For those of you who have been following this story and are receiving alerts saying that I have replaced a few chapters, I apologize for my alterations to them this late in the game. However, I feel like the story needs them considering that (for example) this chapter was written with the intent to never publish about this character again. It was supposed to accomplish several goals very quickly and therefore it feels a bit rushed and awkward. As a stand-alone story, it was probably pretty decent, but I am almost embarrassed when I read it in context. Therefore, I have decided to give it a few much-needed adjustments. I'm sorry for the inconvenience!

Note: I originally wrote this story to contrast a lot of the Daryl/OC fanfics that I have read on different websites. To each his own, but I wanted to read something that didn't rush the romance story because Norman Reedus himself was once quoted to have said, "I'm trying to play [Daryl] like a total virgin. Like if someone were to try to kiss him he'd be like, 'Eeeeee.'" I've always gotten that vibe from Reedus's Daryl anyway; He probably wouldn't know how to react to some girl hitting on him! When I first wrote this story, there weren't going to be any more chapters, but then I got some ideas. So before you get started, you should know two things: (if you're here for the romance) the relationship between Daryl and the OC will be slow-developing to say the least (seriously, you're gonna have to be here a while) and this story has expanded beyond a romance story. If what you gleaned from the summary is that Daryl is the sole thing that gives Mila's life meaning, you are sadly, or happily (depending on how that would make you feel), mistaken; therefore, every chapter will not revolve around the OC only when she's with Daryl. This is her story. Reviews will be greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy!

IMPORTANT P.S. Mila joined Rick's group right about the time that Shane initiated his plan to kill Rick by taking Randall Culver into the woods. This story begins sometime between seasons 3 and 4, so she has been with them for a little over a year now. I tried to make this version of Daryl reflect the time in which the story is set; he's still getting used to being looked up to so he doesn't always know how to be diplomatic but he's definitely starting to take on a leadership position in the group and he's rounding out as a character. The people of Woodbury have probably been at the prison about two months. The search for the Governor has been abandoned as an organized effort. The council has only recently been formed.

The walker fell from her hands and dropped to the ground, its body landing with a loud thud. Mila paused for a moment, blinking in surprise, and slowly wiped the blood spatter from her face. Daryl made his way past her and pulled the bolt from the walker's skull. It came free with a horrible squelching sound. He shook his head and sighed, wiping the blood from his projectile onto the thigh of his ripped jeans.

"What the hell, Daryl?" Mila spurned. She shoved her Bowie knife back into its place along her belt, buttoning the snap over its guard. Her long, sandy blond bangs untucked from behind her ear and fell over her eyes as she looked back at him. "Stop doing that! I came out here to do this- so that I wouldn't forget how to do this! This is the third opportunity I've had today to bring one down, and it's also the third opportunity that you've taken from me!"

"You're gonna get yourself killed," he said casually, without looking at her. "We both know why you're really out here anyway," he added more softly. He grunted as the string of his crossbow cocked back into place. Mila looked at him with wide eyes, blood rushing to her cheeks.

"What is that supposed to mean - ?"

Daryl whirled to face her, his eyes just a few inches from hers. "Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about! What is this to you? Is this your idea of a first date?!" he snarled. He scanned down her body quickly and looked back into her eyes. "It ain't a game when you come out here. You're gonna end up just like one of these dumb bastards," he pointed at the body with the arrow in his hand, "because you did forget what it's like outside the walls." He readied the arrow and threw the crossbow back over his shoulder. He turned, his boots kicking up leaves as he began to stomp away.

Mila made no moves to follow him. She closed her partially-open mouth and blinked back the tears beginning to pool over her bottom eyelids. "Is that really what you think of me? You're an idiot!" Anger rose in her voice as he stopped and looked back at her with a scowl across his face. "I didn't come out here just to trail you like a damn bird dog!" she yelled, waving a hand in the air. "Yeah, you're not stupid. Maybe you've figured out that I wanted to be out here with you! But I'm not some dumb bitch fumbling around for ideas to impress you! And how dare you insinuate that!" Her voice quivered slightly as she softened. "I wasn't lying. I came out here for the exact reason I told you. I wanted to practice taking care of myself. . . . That prison . . . one day those walls are gonna fall. It could be five years- ten years- from now, or it could be tomorrow. I want to be prepared for when they do. I want to survive. I only asked you to come with me because I think I can count on you."

Daryl's shoulders relaxed somewhat. He averted his gaze to the forest floor as she lowered her head and wiped her brow with her arm. His lips parted slowly as if he was going to speak before he closed them again. Mila looked down the toes of her boots. He waited a moment before offering any more words.

"Hey," he called gently. "We're gonna keep those walls standin'." He dipped his chin a little in affirmation.

She pored over his face before meeting his eyes. "No. The world's got a way of taking your choices away from you. Things don't just work out because we want them to. Or even because we plan for them to." She brushed past him and walked back up the trail heading the way they came and Daryl's face twisted back into a glare as he followed; they hiked back along the path towards the prison, leaving the rest of the traps unchecked. Only the trill of the spring crickets and the lilting voices of the birds sounded in the silence.

The gates rattled open as the two reached the prison. Daryl passed by the gatekeepers who greeted him without saying a word. Mila stopped just inside the closing chain link that separated safety from exposure and gazed at the dirt road leading to the prison yard but was broken from her reverie by Michonne calling her name. Michonne slowed from a jog, glancing at Daryl as she reached her friend.

"You're back." Mila said, emotionless, curling the corners of her lips into a forced smile. "Did you find him?"

Michonne smiled back, but dropped her head when she answered. "No. At least not yet," she smiled again. She seemed to wonder what had transpired between Mila and Daryl, but she reserved her curiosity for later.

"If anyone can, you will. You just need more time," Mila comforted. "When did you get back?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"I guess you needed me for something?"

"Yeah!" Michonne confirmed, remembering what had brought her to the gate in the first place. "It's no big deal, but I've run into a little problem with Flame. She keeps trying to walk off when I try to get on her, and I don't know how to fix it. You think you can do anything about it?"

"Definitely," Mila chirped, walking towards the corral. "Is she still saddled?"

"Yeah. You're gonna do this right now?" Michonne questioned in confusion.

"Why not?" she answered quickly. "Now there's two basic things I can think of that can lead to that issue. One, you're hanging in the stirrup too long and it's pulling her off balance. That will put her into the habit of catching herself by taking a few steps, but, considering how you hop into that saddle, I doubt that's the problem. My bet's on her getting used to being walked or trotted as soon as you get up there. She's just gettin' ahead of you is all. Horses are creatures of habit; they do best what they do most. She's just got to be reminded that a mount doesn't necessarily mean she needs to get in a hurry."

Flame tossed her head in the air as Mila opened the wooden gate of the corral. One of her ears flicked back and forth from the side and Mila's direction as she untied the reins from one of the horizontal posts that made up the fence. Mila decided to teach the horse and her pupil by a physical demonstration rather than verbal instruction. She was not in the mood for words and working silently with a horse took her back to her time before the Fall, reminding her of all the hours she spent alone at her tiny, ramshackle barn with the gelding she rescued.

He had been her first horse. When he came to her, he was a young, 14 hand, emaciated outlaw of a bronco. Sometimes he won whatever wordless argument they were having, yet she learned much of what she knew about horses by trial and error with him, namely how to turn a reactive, aggressive animal into a compatible and compliant partner; it was a process of developing mutual respect and trust. Flame reminded her of him in some ways. She was responsive to even the most minimal of cues and knew how to take advantage of the insecurities of beginner riders. Mila took her time with the horse. When she lifted her foot to the stirrup and the horse moved, she swung the near rein causing Flame to yield her hindquarters in a circular dance. After six attempts, the mare stood still while Mila climbed on. Mila lifted each rein subtly and Flame flexed her neck until her nose touched the tips of her rider's boots on either side.

"There you go," she said, giving the horse a pat on the neck as she dismounted. Michonne grinned and shook her head as she held out her hand for the reins.

"That's all it took?"

"Yeah. You just kind of take on the 'if you want to move, then we'll move' mentality. Make her question whether or not that's what she really wants to do. But you are probably going to have to do that yourself for a while."

Michonne started to untie the saddle cinch. "Hey. What happened out there today? Between you and Daryl."

"Nothing. It was just a misunderstanding," she replied, nodding.

"Okay. I just wanted to make sure everything was alright." Michonne let the matter drop, swinging the saddle over the boards of the corral.

"Don't forget to make sure she's still got it before you head out again," Mila said, pointing at Flame. "Practice it- fix it again- if need be. You don't want to have her walking off without you if you get in a tight out there. I'll see you later."

Mila made her way back through the prison yard, nodding in acknowledgement to the hellos she received and weaving through the clusters of its new inhabitants. The former residents of Woodbury had brought with them a bustling crowdedness that she often appreciated. Their presence and their shelteredness from the way things were now helped her to remember what it was like living in the world before the Fall. She kept walking though she noticed Carol eyeing her from the rations tent with a look of intrigue. She reached the door to C Block and opened it. The resounding metallic whine it unleashed was now the sound of her front door, the sound of her home. In the time before, she would have hated that sound; she had always found metal and concrete to be very uninviting. Although the end of the world had not changed her opinion of it, it had changed her aversion to it.

She climbed wearily to the top of the stairs but stopped when she saw Daryl laying on his thin bunk mattress in the loft, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He glared icily at her for a second before rolling over, cradling his head in the crook of his dirty arm. She sighed and stepped over the bottom corner of his bed where his foot lay and trudged to her cell. It was the last cell on the top floor, closest to the far wall from the entrance. She had chosen it shortly after their arrival when they first cleared the prison, and it had provided her with an oasis of solitude amid the busyness that had since befallen the place.

She softly closed the barred door behind her, the metal clinking into place. The room smelled slightly stale, but the muted odor of a pumpkin scented candle and two Little Tree car air fresheners combated the unpleasant dankness. Thin pastel sheets with elephant prints hung just inside the bars of the cell like a veil to provide her with a measure of privacy; they had been a gift from Gina, one of the Woodbury refugees, not long after they got to know each other. On the left wall, just inside the door, was a brown shelf and coat rack nailed into the concrete, from which hung an extra jacket and necklaces. She had placed a few of her amateur attempts at wood-carved sculptures along the shelf. Along the wall opposite to the bed was a small but surprisingly heavy hickory writing desk atop which sat her neatly organized books, journal entries, educational notes, and charcoal drawings as well as a yellow coffee mug containing a collection of pencils and erasers. Her better drawings were tacked in a meticulously straight line above the desk. Adjacent to her writing space was a blue filing cabinet with three drawers; she used the top drawer for any weapon small enough to fit inside (because it could be locked), she used the middle drawer for shirts, and she used the bottom drawer for pants. Over the sink was an old mirror with a broken wooden frame that left the bottom left corner of the cloudy glass exposed.

She flopped herself onto the bottom bunk, landing on her back, and breathed heavily before rolling over to reach for the blue, paperback King James Bible which rested on the end table behind her head. Closing her jade eyes, she used her thumb to randomly select a passage to read. The roulette landed her in the book of Hosea. She began in chapter one, carefully drinking in each word, contemplating all of them until she reached chapter three.

It never stopped being true, she thought, laying the Bible, pages down, over her middle. All this time. All the things that have happened. But it never stopped being true. She closed her eyes and practiced memorizing each verse until sleep overtook her.

Mila awoke to a dim glow of the morning light through the thin sheets that separated her from the rest of the prison, the blue, hazy cast warming her face. It was early, and only a few people could be heard stirring about beside and beneath her. When they spoke, they spoke only in whispers to each other that echoed as soft whistles through the halls. She looked down to her stomach where one of her hands laid over the still-open Bible. Sitting up, she glanced over the pages once more before closing it and practiced the verses again. She was much closer than she had been the night before to being able to quote them verbatim.

She left her room to prepare herself for the day, noticing that Daryl's mattress was one of the few empty ones as she descended down the stairs. She showered, brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. She loved the mornings. Like working with Flame, they reminded her of the time before; she had always loved mornings. Sometimes the colors they featured mimicked that of the sunsets, but the light was gentler, less harsh, and, to her, they were always more serene. Every living thing faced a new beginning. A new opportunity to thrive.

Opening the door to the outside of the prison, she paused to watch Michonne flex Flame from the saddle and Hershel beholding the gardens. They were mostly silhouettes against the soft pink and blue of the morning sky. Mila drew in a deep breath and rested a hand on the railing next to her, running her fingertips along its surface to feel the cool morning dew and see the water bead up and roll down the metal like raindrops. As tears welled in her eyes, she smiled to herself. There were no walkers snarling or clinging to the fences that morning. Others might have called it a lucky few days or a job well-done by the fence cleaners, but she called it a blessing. This is why I'm here, she reflected. I'm here to witness this morning and to watch the people I love witness this morning.
Wiping her eyes, she hopped down the steps and crossed the yard to meet Hershel in the field. He waved goodbye to Michonne as she rode placidly through the gates which were closed behind her with a tinkling rattle. Hershel then turned to see his student.

"Good morning," he saluted. "How'd you sleep?"

"Pretty well," she replied happily, "but hard. I didn't dream, and I don't think I so much as rolled over all night."

"I'm jealous. A good night's sleep has been hard to come by for most people these days. Did you read anything last night?"

This was their morning ritual. People of faith in this world were even more scarce than the sleep that eluded so many, so talk of the Bible and spiritual concerns was a cherished common ground between the two. Before undertaking whatever tasks were before them, they always exchanged ideas on whatever they may have read the previous night, expressing their revelations of its application to daily life.

"Hosea."

"Did you learn anything?"

"Not really, no. I more remembered something than learned something."

"What's that?"

"Well," she began, "there's always something to make life worth living."

Hershel tilted his head to the side but she did not explain herself. ". . . Always. . . . It's time to get started, I suppose. Are you ready? We've got veterinary-related work to do today."

There were now two fully-fledged doctors in the camp. Dr. S., as he had been nicknamed, and Hershel were both experienced medical professionals, but Mila's college major and learning style made her more suited to apprenticeship under the latter. She had just made it through her third semester in a veterinary college in Alabama when the world ended, making the two a natural pair that clicked even more perfectly due to the fact that Mila looked up to Hershel. Nearly every day since the day after the Woodbury residents had sought shelter in the prison, she studied and trained to complete her education. She knew its usefulness to the encampment.

"That sow is just about ready to have her pigs," Hershel explained, pointing to the far end of the hog pen. "We need to get things ready for her."

"Thanks for your help. You're retaining things pretty well," Hershel smiled. It was mid-afternoon. The morning had been spent building a farrowing crate to increase the chances of the piglets' survival when the time came for their birth. The rest of the time had been spent on discussions about general hog health and physiology.

"I learn by being a part of whatever is going on," Mila responded with a shrug. She glimpsed past him, seeing the gates opening for Daryl. He was empty-handed, other than his crossbow; whether he had gone out to hunt or to bring back a meal from the remaining traps, he had been unsuccessful. Still looking over Hershel's shoulder, she spoke, "Hey, if you don't mind, I'd like to call this an early day. I mean, if there's anything else that you can think of that we need done, I'll stay, but I've got a few personal things to take care of."

"No, I think most of the chores that necessarily require our expertise are done for the day. Besides, the council is going to have a meeting tonight. If you've got something you need to do, you're free to go."

"Oh." Mila's tone flattened slightly. "Around what time are you going to have the meeting?"

"Sometime around dusk." He turned to see what she was watching, and though she looked back at him quickly, she knew that she there was no covering for herself when he looked at his feet and chuckled. She felt a feverish warmth travel into her face as her cheeks flushed. He spared her further embarrassment by simply adding, "The meeting should only last about an hour." Mila nodded, her cheeks still on fire. Deciding to protect what was left of her shredded pride in front of Hershel, she took a shift cleaning the fence; it had built up a considerable amount of walkers by that time. While she desperately wanted to speak with Daryl, she was unwilling to do it at the expense of any more humiliation before her mentor.

The chain link rattled as new bodies lined up to be put down by the inhabitants of the prison. Although the hissing and gurgling of the dead was loud, it did not drown out the dialogue in which the workers were so intently engaged. The conversations among the survivors was lackadaisical; many centered around the satisfying breakfast they had shared that morning, and others concerned a guessing game as to how old each respective person was. The low chatter was calming, but Mila did not say much. Most of these people were still strangers to her. With the exception of Gina and Izach, she had not held so much as a formal exchange with any one of them. While they did not make her feel decidedly unwelcome, neither did they make her feel decidedly welcome. She listened as an outsider, content to nourish her need for companionship by simply observing the banter.

Mila waited until a few hours after dark before attempting to seek Daryl out. She rose up from her bunk quietly. Using her fingers, she peeled back the makeshift curtains to her room and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim halls. The moonlight illuminated the mattress at the top of the stairs. In the silver-white glow of the night, it lay empty. She eased her cell door open so as not to disturb any of her sleeping neighbors, but the grinding moan of the hinges betrayed her attempt at stealth. She gritted her teeth and winced at its unceremonious howl. Squeezing through the still partially-shut door, she shook her head. I'm gonna have to ask for one of the run crews to bring back some WD-40.

Outside, the world was bathed in the soft gleam of the moon which glimmered and scintillated as it landed on a few broken pieces of glass next to the brick wall of the other cell block. A choir of crickets sang a ceremonious hymn and cicadas sang the harmonies. She looked to her right to see the red-orange glow of someone pulling on a cigarette. She walked closer but it was not Daryl. She quietly apologized and sauntered back towards the field. Around forty walkers stood snapping and snarling outside the fences. Others were scattered in the wood line beyond the moat. Surveying the grass, she finally spotted a figure hunched in the darkness next to the horse corral.

"Daryl, is that you?" Mila inquired softly. She heard his familiar grunt of reply. "Can I sit down?" She held her hands up in front of her chest. "I come in peace," she said, with Daryl still not looking at her. He picked a piece of grass and wound it around his index finger, his elbow resting on his knee. The moon glinted off of the crossbow propped up beside him. He nodded, looking at the grass and biting his inner lip as was his habit. Mila dropped, cross-legged, into the grass next to him and waited before speaking.

She decided to begin with a bit of small talk to test his mood. "What was the council meeting about? If I might be so bold as to ask."

"They're talking about bringin' people in."

"Really?"

"Yeah. . . . If we meet anyone out on the road- anyone we think might be good people- we'll ask 'em three questions. They give good answers, they can come back with us."

She raised her eyebrows. "What are the questions?" Daryl at last looked at Mila. Though his expression was mostly neutral, his eyes contained a hint of regret. ". . . You can practice the interrogation with me," she jested, hoping to brighten his countenance.

Daryl just looked back at his hands. "How many walkers have you killed?"

"I . . . maybe ten, give or take. . . . You lose count."

"How many people have you killed?"

She turned to look at him again. His hair had fallen into his face and he had plucked another blade of grass from the earth. ". . . One."

He turned to her in tactful surprise. "Why?" he finished, leaning back.

Mila considered the question carefully. A full minute passed before she answered.

"You can't always protect everyone you love." They sat silently for several minutes, both staring up into the sky, watching clouds drift past the twinkling stars. Mila breathed in deeply through her nose. She could smell the rotting corpses plaguing the fence, but she could also smell the moist earth beneath her and the piney aroma that clung to Daryl's boots.

"Daryl, I'm sorry about the other day."

"Nah. I started that shit. I shouldn't have made it into something it wasn't." She looked at his hands, now tearing the blade of grass into tiny fragments.

"I'm just wondering if . . . maybe you didn't understand me. At least not fully." He did not endeavor to respond; he only dropped the grass and began biting his nails. "First of all, yeah, I really care about you, Daryl. Maybe it's not the way you want me to, or maybe you can't reciprocate those feelings. But more than that, I respect you. And I respect you enough not to try and force the matter of . . . whether or not there's an us, but that doesn't mean I don't want to help watch your back sometimes and have the chance to be around you. And I want you to respect that. Because people like you make me want to live. And not just be alive. . . ." She looked down at his boots before continuing. "Oh, and in order for me to consider anything a date, you would have had to ask me to be there with clear romantic intent. That's just something you should know about me." Mila grinned and elbowed him gently. She thought she saw a small smile spread on his face, if only for a second.

"As far as what I said about the prison falling . . . well. . . ." she thought carefully before proceeding, as she noticed a distinct frown form on his face. "It's always been my experience that nothing tangible is ever permanent, whether it's something good or bad. But even when things go dark . . . that doesn't mean that there isn't something beautiful in the darkness. . . .

"I don't . . . want to bore you, but have you ever read the book of Hosea in the Bible?" Daryl looked at her and shook his head silently. "Well, long story short, the Israelites were worshiping other gods. And God compared them to Hosea and his unfaithful wife. They needed to be brought back to their senses somehow, so God was gonna break them. Take everything from them. And He did. . . . But then He said I will draw her into the wilderness and there I will speak tenderly to her. And she shall no longer call me Master, she shall call me Husband. And she will sing there as in the days of her youth.

"See, even when times are the darkest, I believe that we can find some sort of beauty in it. . . . Kind of like the stars. You can't really behold them in all their beauty without the black canvas of the night sky to contrast them. . . . If the world had kept on going- like it was before- you wouldn't have found yourself the way you did. And we- our group- we would never have found each other. . . . We've given each other purpose. Trying to protect each other, and even by the little things we do for each other, we make each day mean something. And before long, even the people from Woodbury will be part all of that.

"I just want you to know that even though I don't think the prison will last forever that it's not all about just making it one more day to me. It's about making one more day worth something." As she ended her disquisition, neither of them spoke for a while, opting to let the cool night breeze drift by them instead. Both of them looked up towards the sky, the effulgence of the lesser light shining down on their introspective faces. Though the pearly clouds crossed by the moon occasionally and dimmed the world, the ground remained well-illuminated by the silvery light.

Several minutes passed before Daryl turned and stared soberly into Mila's eyes. She looked back at him without saying anything.

"I wanna keep this place goin'," he said. "For Carl. For Little Asskicker. For Rick. Glenn and Maggie. Hershel. You. And I think we're gonna be alright. Cause we're gonna make things alright. We're gonna do what we gotta do to keep this place safe for each other." He deliberated his gaze. "If there's anythin' you need . . . I'm gone be right here," he said with a nod.

Mila's eyes glistened. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and laughed softly, taking Daryl's hand. Though it jerked slightly beneath her palm, he did not withdraw it. A tear rolled down her left cheek and splashed on her leg before soaking into the fabric of her jeans. "Well," she uttered, "I do need some WD-40 if you happen to spot some next time you're out there."

The corner of his lips tilted into a crooked smile. "I'll get it."

They both looked up at the stars shining between the slow-drifting clouds above as the cool breeze blew by.