"Do you want to be alone?"

"I don't know," he says.

They stand there in the dark, the moon casting a silvered glow across the field stretching around them. In the distance she can hear the crack of the camp fire, and the muted voices of the rest of the group as they drift out of their hiding holes. The silence is a telling symptom of their decisions, their choices. It's a fine mix of regret and guilt; they mull over the gunshot still echoing in their minds.

They've just killed a man.

"Why'd you do it?" Cal asks.

Daryl stiffens, not quite sure what to say. He had seen Rick holding his gun to the boy's head; he had watched as a man wavered under the weight of the hand he had been dealt. Rick wasn't a man to suffer his own choices, but the choices of others. He didn't celebrate himself as a false king, but did what had to be done to ensure the survival of his group. In that moment Daryl had watched the group's decision weigh on him. Rick had hesitated, splintering under the girth of his own kindness. He would have pulled the trigger in the end, his resolve nigh infallible, but eventually he would have shattered under the constant barrage to his morality. Rick hadn't asked for help, but Daryl had known he had needed it.

"Rick shouldn't have to do it alone," he rumbles softly.

Cal remembers Rick's quiet words, his confession of killing the two men in Patton's Bar, and his willingness to do it again if necessary. He was a good man – a strong man dealt a heavy hand. He would make the choices no one else would; he would try where no one else could.

"That's a kindness he deserves," she blinks up at him.

Daryl feels a chill curl down his spine at her words, almost as if he's pleased by her recognition. "He's good for this group, even if they can't always see that."

"But you do."

Daryl's lips thin, and he looks away. "Someone's gotta have his back."

Cal glances over her shoulder towards the RV, towards the voices whispering fervently in the shadows. Shane and Lori argue quietly, though their voices carry across the grassy field. Daryl follows her gaze, and for a moment they stand acknowledging an unsaid truth - Shane would not be the one to support Rick.

He never had been. He never would be.

"Shane is dangerous," Cal murmurs quietly. "I hardly know the man, and I can see that."

Daryl is quiet.

"You need to make sure nothing happens," she says, finally turning back to him.

"What would I care?" His eyes narrow.

"You care what happens to this group."

He scoffs and turns away.

"You care, Daryl. And you know Rick is the only one that will help them. He can't be alone."

He stiffens as he feels her move closer to him.

"I'm leaving," she finally admits.

"Youwant to be alone," it isn't a question.

When she doesn't reply right away he almost scoffs.

"I don't know," she says.

He blinks, but he doesn't turn to look at her. "Why?"

"Why?" She asks, incredulous.

He shrugs, still staring out across the field with her at his back. "Why would you leave?"

She is silent for a time, and eventually he turns to regard her. She stands sheepishly in front of him, staring at her hands, her lip tugged thoughtfully into her mouth.

He knows why he would leave. He knows what would drive him away – and had. But she was right; he saw in Rick what the others did not. He saw in Shane what Rick would not see. There was a stark difference between the two men, and without a doubt their world would crumble if the lesser of the two managed to usurp control.

While a part of him still wants to turn tail and flee, her words were a tether anchoring him.

"You need to make sure nothing happens. He can't be alone."

He hates it. He hates that he doesn't owe Rick anything, but something still keeps him there. He hates that he doesn't understand it at all – the only thing that made sense were her words, her request.

And for that he turns his anger and frustration and confusion to her.

He's opening his mouth to yell at her, to explode and tell her she's a dumb bitch when it happens. A soft concession in the night.

"I'm afraid," she whispers to him.

Words escape him. He stares down at her in confusion.

"This group isn't safe. Groups aren't safe. Since the beginning of this whole thing, all I've found or seen with others is death – people scrambling over one another to find more time."

"So you'd just leave?" Daryl asks.

"I don't feel safe here," she defends herself. There were more words she wanted to use, more things she wanted to say. She could see their goodness shattering, their very foundation crumbling, and where Rick would take it upon himself to scavenge what he could, she wanted to get away. To leave them tumbling into the dark so that she was not dragged down with them.

She wasn't any better than the others – than the people who pushed and shoved and murdered just for more time.

"I'm afraid," she repeats.

Daryl's lips thin, his eyes narrow. He had found her there in the woods without a clue which way her feet were, and he had heard of how her previous travelling companion had left her for dead. That, coupled with the men from town, surely left her with a concept of the new world.

He thinks back on the dog that Dale had mentioned, the one that had lived behind a dumpster. Something had set a fear in the dog, something that a bit of kindness had remedied.

But who was Daryl to fix something broken, when he was so fucked up himself?

He looks down at his hands, bloodied through the gauze wrapped so carefully around his knuckles. He remembers her concern, her knitted brow. You should get those looked at.

He had punched Randall after she left the room. He had punched Randall to stop him from speaking about her. He had punched Randall for her, and for the women that the boy had hurt – had broken. While he had punched Randall, he had thought back on her muttered words of a man leaving her for dead in the middle of the road.

He blinks, flexing his hands within the wrapped bandages.

"When are you leaving?" He asks.

She looks back at him, her eyes wide. "I don't know."

He nods and looks back at his hand. Cal follows his gaze.

"You should get those looked at," she mumbles red faced. "You've bled through your bandages."


They are in the Greene's kitchen, the lights casting a dim glow across the table where they sit. The house is silent around them, the residences having only just settled in for the night.

Daryl sits awkwardly at the table, tugging at the bandages with a grimace. He had pointedly ignored her offers to help, setting upon the task himself with a defiant vigour.

"It's just been me this whole time," he had groused. "Just me. I don't need no help."

Cal had left him to it, choosing instead to sit back in her chair and watch quietly as he struggled.

And struggles still.

"God damn, fucking thing-"

She almost laughs, but quiets herself by burying her mouth into her hand. Her shoulders still shake – enough so that he glances at her and scowls.

"It ain't fucking funny," he hisses.

Cal holds up a hand in apology, her eyes light with mirth. "Of course it's not," she says.

Her glowers at her before returning to the task at hand.

For a few moments longer she listens to him pick and bite and tug at the gauze, cussing lowly under his breath.

"For fuck sakes-"

Her hands coil around his, stilling the impatience there. He tries to pull away, but her fingers are strong by his pulse. She ignores him, his murmured confusion. She simply tucks herself in front of him and begins to peel the bloodied gauze from his hand, trying not to falter under his careful scrutiny. He is silent as she works, his dark eyes watchful. She fetches a fresh cloth from the pantry and splashes it lightly with peroxide.

For a moment she thinks he'll pull away.

"I've had worse," he grunts.

She blinks and then picks up his hand, carefully cradling his palm within her own. She apologizes as she touches the damp cloth to his raw skin, wincing as it sizzles.

He doesn't flinch.

Instead, he watches her. The shadows cast themselves across her face, lending truth to how tired she is. He can still see the lumps and bruises from her altercation only a week ago, though they hide carefully beneath a layer of dust and sweat.

For a while they say nothing. She cleans his hands with a slowness, her hands fumbling occasionally as if unsure of how he'll react. He almost says something, but the worried cast to her expression holds his tongue.

She folds his hands over in her own, searching his palm with wandering eyes. The callouses there, the scars and scrapes, lend her the truth of his nature. She dabs at a small cut near his wrist. He doesn't pull away.

When it is done, she wraps his hand in gauze. He pulls his hands back to his lap and scowls.

"Thanks," he mumbles.

She nods and collects the loose items of her craft, cradling them to her as she stands. She doesn't say another word, she leaves the room in silence, only the door breathing behind her bids her farewell.

Daryl stares down at his hands. It burns where the peroxide had touched his skin.

And where she had held his hand in her own.


The next morning is a bleak affair. The aftermath of Randall's death sees the group quiet as they go about breakfast, their eyes only occasionally straying to Rick, Shane, or Daryl. Carl is the only one unaffected by the whole affair, as seen by his childish protests as his mother attempts to urge him to eat.

"Carl, eat your eggs."

"No."

"Carl..-"

"No."

"Carl," Rick finally interjects. "Listen to your mother."

Everyone misses the heated look Shane passes Lori.

As Carl settles into his breakfast, the group goes quiet once more. They fall into a bleak silence, only the clinking of cutlery against plastic plates any sign of life. Eventually Carol begins a dish tub, and one by one the group finishes and tucks their dirtied utensils away. They drift off thereafter, returning to duties long forgotten upon Cal and Randall's untimely arrival.

Cal is the last to tuck her plate into the bin, and she offers Carol a sheepish grimace at having made her wait. The older woman smiles tentatively, and her eyes dart behind Cal before returning. Her eyes are light, her lips quivering and tightening and trembling as she rolls words over her tongue.

"He shouldn't be alone," Carol murmurs, echoing the same thing Cal had only just said to Daryl.

Cal blinks uncertainly, glancing over her shoulder. Daryl is weaving through the field from his tent. Cal turns back to Carol. She had seen the older woman pursue Daryl through the camp on several occasions – they had an apparent friendship, though Cal had suspected more than that.

Carol's words push that assumption firmly aside.

"No," Cal agrees. "He shouldn't."

"No one should be alone," Carol's voice is filled with enough intensity that Cal's eyebrows rise in wonder at the woman's pointed look. Carol had never come across as forceful, but rather a soft and meek person that had, surprisingly, survived at all. The woman's sudden strength and conviction is enough to make Cal blush.

"You think you're doing what's right in leaving," Carol murmurs, her eyes falling away as if she's embarrassed by her own backbone. "But you're not, and you'll end up hurting not just yourself."

Carol's bravery deflates, and she offers Cal a tired smile.

"Just think about that."

"Okay," Cal blinks. She turns and walks away, feeling her conviction falter.

She moves towards the Greene's house, faltering only when she sees Hershel, Daryl, Rick and Shane tucked around a map on the porch.

"Your people are welcome to move into the house," Hershel finally offers to Rick. "But we don't have enough supplies for everyone."

"We need to start soon if we're going to be comfortable through the winter," Rick explains.

Shane's face is dark. "We can't be sure that Randall's people won't just show up-"

"So only send a handful of people at a time," Daryl growls.

Shane huffs and runs a hand over his bare head.

Rick's jaw is tight as he mulls over Hershel's words. He sets forward on his hands, staring down at the map. "Then we need to go out," he holds up a hand to silence Shane. "We need supplies."

"Remember what happened last time?" Shane hisses.

"Then we'll only send a handful of people," Rick says sharply, all to familiar with the attack that had happened on the camp. "This isn't up for discussion."

"No Rick, I think it is."

Daryl glances between the two men, and his eyes finally alight upon Cal moving slowly towards the porch. He blinks, expression light as she meets his gaze.

"I'll go," he says to Rick, ignoring Shane's dark scowl.

Rick's shoulders sag in a sudden relief. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Daryl nods.

"I'll go too," Cal offers, surprising both Rick and Shane at her sudden appearance. "I'd like to help before I go."

Rick considers her for a moment before he catches Daryl's eye. The other man nods.

"Alright," Rick says.

"No," Shane interjects. "Rick, you can't be serious man. Sending one of our best shot-"

"Who else should I send, Shane?" Rick's jaw is tight. "Dale? Carol? Lori?"

Shane's jaw snaps shut, his eyes suddenly vivid with colour. "And who are we going to lose if you don't? Dale? Carol? Lori?" Shane bites back. "How many more do we need to lose for you to see—"

"Enough," Hershel grimaces, rallying behind Rick.

Shane huffs, his eyes locked with Rick's. A long and tense moment passes. Everyone holds their breath. Finally Shane scoffs and moves off, stalking away towards the RV with an angry growl. The tension crumbles; the group lets out a collective breath.

Rick watches until Shane is out of sight, and then he turns to Cal and Daryl with a sigh. "You'll head out as soon as possible. I don't want you out in the dark.

"I'd say you hit the highway. Collect as much as you can from the cars before we start heading out any further," Rick says. "We don't know how far those men are, or how many there might be. We need to keep a low profile."


They run their hands in the dry dust of the road and rub their palms across their necks and through their hair. The sweat clinging to their skin mixes with it, casting a swirling pattern of mud beneath their jaws and around their collars.

"I knew you had a group," Cal explains to Daryl. Rick stands off to the side to see them off, listening intently. "From the first moment I saw you, I knew you had a home."

"How?" Rick asks, his brow furrowing in consternation.

She looks pointedly at Rick, at his freshly shaven jaw. "He was too clean."

Rick rubs at his chin, suddenly conscious. He remembers the men in Patton's Bar, and how easily they had assumed they had somewhere to live. It hadn't made sense at the time; it had caught them off guard, and had probably confirmed to the men what they had wondered aloud.

"If they get close enough to the truck, they'll know," she says. "But if we're looking to bring stuff back we can't afford the room."

"Then we ain't gonna let them get close enough," Daryl grunts, rearranging one of his dirtier shirts around his shoulders. His crossbow is tucked into his arm.

Rick nods.

"Be careful," he says.

As Daryl moves to pass them by, Rick turns to Cal with shadowed eyes, the weight of Randall's death still an obvious burden. "Keep an eye on him," he murmurs, nodding in the direction of Daryl's retreating back. "It isn't easy."

"Okay," she agrees.

"He doesn't really have anyone."

"If he needs someone to talk to, I'll talk to him," she reassures him.

Rick nods. "Be careful," he repeats, the words resounding with a different meaning.

"We ain't got all day!" Daryl grunts from afar, and Cal gives Rick one last look – and a pained smile – before she hurriedly moves off after him.

The truck they take belonged to a man named Otis. Patricia is in the kitchen window when it starts up, and she disappears with a shocked look on her face and her hand held to her heart. Cal watches her fade from the kitchen window – almost as if the woman is an apparition.

Rick waves them off down the drive, his eyes dark as they rumble around the corner of trees.

For a long while they weave down the old country road. Neither says a word, they are lost to the dark wood surrounding them, looming before them, and behind them. Cal cannot find words, her eyes search the trees for any semblance of man or walker. Daryl drives them onwards, his attention split between the road and forest.

"There," Cal murmurs, and Daryl glances in the rear view window to see a single walker come stumbling from the copse. It shambles listlessly behind them, its gait awkward.

They ignore it and drive on.

Eventually the wood bleeds away, and they find themselves on the edge of the highway. Before them stretches the vast empire of the old world; the concrete veins that had once pumped with so much life lay silent, the old and forgotten vehicles now dusty tombs.

Daryl edges carefully onto the road, and swings the truck about. It's nose faces back towards the road.

They dip from the truck, their breath tight in their chests as they land upon the sun baked concrete of the old world. Around them the highway is quiet.

Cal wanders towards the nose of the truck, her eyes pinched against the sun as she looks north and then south. Daryl slinks towards an old abandoned station wagon, his eyes taking in the small pile of food and running paint across the windshield.

"What is that?" Cal's voice is so quiet he almost doesn't hear her.

"Somethin' we left for Sophia," he grouses, dragging his hand across the paint, wiping it away, and pulling the few items into his arms. He dumps them into the bed of the truck and turns around to take in the rest of the vehicles. They had scoured them that first night on the highway, but there had been so many items they hadn't been looking for, or had found wanting.

"Someone should be on watch," she looks at his crossbow nestled in his arms, her own hand sitting idly on the hilt of her knife.

"You sure you don't want-"

"I'm sure," she says.

He nods and climbs atop the cab, glaring down the highway.

It is slow work. The first few cars offer little more than suitcases of wrinkled, musty clothes. Cal hauls a few bags to the back of the truck, picking and choosing the heavier garments that would be of more use through the colder months. It seems that most of the people who had long abandoned their cars hadn't the foresight to see the impending apocalypse – everything tucked in the trunks or back seats are little more than a few changes of clothes, or a few magazines. Cal grabs what newspapers she can, already anticipating the chill of winter deep in her bones, and the fire that they would surely need to chase it away.

By the time the summer heat begins to pulse around them, the back of the truck is half full. Cal is tugging at the bandana around her neck, grimacing at how it drags across her wet skin. From where she scrounges in the front seat of a mini-van, she can see Daryl facing away from her – the back of his shirt is dark with sweat.

Cal sighs, brushing her fingers over the blue air conditioning button on the console. She remembers the few moments of reprieve from the heat, when she and Merle would justify a moment of cool air licking their skin.

She almost laughs at herself for reminiscing so fondly of the man that had almost killed her when Daryl's gruff voice cuts through the air laced with acid.

"What're you laughing about?"

She blinks, realizing she had indeed been shaking with laughter. "I was just thinking about the asshole that left me for dead," she says back.

Daryl turns away, looking off down the road. "What about him?"

Cal sobers up, remembering the moments with Merle that had made her feel alive – human. Subtle things came to mind: the fear she had felt when she had first found him near death on the side of the road; the sadness she had felt when he had discovered his brother was most likely dead; and the tension that propagated their final encounter.

They had needed one another, in one way or another. She had tended and cared for Merle, and Merle had given her camaraderie when she hadn't realized she had needed it.

"It was shit when he was there," she grumbles, digging into the back seat. "But it was better than being alone."

Daryl's lips twitch.

All he can think about is Merle.