.

It was going to be a long day.

XxXxX

Daryl was halfway through the second squirrel when Carl ambled up to his campsite. He tried to ignore the kid, but Carl sat on his knees to watch him work.

"When're you gonna learn to leave me alone?" Daryl asked.

Carl shrugged. "What are you doing to it?"

Daryl almost denied him outright, annoyed, sitting there roasting in the midday sun, but if he sent the kid away he would boomerang back in an hour. Besides, he could use another set of hands. His shoulder and arm were on fire.

"I'm taking out the organs," he said, gesturing with his knife, "Heart, liver, lungs. Intestines are the important part, 'les you want to eat shit."

Carl appeared fascinated, "Do you eat the other stuff?"

"Yeah. Liver's the best for you."

"Do you cook it?"

Daryl cut the liver out and held it up, "You wanna eat this raw?"

Carl winced. "Ew."

"S'what I thought. You can, but it ain't good."

Carl sat quietly for a little while, observing, and then, "What're you doing now?"

Daryl set the skin aside, running his knife down the animal's flanks, "Fleshing. You want all this red stuff off the bones. Squirrels got real small bones, easy to break." He hesitated, thought, decided, "You want to do this part?"

Carl nodded eagerly, reaching for the knife.

Daryl pulled it away, "You ever used a knife?"

"No, but I'm not stupid."

"You look real stupid." Daryl handed him the hilt, "Keep your fingers away from the blade. It's sharp as shit. Can't skin animals with a dull knife, you'll cut the hide all to hell."

It took him a few tries, but Carl fell into a rhythm, picking off bits of meat and laying them to the side. Daryl rested his arm, silent for the most part, letting the kid figure it out himself. Merle let him flesh his first raccoon when he was five, his first deer when he was eight. He cut a big hole in a bear hide and had to spend two days trying to sew it back together.

Carl had almost the whole skeleton exposed when his mother arrived.

She was boiling over, mad as fire, "Carl! What the hell are you doing?"

Carl jumped, nearly dicing his finger with the knife. Daryl grabbed his wrist in time, steadying the blade.

"I'm learning how to flesh squirrels," Carl said enthusiastically, like he couldn't read the fury on his mother's face. Maybe he did it intentionally. Maybe he wasn't as stupid as he looked.

Lori threw her hands up, "Absolutely not. Go down to the lake and wash that blood off of your hands. How could you do this?" She looked at Daryl with such contempt, such distrust, "You stay away from my son, you hear me?"

Carl was on his feet, shouting, showing more assertiveness than ever, "I'm trying to learn how to be useful! I can do this! It doesn't bother me!"

Lori was shaking her head, matching his volume, "No, I'm not having my son turn into a monster."

Carl tried to speak again, but Lori cut him off, "Go get that blood off right now. I don't want to see you near him again, you hear me?" When Carl squared his jaw, said nothing, she repeated, "Do you hear me, young man?"

Carl huffed, marched off toward the water.

Lori stared daggers at Daryl, gave a final, "Stay away from him," and followed her son.

Daryl snorted, "Crazy bitch."

Her words rang in his ears, though. She thought he was a monster. She finally voiced what all of them thought when they looked at him. Merle was right about some things – people like them would never look kindly on people like him. He was trash to them. Worse than that.

XxXxX

He was just reaching his second snare, half a mile or so from camp, when Daryl heard a shuffle in the woods behind him.

He turned, crossbow in hand, and found that boy trailing behind.

"What the hell are you doing?" Daryl demanded, dropping his bow, "I almost shot you."

"Following you, duh," Carl said, closing the gap between them.

"Why?" Daryl waited for him to get close enough, and then whacked the hat off his head. "You 'member what happened last time you wandered out here, you idiot?"

"Yeah. But I followed you better this time. You left a trail."

Daryl had been walking his snares so frequently that he had worn a few trails in the woods, sometimes getting lost in the leaves and undergrowth, but definitely noticeable. Still, it was impressive for a kid his age to be able to follow it.

"What do you want?" Daryl said, turning to continue his walk.

Carl followed cheerfully, no sign of the berating his mother had given him only hours ago. "I want you to teach me how to hunt."

"Your momma know you're out here?"

"No way. She'd kill me."

Daryl snorted, kept on walking.

When he got to the snare, he found a fat rabbit in it, still kicking. Carl winced when he put it down.

"Neck was broken," Daryl said, "Best to put it down."

He saw questions in the kid, knew he wasn't going to leave him alone. It was alright, anyway. Daryl was starting to get used to him. It was nice to have one person who didn't show him an ounce of ill-will. Carl didn't seem capable.

Daryl hopped up on an arching root, resting his arm, digging a pouch of dehydrated meat from his pocket. He handed half to the kid.

Carl settled down at the base of the tree, wolfing the food down.

"What'd my mom mean, earlier?" Carl said.

Daryl said nothing.

"I don't think you're a monster." Carl gestured to the woods, "I think the walkers are monsters. And there are other monsters, you know, in the dark. But you're just a person."

Daryl said, "I don't give a shit what your mom thinks."

Carl shrugged, went on chewing.

It was peaceful in the woods, picturesque. Daryl liked watching the sun beat through the branches, tapping the forest floor, giving some hope to the seedlings that were trying to grow. Birds were singing, safe up in their branches, and water was running nearby. Sometimes, the smell of smoke wafted up from the fire burning lower on the mountain, but Daryl had been by to check – it was mostly out, quieted by rainstorms, discouraged by wet foliage.

Eventually, Carl asked, "What's that book in your pocket?"

Daryl shifted, finding his book hanging halfway out of his pants. He shoved it back in.

"Spanish?" Carl said.

Daryl sighed, pulled it out and tossed it to the kid.

Carl read the cover, "You're learning Spanish?"

"I want to talk to that lady I came back with," Daryl admitted, catching the book when Carl tossed it back to him.

"Why?"

Daryl shrugged, winced when his shoulder stung.

He could tell Carl had more questions loaded up, questions that he didn't have the answers to. He wasn't sure why he wanted to talk to Carla, wasn't sure why he bothered reading that book.

Daryl cut him off, "You can come check the rest of the snares with me if you stay quiet and listen. One mistake and you're goin' back to camp – alone."

Carl brightened, hopped up, "I won't let you down, I promise!"

XxXxX

Late that night, when the scavengers had returned and his shadow had finally been forced to stay with his family, Daryl was alone at his camp again. He made himself a small fire, sat by it, warmed his hands despite how boggy it was outside.

Carla came over to him, sat down with some difficulty. She was very, very pregnant, a little gross, if he was being honest. She offered him a handful of shelled pecans.

Daryl took a few, studied her. He drummed up what words he could remember, but, unsatisfied, had to bring out his book and look at it in the firelight. Carla watched him, waited, curious.

He finally strung together some words, hoping it was asking her what she was naming the baby.

Carla smiled, like dawn, and said something in Spanish that he couldn't begin to understand. Daryl must have looked confused, because she rested her hand on her stomach and said, "Noah o Carina."

Noah for a boy, Carina for a girl. Daryl winced, because Noah was his father's name, but Carla said it with such warmth. Her baby would do that name justice.

Daryl nodded, "Good names." He hesitated, then said, "Nombres… buenos?"

Carla nodded, delighted. Her smile was nice. He had two people in this camp, then, that didn't hate him. Carla had no reason to. Carl was too stupid to realize he should.

He sat there quietly with her, eating pecans, thinking about his brother. Merle had taught him to read. When the school said he was 'slow' and tried to move him to lower classes, to hold him back, Merle started forcing him to read every night. He read to him, too, mostly survival stories and journals from backpackers and backwoods folk.

It was always late at night, when Daddy was passed out on the couch with a bottle in his hand. Daryl must have been five or six, and Merle was fifteen, maybe sixteen. It was funny how those nights stuck in his head, how stupid things like that could come back to mind and make him sad.