What I've felt

What I've known

Turn the pages, turn the stone

Behind the door

Should I open it for you?

What I've felt

What I've known

Sick and tired, I stand alone

Could you be there

Cause I'm the one who waits for you

Or are you unforgiven, too?

It was the smell of food once the sun had gone down that finally brought Trish down from the roof of the RV. Even after Glenn had left and Carol decided to join her for a bit, she was content to quietly observe. Fish had found a playmate in Carl, and she noticed the dog curled up in the boy's lap while he ate. This was no place for Trish. Even after Lori had passed her a bowl of some sort of stew and a hunk of pheasant meat, she tried to slip away.

"No such luck, City Girl," said a voice from the wooded darkness. Daryl came from the side to cup her elbow and steer her back towards the group at the fire. "If I have to join this ritual every damn night, you can do it once." He didn't move his hand until she was standing in front of an empty chair, nodding his approval when she sat.

Everyone ate in silence for a bit, but Trish could feel them watching her. Daryl had parked himself on the ground next to her since evidently he had given her his seat, and that had apparently been the signal to start conversation.

"I hear you're from Miami," Rick started, prompting Trish into telling them more about herself.

"South Beach, yeah. My dad and I ran a bike shop down there."

"Sellin' or fixin'?" Daryl asked.

"Fixin'. I've been turning wrenches since I was about ten." Her reply got an approving nod from at least three of the men sitting around the fire, including the one who had asked.

Trish went on to tell them that she had gotten her first motorcycle at the age of twelve, and was introduced to the Miami street race scene at sixteen. She'd been in her fair share of brawls, mostly with girls who were chasing the boys she raced against, but bikes had always interested her more than men. It had earned her the nickname "Máquina," and had been the inspiration behind her tattoo.

"Did you know that Miami Ink guy?" She prickled at Andrea's question. Something about the way it was phrased to imply Trish had been sleeping with him, maybe…

"Ran into him a few times. Knew the wife of one of his employees. But no," she said, shaking her head. "I didn't know him personally."

"So who did your sleeve?"

"More than a sleeve, T-Dog. And no, I won't show you the rest of it," she chuckled.

"Well, you're probably bunking with Daryl and I tonight. It can be arr…" T-Dog stopped when he noticed Daryl glaring at him. But even if she wasn't willing to strip down and show them, Trish was at least willing to tell them about it.

It had taken the better part of two years to complete and covered nearly the entire left side of her body. Designed to appear as if chunks of skin had been torn off to reveal a cybernetic body underneath, Trish was extremely proud of it. Showing it off had never been a problem for her before the world went to hell in a hand basket, but now… Now, anonymity gave her a better advantage, so she kept it covered as much as possible, she told them.

"Hell, show it off," T-Dog encouraged. "Worst it can do now is entertain some nerd's weird fantasy."

The joke had gone too far. Trish knew he had just been teasing, but the implication caused her to posture to stiffen and her eyes widened. She forced herself to close her eyes and count to ten, but it didn't work. She wasn't mad. He didn't know. How could she be mad?

Panic was welling up in her again, and Trish excused herself before anyone could see the tears welling up. Making a beeline for her bike, she paused only long enough to grab her jacket and her smokes before walking to the edge of the trees. There was a fence barely within sight of the RV, which she leaned against as she attempted to light a cigarette.

It didn't work. Memories flooded her mind and her stomach churned at the thought of what had been done. Sinking to her knees, Trish regurgitated what little dinner she had managed to eat.

Someone had followed her. As she sat by the fence, heaving and sobbing, Trish felt gentle hands pull her hair out away from her face. Once it had been tied back, she saw a canteen on the perimeter of her vision, held by Carol. Standing a bit farther away, keeping the others back, was Daryl.

Rinse and spit. Repeat.

"Thank you," she whispered, letting Carol help her stand. She had managed to regain enough strength to lean against the fence, and by the time Daryl had cleared the crowd the shaking had stopped. When he approached, she lit two smokes and handed him one.

"T didn't mean nothin' by what he said."

"I know."

The three of them stood in silence for a few more moments as Trish contemplated her options. Should she tell them about what happened in Jacksonville? There was something about these two that was different from the others. As if they were somehow…more broken…than the rest of the survivors in their camp. She looked at each of them. Carol was wracked with concern, Daryl acting standoffish but the way he hovered nearby indicated curiosity.

Trish slipped out of her jacket and shoulder holster, then raised the bracelets that had been covering her left wrist up to her forearm. There was a nearly full moon out, so they could clearly see the scars. Carol let a soft gasp escape, but otherwise neither said anything.

Turning her back on them, Trish lifted her shirt over her head. This time, Carol did more than just gasp.

"He b…br…"

"Branded her, Carol," finished Daryl, touching the bubbled scar on Trish's left shoulder. He seemed to be completely ignoring the fact that she was pretty much nude from the waist up save for her bra. "This is pretty recent, too."

"About three months ago."

"I think I…need to excuse myself," Carol said suddenly, a sob breaking in the back of her throat. As Trish turned, she lowered her shirt.

"So," Daryl started, dragging on his smoke, "she cries, I get pissy and you throw up."

"Coping mechanisms?" she guessed. When he nodded, Trish managed a smile.

They stood there, leaning against the fence, smoking their cigarettes, listening to the sounds of the night. Camp was already starting to shut down and miraculously there hadn't been a single walker sighted all day. Trish had debated putting her coat back on, but Daryl was radiating his own heat and close enough that she could feel it. With Carol gone, the tension from earlier in the day had begun to build again, and she suddenly realized that she had pretty much bared herself to him when showing them the brand.

"We should probably get back," she suggested, squashing the butt on the fence post. Daryl did the same, but didn't say a word. He took one tiny step closer…

"If you don't wanna stay with me and T-Dog…"

"No, I…I'll be fine," she stammered. "Unless you don't want…"

"Oh, I want." He reached out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear and she bit her lip. "But I'll behave."

Trish was thankful that Daryl didn't look back when he walked away, for he surely would've seen her placing her hand over the tiny spot on her cheek where his thumb had briefly caressed it.

Just where the hell did that come from, Daryl asked himself as he strode into camp, but he knew the answer. His mood soured immediately and his campmates gave him a wide berth as he passed by. "Settin' the wires," he mentioned. He was pretty sure they hadn't been done yet, and it would give him something to do until he sorted out what, exactly, had just happened with Trish.

It wasn't the stupid foreign motorcycle. Not that fancy leather racing jacket. And when he closed his eyes and imagined her in the world before it had gone to shit, Daryl bet she had a sweet pair of riding chaps, but it wasn't that either. God damnit, Dixon, that isn't helping.

It was the brand on the back of her shoulder. The scars on her wrist where she had been held against her will. She had been someone's goddamn property, and who knows what she had been made to do. But Trish had found a way out. Had gotten away. She survived. And she had moved on.

She was different from Carol, who had been subject to abuse from Ed for countless years. Carol still needed the group. And after Sophia… Well, it had been hard on all of them, but it was as if she had simply been going through the motions the past two months. Even Andrea had stayed on after the death of her sister, though some days Daryl wondered just what the hell Dale was thinking by talking her out of staying with Jenner at the CDC. Carol was good people, though, and even if she couldn't quite make it on her own, the group would feel it if they lost her.

Everyone in the group was someone else's reason to live. The Grimes' had each other. Shane stayed for them, too, even if he stepped out of line more often than not. Andrea stayed for Shane and her own sense of self-importance. Everyone else banded around each other. All but Daryl. Sure, he liked them well enough, but he stayed on more out of habit. If the shit ever truly hit the fan, he'd be gone.

Which brought him back to thinking about Trish. She wasn't even a part of the group. Not yet, anyway, if Rick were to have a say in it. But she had survived on her own for a good chunk of the past six months. Just her and that damned dog, and Daryl suspected that Fish was the one last tie to her old life. The way Merle's motorcycle was the last tie to his.

He looked into camp, watching Trish grab her backpack and fiddle with the Honda while she talked to T-Dog. The air seemed to have been cleared between them, but she wasn't going out of her way to be friendly. Just making small talk. She was certainly not trying to form any bonds here.

Daryl tied off the last of the perimeter wires just as he watched Trish disappear into the tent with her pack. There was a bite in the air, and he hoped that the spare bedding they had dug up would keep her warm enough. Not that he cared. Daryl Dixon just didn't care.

Bullshit, that inner voice piped up.

"Shut up," he told it. "I don't." But he hadn't done a very good job of convincing himself of that fact quite yet.

Trish had just settled into the sleeping bag when she heard someone pull on the tent flap. Daryl's head popped in, faintly outlined by the moonlight. He frowned at the contraption in her hand, which brought a smile to her face.

"That one of those iThings?" Trish nodded. "How?"

"I found it in an empty hotel just north of Jacksonville. The bike has a built-in charger. Do the math."

"Whatever. Don't expect me to save you if you can't hear the walkers coming."

"That's what Fish is for." At her name, the little Papillon popped her head up from her spot near Trish's shoulder. Daryl looked slightly less annoyed, but said nothing. Figuring their conversation was over, she inserted the ear buds and began shuffling through the playlists as he removed himself back into the night. Trish was just about to turn on the music when she heard Daryl talking with T-Dog.

"Sure she's ok?" T-Dog ventured to ask.

"Seems to be. Figured if there was really a problem she'd be curled up next to that bike instead of in the tent, right?"

"Not really the friendly sort, is she?"

"Told ya. She don't like people."

"Kinda' like you, huh?" It was silent for a moment, and Trish realized she was waiting as anxiously for Daryl's answer as T-Dog was.

"Kinda."

There was shuffling as she realized they were coming back to the tent, so Trish quickly rolled to her side and pretended to be listening to the iPod. Just in time, for first T-Dog, then Daryl crawled through the flap then zipped it up tight.

T-Dog was asleep almost as soon as he hit the sack, and she envied that he could do that. As Daryl shifted and tossed next to her, she decided that yes, she really would need the music to help her relax tonight. Having Tall, Hick and Handsome less than six inches away was entirely too distracting.

**lyric credit** "Unforgiven II" by Metallica