Hi everybody! Thanks to all of y'all who reviewed/added this your favorites and your alerts. This chapter's song is called "You Can Bring Me Flowers" by Ray LaMontagne, if for no other reason than its appearance in the story. As promised, more Daryl/Kyra interaction awaits so read on, my dears!

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD OR ANY OF THE SONGS MENTIONED IN THIS FICTION.

"You must be Daryl."

At the sound of his name, his head jerked up. He'd never seen the woman standing before him ever in his life and yet there was something oddly familiar about her. He dismissed it and went back to cleaning his arrows. "Yeah, what of it?"

"I wanted to thank you."
He paused and examined her face closely. "You're the one who passed out in the middle of the driveway this mornin', ain't you? Kyra, right?"

She chuckled and looked at her feet. Daryl took stock of her as she told him she was, and thanked him for carrying her up to the house, that he didn't have to do that.

She was quite the sight for sore eyes. Couldn't be more than five foot three, white as a sheet, choppy dark hair that fell just past her shoulders. Cute figure, flat stomach, good legs. His eyes landed on the scabbard at her hip.

"Why the fuck are you carrying a sword? Don't you know this is the apocalypse, not Lord of the Rings or none of that shit?" He asked bluntly.

She smirked and fired back, "Why the fuck are you carrying a crossbow and not a high-powered rifle like your buddies do?"

Daryl smirked back at her. So she really was a firecracker. Carol had brought by his clean clothes earlier and said that the girl from this morning might be looking for him later; he hadn't paid much attention until Carol mentioned that she had bitchslapped Shane and gotten away with it. Then he was intrigued. "Fair enough. Seriously, though, why a sword?"

Kyra shrugged and absently cleared the blade in the scabbard. "I don't like guns, and I don't have the arm strength for a bow. So this is the next best option. I had a crowbar in my truck, but the damn thing went kaput on me at o'dark thirty this morning."

That explains why she was on foot, he thought, still half amused by the thought that this girl had balls enough to slap Shane. It was about damn time someone did. Especially a woman, because Daryl knew Shane would never sink so low as to hit a woman. Thus the prick would have to admit defeat for once in his fucking life.

"Mind if I see it?" He nodded towards the scabbard.

She shrugged and unclipped it from her belt. "Don't see any reason why not."

It was a nice enough looking weapon, made of one hundred percent stainless steel. The blade was about three feet long, thin, and sharpened on both sides. The hilt and cross guard were practical, with little ornamentation, wrapped in strips of soft black hide, he assumed to stop her soft little hands from callousing, as well as providing grip. The scabbard was made of black leather, also, but much more decorated. Irish knots looped up and down, and her initials were carved into the locket.

"An' you really think that's gonna save you from a pack of hungry walkers?" He asked incredulously, handing it back to her.

She got this look on her face, then, almost defiant, like she was locked and loaded and ready to draw blood in battle. "Already has. I've hacked my way out of zombie hordes before. I tell you, it's highly satisfying." She patted the scabbard as if for reassurance.

Daryl raised an eyebrow. "Really now. You ain't right."

She laughed proudly. "Takes one to know one."

Daryl shook his head. She turned to walk away, and he watched her go. He liked her. She was refreshing to be around after being with the same ten people for months. He'd have to keep an eye on her though; some of the other folks in the group probably wouldn't appreciate her temper so much.

He didn't want her to go so soon; he'd only just met her but he enjoyed her company regardless.

She was a little farther away, and he watched the way her hips swung involuntarily as she walked. He'd have liked to have those hips in the same tent as him one night. But, with her being kin to Hershel and whatnot, he doubted that was going to happen. So he pushed her out of his mind.

Best not to get his hopes up. That much he'd known from childhood.

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Daryl hitched the crossbow up onto his shoulder and set off towards the woods. He had barely taken twenty steps before he heard Rick's voice call out from back at the little camp.

Daryl stopped and turned to face the older man. "What?" He was feeling the beginnings of an ill mood; all he really wanted to do was get out into the woods and hunt. Not babysit or nothin'.

"Have you met Kyra O'Malley yet?" Rick asked.

"Kyra O'Malley? Who the hell is that?"

"The girl you saved yesterday."

Daryl cringed inside at the word "saved" He hadn't done nothing, just brought her inside.

"Yeah I have." He responded shortly. "What of it?"

"She told me and Hershel this morning that the bed of her truck was full of supplies but she hadn't been able to carry them all herself since it died about twenty miles out. They wanted you to go with her and move them over into Otis's truck so y'all could bring them back here."

Daryl scoffed. "I ain't your messenger boy. Send Glenn for that shit, not me." He began to stalk away.

"She asked for you specifically." Rick called.

Daryl stopped and considered. He turned on his heel and stomped towards the house. "I'm only doin' this because she asked for me."

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Daryl leaned against the door, scowling out the passenger side window, occasionally stealing a glance at her. She had the driver's window down, one arm hanging out and singing to herself like the world was fine and dandy and hadn't gone to complete and utter shit.

"You can bring me flowers, baby, when I'm dead and gone…" She sang in a low breathy whisper. Daryl would never have admitted it but he'd have loved to hear that whisper for a lot longer than he did.

His thoughts were interrupted by the truck grinding to a halt and she killed the engine. They were parked parallel to a beat up red Ford, not too much different than the one they'd driven in. Kyra hopped out of the blue truck, and let down the tailgate. Daryl watched, amused, as she stepped up onto the tire, swung a leg up over the wheel well and climbed into the bed. She stood with her hands on her hips and took stock of the crates and boxes surrounding her.

"Alright, let's get started." She straightened and put her hands on her hips, looking around for him. "Where'd you go?"

"Behind you." He was leaning on the tailgate looking up at her with an innocent smile on his face.

She wasn't fooled. "You were staring at my ass, weren't you?" When he didn't answer, she took it for a yes. "You were staring at my ass, you perv. Knew wearing shorts was gonna be a bad idea." She grumbled.

Daryl ignored the accusation. "How you plannin' on loadin' all that into Otis's truck?"

She ran a hand through her mass of dark hair and scanned the truck bed. "Need you to pull up Otis's truck so the beds are parallel and hop in the back. I'll hand stuff over to you. Cool?"

"Will be if you gimme the keys."

She tossed him the keys, and as soon as he was in the other truck bed she began to pass supplies over to him.

They only had a few boxes left after maybe thirty minutes. Kyra leaned out to pass one to Daryl and stumbled a little.

He lunged out and caught both her and the box of canned goods, and for a long moment their eyes met.

She had never thought anyone could have eyes as blue as he did. Rich, royal sapphire. She wanted to get lost in them.

The moment was spoiled, though, by the sound of loud groaning and shuffling coming from behind Kyra. Daryl's head snapped up and he yanked his hunting knife out of its sheath.

"Walkers." He muttered. "Fuck."

Later he would compare the speed with which she reacted to lightning. Before he could lunge out to stab the walker, steel flashed in the summer sun and in one swift, fluid arc the walker was out its head. She jumped out of the bed, and he gaped as she raised the blade and plunged it back down. There was the sound of slicing bone, and a wet splat. She motioned for him to check the perimeter, herself still in fight mode. There was only just the one. As soon as Daryl gave the all clear, she relaxed and climbed back into the bed of her truck. She gave him an apologetic smile, as if the walker appearing was her fault, and commenced to cleaning her sword with a rag she had produced from her back pocket. Once it was clean and re-sheathed, she picked up the crate of beans and handed it to Daryl.

"Let's get this shit over with quick." She muttered, her good mood clearly gone.

Daryl nodded and took the crate from her shaking hands.

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Wasn't that nice of Daryl to help Kyra like he did? You'd almost think he liked her! ;D haha it only gets better from here, folks. Keep on keepin' on—er, reading and reviewing on. Heh heh. Chapter four will be up soon. Again, please review. :D

Also, I was thinking of changing the title. Lemme know your thoughts if y'all would be so kind. Much thanks.