The long awaited update is finally here! Sorry about the time discrepancy, it took a while. I tried not to put a cliffhanger in this chapter, since the last one was so major. Welp, here I go into the post-S2 storyline… probably gonna be prison arc spoilers from now on. Much thanks to all who read and reviewed… and of course to my wonderful beta mrsdaisybuchanan. This chapter's song is "Please Forgive Me" by David Gray. As usual I own nothing, aside from my own wishful thinking. Read and review, y'all, and I hope you enjoy! :D

The geeks pressed in on her like a vacuum, trapping her. She gritted her teeth and bravely lifted the sword, hacking off or dismembering as many heads as she could. But they just kept coming, almost as if each one she killed revived itself and split into two more walkers. It was an agonizingly long time before she had killed enough of them to escape.

And run she did. Flat out, like a bat out of hell. The sword and the baldric slung over her shoulder only added weight, and it didn't take long for her to get fatigued. Dammit she was too out of shape for this.

The roar of an engine filled her ears suddenly, then his voice, rough, commanding and protective:

"Get on the bike, woman, c'mon! I ain't got all day!" He skidded to a halt and for a long second she froze, unable to process it all. First he leaves her and now he's trying to save her again? What sort of joke was this?

But the walkers were closing in fast. She had no other choice. She dropped the sword back into its sheath and stumbled towards the bike, swinging a leg over and clinging to his middle as he revved the engine and sped away, closing her eyes tightly against the madness surrounding her.

She didn't know how long they drove for, or how far for that matter. She opened her eyes after a few miles, and let her mind catch itself up.

God what a night. The farm was gone. For all she knew Hershel and the rest of her kin were dead, or walkers, or both, and here she was stuck with the one man she could hardly abide to even be in the same room with. Wasn't that just fucking peachy?

They rode for well into the night, until Daryl pulled the bike off the road near an old abandoned house and parked it just shy of the tree line, holding out a hand to help her off the bike. She declined it and used his shoulder instead.

"We're stayin' here tonight." He told her gruffly, marching off to clear the area of walkers.

She just stood there with her arms folded, silent. Tonight had been stressful enough. Now he was going to order her around like she was incapable of deciding for herself what she was going to do? Jesus Christ. She watched silently as he disappeared into the shadows and was gone, feeling her brow furrow into a scowl. A glance to her left revealed the road was empty of any signs of life, be it human, animal or undead.

She didn't have to stay. Nothing was keeping her here. She couldn't stand Daryl anyways, especially not after what he had done to her back at the farm. She had felt so close to him… Hell, maybe back then she really had been in love with him. And maybe he had loved her back. But now? No. Now was different.

She cast a last look at the abandoned house and walked away, her speed picking up with each step she took. Before long she was running again. The asphalt was cracked and worn beneath her feet and there were tears rolling fat and hot down her face and then there was a flash of lightning and then thunder overhead. It all seemed so surreal, like a scene from a movie. She tripped over something she didn't see and crashed to the ground, somehow twisting her ankle. She didn't try to move, instead lying sprawled on her back, her body open to the pouring rain and the lightning, sobbing for all she was worth.

It was gone. All of it. Everything was gone, all her loved ones, everyone and everything she'd ever cared about and now she was stuck with a man who hated her and whom she was certain would just leave her for walker bait if it meant saving his own skin. There was no hope anymore, no reason for anything. She could turn into one of them and she knew he wouldn't hesitate to kill her and move on.

But then there was a voice calling out for her, the thunk of boots on the pavement, calloused but gentle hands on her arms, gathering her in his arms and patiently lifting her up off the pavement. She continued to weep, her body convulsing and shuddering, attempting weakly to push away from him. Instead she fell and landed on her ass. He said something to her in a voice that sounded too gentle to be his, but she couldn't understand what it was he said.

She tried to put weight on her ankle but was met with a wave of pain up her right leg, making her knees go weak and buckle beneath her. Daryl wrapped an arm around her and held her closely, her arm thrown around his shoulder, his arm supporting her at the waist. She choked out another sob and wanted to curl up and die right there. She could feel her pride waning with every step they took, no matter how hard she tried to hold onto it.

"Shh, shh, it's okay babe, I gotcha." He mumbled, pulling her back upright and cautiously scooping her up and off her feet, toting her bridal style with her head slumped against his collarbone. "'S okay. I'm here, 's alright, 's alright."

He carried her like this the whole quarter mile to the empty house, crossing the threshold just in time for rain to start pouring outside.

Daryl carried her through the house and into a sparsely decorated bedroom, setting her down carefully on the mattress with care she thought him incapable of.

"Need you to put your foot up, Kyra. C'mon, now. Go on and do it." He urged softly, crouching by the bedside. When she didn't, he sighed and tugged her boot from her foot, tearing up the pinkish shop rag he kept on him at all times and wrapping the strips carefully around her ankle. When he was done he stood and gave her a look that said, "Don't you go and even think about doing anything else stupid."

She sighed in resignation and laid back on the mattress.

Why? Why was he doing this for her? Why had he saved her from the walkers at the farm, why had he brought her back to the small house after she ran off and hurt her ankle? Why had he torn his shop rag up and bandaged her foot? The more she thought the more she began to suspect that maybe he wasn't as hateful towards her as she had thought he was. Maybe he didn't hate her. She closed her eyes and played in her mind the memories of the time they'd been together. Really, he could have been worse. He could have been—

She heard him enter the room and she rolled onto her side, pretending to be asleep. A chair scraped across the floor, and he exhaled heavily as he sank into it.

There was a period of silence that felt like hours, even though they both knew it was only a few minutes. Daryl spoke first.

"Kyra, I know you ain't asleep."

She ignored him, even though she conceded his point by opening her eyes. She wasn't going to open up to him, not this soon. She didn't want to feel that acute, crushing despair again. No. Not from him. Not ever again.

He stood suddenly—she could hear the chair scrape across the floor again with the sudden movement—and began to pace, something she noted that he had never done before.

For a while there was nothing but the sound of his boots clunking on the old wooden floor. Then they stopped, and he spoke.

"Look, I'm sorry. Okay? And I don't fuckin' care if you feel the same way or not." Then he seemed to hear himself and paused for a second. "Dammit." He grumbled. "Dammit that wasn't… shit. If you hate me, that's fine. It's your choice." He paced some more, seeming to gather his thoughts. "Goddammit, I love you, Kyra, and you can hate me if you want but I'm only gonna say this once, and you can take it or leave it.

Kyra listened in stony silence as he spoke, but not without noting a little tightening in her throat and a skip in her heartbeat when the words "I love you" crossed his lips. Maybe she had been wrong the whole time? And maybe it had just been her pride? She rolled over and felt her heart drop in her chest when she realized he had left the room. She sat up slowly and awkwardly, minding her hurt foot and the fatigue in her legs. Time to grow some balls and admit her fault.

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Daryl watched her, his face heating up as the words fell out of his mouth. She was letting on like she was still ignoring him. Fuck. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the little room, retreating to the dilapidated front porch. His nerves were already shot to hell and now she was just going to pretend he didn't exist. Well wasn't this just a Hallmark moment? Damn he could have used a cigarette and a fifth of whiskey right now. He dropped down into a moldering rocking chair and passed his hands over his face. Goddammit, he should just stop. Leave the bitch behind and—

Something thumped behind him, within the house. He sprang to his feet, crossbow at the ready, waiting for confirmation that it was a walker.

But it wasn't. Kyra limped along the empty hall, staring down at the floor and bracing herself against the wall. She hadn't even put her boot back on. She glanced up at him and then just as quickly returned her focus to the floor, shuffling nearer and nearer to him until he could smell the scent of her skin. She was close, so very close. His heart raced and his hands shook imperceptibly. This was certainly a step forward. He wanted so badly not to get his hopes up, and there she was, standing there, his to hold and protect for as long as he could…

"You meant that? What you said back there?" Her voice was quiet, little more than a whisper. She still wouldn't look at him. He figured he wasn't gonna force her to. He took a second to realize what she was talking about but after another second, it clicked.

"Wouldn'ta said it if I didn't." He muttered, cutting his eyes down to meet hers.

She shifted her weight around a little, leaning heavily on the doorframe. Her gaze was still fixed on the floor. "Daryl, why… why did you… before, at the farm, why did you say we rushed into it if you've felt this way the whole time?"

Now it was his turn to look away, ashamed. "I was drunk. After you left I got totally fuckin' shitfaced and then… I was drunk, was all. Drunk and stupid." His voice was low, thick with regret. He couldn't tell her about Merle, she'd think he was completely batshit insane.

Her head slowly lifted up and she turned his face to meet hers. He was startled to again see tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. "That's a chickenshit excuse, Daryl." She sounded… bleak, maybe even hopeless. It tore him up. "I trusted you, I confided in you, I felt safe and protected around you; hell, I slept with you. You hurt me, hell of a lot worse than I gave it credit for, and that's why I avoided you so much. It hurt me bad to see you and be… reminded of …that."

She was right. He knew it, and not even deep down. He knew it with every fiber of his existence. The guilt sang in his blood and heightened his senses like adrenaline.

"Already said I'm sorry." He muttered, catching her eyes again. "What else ya want from me? Dozen roses and a bottle a wine?"

She shrugged and chuckled bitterly, resuming her nervous habit of picking her nails. "I dunno. Wine would be nice now you mention it, but I figure I shouldn't drink right now. I'm liable not to be able to stop."

"So what we gonna do? I ain't gonna take the bike out in this weather." He jerked his head back towards the rain coming down in sheets around them. He slung the crossbow back over his shoulder and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

She shifted her weight a little and leaned against the doorframe, bracing herself on her arm.

"I'm gonna apologize as well." She bit her lower lip and stared out over his shoulder. Then her eyes locked back on his and he was lost, drowning in glittering hazel-amber pools. "Like I said, it hurt. I was so wrapped up in protecting myself that I refused to see that you wanted to make amends." He tensed at the memories: she had rebuked him, pushed him away, spurned him… he didn't even want to think about the night Dale had died. He felt something almost violent begin to simmer in the pit of his stomach, but choked it back as best as he could. She was trying to say her piece, make her amends, and losing his temper on her again would not help anything.

"I'm sorry, Daryl. I was a bitch. 'T wasn't called for, and it was wrong." She sighed heavily and her eyes drifted back over his shoulder. "Damn I wish I had my sketchbook right now. I hate to think that it got left somewhere when the herd attacked after it went missing." The corners of her mouth twisted into a dissatisfied frown.

Daryl watched her carefully for a moment, thinking. What would she do to him when he gave the sketchbook back to her? Would she scream at him? Yell, cry, throw a shit fit, slap him across the face? Either way it didn't matter now. He had cleared his conscience, lain himself bare and open at her feet. She couldn't hurt him any worse now than she had before. He clasped her shoulders for a second and ordered her not to move, then ducked out into the rain and vanished. He returned a minute later, hiding something beneath his jacket.

She watched curiously as he stepped back onto the porch, soaked to the bone, droplets of water dripping off his hair and the tip of his nose.

Her eyes widened in disbelief and she gasped unconsciously as he withdrew a rectangular object bound in scuffed black leather and tied shut with a thin strip of hide. "Oh my God…" The words fell out of her mouth in a sigh.

"You, uh, you dropped this," Here he swallowed thickly and realized his voice was shaking. What the hell was wrong with him, why couldn't he talk? "The night that, uh, that Dale died. I found it lyin' in the grass an' I… I figured I'd keep it for ya so nothin' would happen to it. I didn't think you realized you had, ah, lost it, and that's why you never put up much fuss about lookin' for it."

She took it reverently from his hands and pulled at the knot that held it shut. She thumbed through a couple pages before looking up at him from beneath her eyebrows.

"Did you open it or look through it at all?"

What was she trying to accomplish? He stuttered out a no, half-terrified she'd go off on him and think he was lying.

Instead she flipped to the back of the book and held it out to him.

"I drew this after Sophia died." She said quietly, scanning his face carefully for any reaction. "I thought you might like to see it."

His eyes flickered up to hers, but were suddenly riveted onto the page in front of him.

Yes, it was a drawing of him, but that wasn't what cut him so deeply. Rather, it was a drawing of him and Sophia. They were walking out of the woods through a field of tall grass. Sophia was holding Daryl's hand like a child would her father's. On her back were petite angel wings.

His eyes were stinging. He closed the sketchbook silently and handed it back to her. Had she meant to show that to him before? Or had she meant for him to find it on his own? He shook his head and decided he would never really know.

"That's… that's really good." Was all he could say. Lightning flashed behind him, followed almost immediately by a peal of thunder so loud it shook the little house. Kyra stumbled forward a little, startled by the loudness, landing with her hands clinging to his arms and dropping the sketchbook clumsily.

She bent down awkwardly and attempted to retrieve it without putting weight on her twisted ankle, only to be unbalanced again when thunder rattled the little house a second time and almost knocked her off her feet. Daryl swooped down and lifted her up, retrieving the sketchbook from off the floor and handing it to her.

She clutched it tightly to her chest as if it were the last book on Earth. Daryl regarded her for a moment. She had changed so much since he met her, what seemed so long ago, even though he knew it had only been a couple months or so. She looked almost frail now, but still determined. He saw the old spark glint in her eyes, the one that said she could make it on her own, she didn't need anybody to help her at all, chagrined at having to lean against him for support.

"You need to get back inside." He mumbled. "Ain't good for you to be on your foot like that."

She gave no discernible response, save for easing up onto her left leg. She leaned away from him, wouldn't look him in the eye.

Daryl half-carried her into the small bedroom he'd laid her up in and told her she needed rest, that he'd take watch for tonight.

He had reached the doorway when he heard her voice, small and uncharacteristically meek, say his name.

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her. "Yeah?"

She was still almost shyly quiet.

"I don't want to be alone."

He turned on his heel and regarded her from where he stood. In the darkness she was but a silhouette, though his keen eyes could tell she was sitting up and watching him watch her.

Silence, save for the drum of the rain on the tin roof.

"Please." The word was so quiet he almost didn't hear it.

She needed him. She needed him, his presence, his company; something he'd secretly hoped and waited for since he realized what a mistake he'd made in pushing her away. Lightning flashed and he thought he saw vulnerability on her face.

"Alrigh'. C'mon, you can sit watch with me in the other room." He led her across the hall into an empty living room. Unbeknownst to her, he had found a couple matchbooks and a bunch of dried logs out back and had stacked them neatly in the small fireplace. She sat gingerly on the hardwood floors and watched silently as he set about lighting the stack of logs, using a couple old issues of Southern Living Magazine he'd found lying around as tinder. Before too long the wood was smoldering and the room was filled with the sharp tang of pine smoke.

Kyra closed her eyes and breathed deeply, opened her eyes and exhaled slowly. Her breath billowed around her nose and mouth like little clouds. She stared at the flickering embers, into the depths of the coals, and realized with some satisfaction that she wasn't thinking anything. That she felt lighter, easier, calmer. Less of a frazzled, nervous wreck than she had in the past few weeks. A tiny smile twitched the corners of her mouth. Maybe it was Daryl that was her cool-down, her anxiety relief. She decided (her smile widening the whole time) that if this was a movie, there were a couple ways this evening could go. One, there could be a sweet montage of the two of them sitting there "bonding": talking and laughing and just being cute altogether, which she knew right off would never happen even though the thought of Daryl Dixon being "cute" amused her greatly; she doubted even his own mother had called him that. Or two, they could have a deep and emotionally meaningful conversation about their feelings and then have hot, needy make-up sex all night long. That would be nice, at least the latter part, indeed, but she doubted that Daryl would be so easily distracted from his self-imposed watch duty by her feminine charms, however much of a horn dog as he could be at times.

Her train of thought was interrupted by the sudden presence of said Dixon, who promptly dropped at her feet a blanket, a bottle of water and a pouch of homemade jerky before plopping down on the floor next to her and turning to his almost nightly task of bolt cleaning.

"You brought me dinner. How sweet." She quipped, before opening the pouch and tearing off a piece of jerky between her teeth. He made no reply, save for a low grunt of acknowledgement.

"What kinda meat is this?" She asked as she chewed. "Tastes good."

He paused in his task and glanced up at her. "Squirrel." He answered curtly, before returning to cleaning his arrows.

She observed him while she ate, noting that he was using a different rag than before—this one was white and extraordinarily nappy, presumably to replace the one that was currently torn into pieces and tied around her foot. She shrugged it off and reached instead for her sketchbook.

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Her arm brushed past his leg as she reached for the little bound book she so prized. He watched from the corner of his eye as she opened it carefully and flipped past the pages. Drawings of people he didn't know, people he did know, animals, houses, almost anything she could fix within her sight. A couple times he thought he saw his own face rendered in pencil, but he didn't stop his work to ask her.

He got four more bolts cleaned before his mind began to wander. He noted without comment that she had curled up and gone to sleep wrapped in one of the quilts he had found. He had finished his work, so he set his arrows down and steepled his hands in front of his face, watching her intently. She was so… odd. Odd was a good word. First she avoids him like the plague and now here she is asleep at his feet, almost like she would trust the world with him. Not that he was complaining about it, but it was still more than he had let himself hope for.

Why had she done it? He knew she'd said it was to protect herself but he hadn't meant to hurt her. Couldn't she have seen that he was drunk when he left her, and therefore not in his right mind? It wasn't like he was a psychopath or nothing.

Kyra twitched in her sleep, rolling over onto her side and grimacing. She made a small sound of discomfort and curled in on herself into the fetal position.

He watched attentively, half-believing that it was just another one of her nightmares.

Her breathing sped up, shallower than before. She made another groaning noise, this one rising in pitch and much more abject. After maybe five more minutes her eyes fluttered open and she sat up slowly.

She looked around self-consciously for a moment and flushed violently. He shook his head and stared at the fire.

"You have another nightmare?" He asked without looking at her.

"Yeah." He chanced a peek in her direction, only to find her with glassy eyes and a haunted look on her face.

"You gonna be alright?"

She sighed and rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I think so. It was just, damn, that was a weird one. Shit."

Before he could think of a reason not to, Daryl dropped down to the floor next to her and was sitting next to her, then was reaching out and taking her hand in his. "I'm right here." He mumbled awkwardly, shooting a glance at her then looking away just as quickly. She flashed him a tiny, but warm smile, and laid back down on the floor, loosely intertwining her fingers with his. Before long she was asleep again, her face peaceful and expressionless. A couple hours before she woke, Kyra rolled over in her sleep and mumbled something like, "Please forgive me, if I act a little strange…"

He stared at her for a moment. Shaking his head, he laid down next to her, one arm slung over her waist and the other stretched out on the floor, and watched the gray sky lighten ever so slightly into what he could only assume was the dawn, hidden behind sheets of steel-colored rain.

I do apologize if the end seems like another cliffhanger. I really didn't mean to put one in this time. Anyways, don't forget to review and tell me what you think about this chapter or the overall story in general.