A/N: I love writing the southern accents for the characters. I'm doing my best not to be OOC, and there should be one or two more chapters left.

"He's dangerous." Shane Walsh's voice was crisp and set firm, his palm slapping down on the hood of the car that he and the other three men were standing around. To prove his point, the former deputy cocked his head over to where Daryl Dixon stood several feet away, kicking an old SUV's tires in with his boots.

"The man just lost his brother, Shane," Dale reasoned, locking eyes with the others. "You need to understand what that feels like."

"I damn well know what it feels like," was the venomous reply as Shane jabbed his thumb over towards Rick Grimes. "I'd lost that guy, my brother, once before, and I didn't go off losing it and trying to become walker bait." He returned Rick's grateful nod before continuing. "I kept my head, Dale. I focused on getting' Lori and Carl out of the city, and I focused on keeping of ya'll alive."

Damn, Dale Horvath's intense gaze was unnerving, peering right through him as if dissecting him bit by bit. "I know what you did, Shane," he replied slowly, his words implying more than they actually said. They said: I saw you out in the woods back at camp. I saw you aiming that rifle at your so-called 'brother'. I know what thoughts run through your mind at night, and I know damn well why you worked so hard to keep Lori Grimes and her son alive.

Shane dropped the eye contact, scowling. You know nothin', Horvath, he ranted inwardly, biting his lip and shaking his head slowly as he knew what the older man was insinuating. I never looked at her before all this crap. I thought Rick was dead. What would you do, in my situation, if the whole gawdamn world was crashing down on you, ya know it all bastard.

"Let's all just take a minute to calm down," Rick spoke up, tossing Shane a glance. "From what I've seen, Daryl's got a temper, and, like Dale just pointed out to us, we had just lost him his brother; that's not enough reason to assume he's dangerous."

"He nearly attracted the whole world of walkers to our front doorstep, Rick," Shane replied, voice slightly muffled from where he had rested his forehead on the old car's hood, surrounding by his arms. "And, damnit, we don't even have a front doorstep. If those walkers had gotten us, they would've gone right on marchin' to the highway, and then what?"

Rick rubbed a hand over his face. "But they hadn't, and that's what we've gotta remember…"

"You really want Daryl Dixon sleepin' next to Lori and Carl, Rick?"

"Oh, come on, Shane," Dale rebuked, brow furrowing. "The man's a hothead; he isn't a rapist."

The black-haired man shoved himself into a straight standing position, pointing a finger at him. "You don't know that," he pointed out. "None of you know that. We have no idea what they did or who the hell they were before shit hit the fan. Rick, you weren't here when he and that ass of a brother showed up at camp for the first time. Covered in blood, swearin' and lugging a whole arsenal with 'em. We lost the ammo and guns soon after, 'cause Merle went off shootin' anything that moved. You telling me that doesn't scream problemo, bro?"

"Yes, Merle Dixon was a moron," Dale answered firmly. "But you're forgetting that while he was off shooting tree trunks, Daryl was either in the woods or sitting near their campsite, whittling with sticks or huntin' for all of us. Merle may have been dangerous, I agree – that doesn't mean his younger brother is the same."

"It's all the same, man…"

"No! No, it isn't!" Dale actually slammed his fist down on the car, showing his increasing frustration. The debating continued.

A few yards away, Dale's outburst caused Daryl to look up and actually glance at the others for the first time since his outburst in the forest. Bunch of scheming bastards. He went back to driving his toes into one of the already flat SUV tires, relishing in how the damaged rubber slowly fell apart flake by flake under the beating. He ignored the corpse that was still trapped in the driver's seat, what was left of the eyeballs staring hauntingly at him. He resisted the urge to punch the thing's rotting face in, and gave the tire another hard kick, just for the heck of it all.

Merle would be telling him to stop getting his panties in a twist. He'd be calling him a bitchin' sissy, twisting his name into "Darleena" is he often used to do. He'd order him to stop throwing a hissy fit and to get his ass back into bed, because they had survivin' to do in the mornin', and they'd need their fight in 'em. But you ain't here, are ya, Merle? he challenged, scowl deepening. No, ya just couldn't stay the hell where ya were, ya had to go be all melodramatic and chop ya own hand off. If you got off that damn roof, why didn't you hightail it back to camp? Why'd ya leave me with all these rotten, goody goody, judging, scheming, arbitrating, no good ASSHOLES. He slammed his boot this time into the side of the car, hard enough to dent both the metal and his toe. Hissing profanities, he hopped away from the vehicle and sat down on the hood of another, punching the windshield and noticing the weirded out looks Rick Grimes and Shane Walsh were sending him. T-Dog was silently just hanging out near the others, and Dale was… shit, Dale still had that damn look on his face.

Merle, you selfish bastard. He glanced up at the dim stars, wonderin' if his brother were lookin' at the same sky he was, or he was holed up in some old shop. Or dead. He could be dead too. Eaten alive, or one of them things. I can't believe ya left me alone again. Ya always hafta go runnin' off, lookin' for trouble. Couldn't you have just cooperated with 'em others just once, and not hafta get yourself handcuffed to a fucking roof? He lowered his gaze, brow furrowing. Good god, Merle is gone.

His fist met the windshield once more. Damnit! Merle is gone! And I'm here alone with 'em faggots!

Even when the men's little conference ended, and they all headed back to their separate cars, Daryl stayed outside, hitting his bloodied hands against the heavy metal he sat on, cursing himself all the while.

He was pretty sure he should've just headed straight back for the RV and retaken up his watch duties. That would've been the sensible thing to do – after all, Rick had told them all to drop the situation until the morning, when they were all rested and thinking straight. So why Dale was doing this, going over to a still clearly angry Daryl Dixon after the others had went their separate ways, was beyond his weary mind. He just… Shane, that sly man, was wrong. He knew it this time. It was that stubborn determination engraved in him like an old mule that drove him over to where Dixon was perched on a battered up car, hitting the hood with red knuckles.

He got within five feet of him before Daryl craned his head to look at him. No. To glare at him, with dark, bitter eyes. There was a difference. "The hell you want?" he growled, sneering. "Come to tell me to pack up my stuff and leave?" Because why else would the old geezer still be following him around if not to be Rick Grimes little delivery boy?

He allowed a bit of surprise to show, but that was all. He refused to be chased off by mere surliness, and crossed his arms over his white undershirt and Hawaiian tee. "Nobody's asking you to leave, Daryl," he replied evenly. "I just… came to make sure you were alright, that's all."

The suspicious doubt didn't leave the younger man's face. "Well, I'm just peachy. So best you go back up to your little beach on the rooftop and leave me be." He turned away from him, signaling the end of this unwanted interaction. Dale didn't budge. At least there had been no cursing that time. He noticed the dried walker blood all over the man's shirt, and inhaled deeply. "You, um, you want me to get you some clean clothes? I have some that'll probably fit you."

Fuck off, his mind hissed; but, as the walker fighting adrenaline finally started dying away, and seeing as he was no longer beating up the cars, his spoken reply was less poisonous. "Don't need my clothes picked out for me, momma," he snapped, gritting his teeth. "Get outta here."

He took a step forward, though the redneck's aura screamed at him to do the exact opposite. "Is that all just walker blood, or did you get cut up."

Sensing the older man coming closer, Daryl's jumped to his feet and backed off, scowling. "What do ya care, ya old geezer? Git away from me." He shooed Dale off like he was some sort of mad dog dripping with drool.

"Daryl." What the heck was he doing again? Oh yea. Trying to tame a wild lion after it was just back from hunting. "You are bleeding," he noted, frowning when he caught sight of bright red blood glistening in the weak moonlight. "Were ya bit?"

Daryl continued backing up, even when a nearby bus left him with nowhere else to go."I ain't no gawdamn walker, ya crazy ass fool!"

He had never been a very smart man – intelligent and intellectual, yes; but his actual instincts… well… they sucked. And he was no doctor, either. So why the hell he kept on approaching a highly agitated Daryl Dixon while the man was clearly trying to send him off with a steady stream of vulgar insults was beyond what his mind could grasp at the moment. The gash on Dixon's arm clearly wasn't that bad, a mere cut from a branch, but he reached out for it, maybe just to test the waters and see how far he could push without getting stabbed or shot with an arrow.

His fingers closed around a handful of cloth, on Daryl's shoulder; he leaned in closer to inspect the cut. His eyes were focused on the minor wound, and that's why he was totally shocked when Daryl suddenly grunted and flinched back so violently he nearly fell to the side. "Get yer damn hands off me!" Everything blurring the second Dale touched him, survival instincts took over whatever reason was left in his mind, and Daryl shoved his hands forward with all his strength, knocking the older man square in the chest and sending him tumbling. Dale hit the gritty pavement on his side, eliciting a pained "oof!" from him as the air was knocked from his lungs. The loud tear of fabric accompanied the unpleasant noises, and as Dale found himself on the ground, lying now on his back, he found his right fist still gripping a large clump of dark brown fabric. Oops.

"Sonofabitch."

His eyes flicked over to the younger man still pressed against the bus, and was rocked even more to see a look of pure horror pasted on Daryl Dixon's face. Not once had Dale ever seen him or his brother with any sign of fear crossing their faces the time he'd known them; and even now, the emotion snapped across Daryl's face only a second before replaced with pure, seething rage.

Only, Dale didn't see anger, not this time. Not really. Lucky for the both of them, he thought grimly, that he was the observant type. Because if he hadn't been, he would've been to bewildered to notice how Daryl was glaring at his torn shirt, the useless cloth now hanging off one shoulder with a large chunk taken out the side. And, if he hadn't been as observant as he was, he wouldn't have noticed the white and red lines that absolutely covered the young redneck's side, abdomen, chest, and most likely his back. Scars. Hundreds of them, of all sizes; some of them plain white lines, others ugly, knotted skin. They weren't from self-harm, and from the lashed shape of many of them, they weren't from gang fights either.

He swallowed thickly, slowly sitting up. Somehow, Daryl Dixon's attitude didn't seem that outrageous anymore, given new evidence and circumstances.

What seemed like several minutes was only thirty seconds; and when Dale blinked once more, he realized Daryl was storming past him. He cringed for a second, gut actually believing for a second the younger man might stomp on him while he was on the ground; but then he eased up as soon as he was past him. He turned, still seated on the asphalt, and watched Daryl shove his way through the cluttered highway towards the car where he'd dumped his gear. Side still burning and shoulder aching, he slowly got to his feet and stood there a moment, glancing around. Rick didn't come out shouting, nor did Shane come storming forward guns a blazing, ready to send Daryl apacking into the wilderness. Their scuffle must've not been as loud as it had seemed to his ears.

He started towards the RV, limping just the slightest bit, and opened the door. He entered; but he didn't remain inside, where safety and serenity rested for the night. Instead, he danced around the slumbering Andrea, Carol, and Sophia – the poor women were exhausted – and dug around some of his personal things before his fingers touched smooth leather. He grabbed the item, and within seconds was back out in the summer night air, heading over towards where Daryl was shoving his bags around. He was in a new shirt, this one long sleeved, and when he spotted Dale attentively coming closer, he scoffed.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," he muttered, shaking his head. He pointed at Dale without really looking at him. "You're a real piece a work, ol' man! Can't believe ya had the balls to come back ta me again! Whatta I need to do, shoot you?" He returned back to his effort of shoving some of his spare arrows into his backpack.

Dale felt worms crawling in his gut as he watched the other man's activity. "What… what are you doing?"

"What the hells it look like I'm doing?" Daryl grunted as he snapped his backpack shut and grabbed his crossbow. "I'm outta here."

And this could not be allowed. He could not allow this. Dale gripped the leather object in his hands tighter, face paling a bit. "You can't just walk away," he tried, cursing himself for being so stupid and getting Daryl's already solid defenses even more raised. "What just happened back there…"

For a second, the younger man almost looked contritely sorry. This theory was backed up when he stared hard at the ground and mumbled, "Didn't mean ta shove ya."

"I'm not blaming you, Daryl. I just want to talk."

"Ain't nothin' to talk 'bout," he spat, hoisting his pack onto his shoulders and grabbing his weapon. "And there ain't no reason to stay here neither."

"Well… what about the CDC?" Good grief, was that desperate tone in his voice really there?

"That place is gonna get us nowhere," he stated, shaking his head. He was already walking away, Dale unable to get his feet to move this time.

"Son, you can't just go out there on your own!"

He let out a bitter chuckle. "I'm better on my own!" he called back over his shoulder, though his brain screamed in denial. When had he ever truly been completely on his own willingly? Not counting when he was lost. He'd always had Merle. His big brother had been there like a shadow, except for those times the older man had spent locked up, or that one horrid time he'd walked away. Daryl shoved those thoughts back into the dark recesses of his mind. He could make it just fine. Heck, maybe he'd take the back roads into Atlanta and search for his brother again. They had to find each other, they just had to.

Dale, jittery now, shook his head and bit his lip. He had one more shot at getting Dixon to stop moving. "I have a cousin," he called out hesitantly.

Life story now. Whoopee. "Good for you," he shot back sardonically, not stopping.

"He has a son…"

"Lucky guy."

"My cousin is not a good man!"

"Ain't no such thing as perfect, sunshine!"

"Daryl!"

"Daryl!" he repeated in a squeaky tone. Mimicking was low, really, but he was just so pissed right now…

"My cousin is not a good man to his son," Dale added quickly; cold ice flooding his veins when Daryl suddenly did, in fact, stop walking away. "H-He's not someone I had been proud to call my relation," he continued, fidgeting nervously. "But his son… his son is innocent. And he's a decent fellow, and… and…" How exactly was he supposed to continue this? Damn. He really had to think things out more thoroughly. Tense, he stared at Daryl's back for several minutes, before he finally got a reply.

"Ain't no such thing as decent, ol' man."

Okay. So he wasn't running off yet. He could still fix this whole disaster, the disaster that he'd gotten involved with the first time he started watching the Dixon brothers. "That's not true," he said slowly, lowering his gaze. "That's not true; but I don't think you realize that. But you should. You need to realize that… that the world wasn't, isn't, all bad." I don't think you know that, do you? "You can't walk away. Not now. You're… you're a part of this now, Daryl, and you're a part of it with us. This group… your group."

"I ain't a part of any group," was the snappish reply as Daryl spun around on his heels. "All these people are your problem, they ain't mine! I can go wherever I damn please!" Realizing that Dale wasn't going to say anymore, that he was waiting for Daryl to do some thinking of his own for a moment, snapped a fuse. Suddenly, somehow, he had his crossbow in his hands, an bolt knocked in the string, and he was charging forward with his weapon raised level with that old bastard's chest. "I could kill you right now, you know that?!" he all but screamed, an enraged shout that seemed to morph into a request to just be left alone. He marched over to the older man and shoved the arrow right against that stupid Hawaiian shirt. "You don't know anything about me," he snarled, eyes flashing. "You and your silly stories of daddies and victims… you don't know nothin'!"

Dale swallowed, allowing himself to eye the crossbow fearfully for a moment before shoving his concerns away. He'd watched Daryl, and he knew, somehow, that the trigger wouldn't be pulled. Daryl was not Merle. He was not his violent, asshole brother, even if no one – even Daryl – could not see that. "Son… why do you keep trying to fight the world?" he whispered, very slowly, making eye contact and holding it

The other man tensed, his eyes sparking as he glared at him. Dale watched, and swallowed again when he saw some of the fury façade melt away under the unmistakable glimmering sheen he saw in the younger man's eyes.

Daryl shoved the arrow tip so that it was pressing against Dale's chest.

"Cause all this world's ever done is fight me."

And with that, the crossbow was dropped low as Daryl turned on his heels and walked away.

However, for some reason, when Dale readied the group to leave, he spotted Daryl only a few feet away, perched on Merle's old motorcycle and ready to lead the others through the crazy maze of a highway.