There's a place where you can light the fire and watch it burn

Lay it down and lose it all

It's taken me so far beyond the point of no return

Gave all that I had when hope was gone

(Hope was gone)

Is this real or is it just another crazy dream

That someday soon will fade away

Feels just like I'm underwater and can barely breathe

Dying in the bed that I have made

I don't want to drown in you

I'm sinking and I'm torn in two

So when you see me come up for air

Don't try to hold me down

Just save me now

Don't let me drown in you

Rain pounded on the roof of the RV as Daryl waited with the others for Trish and Glenn to return. They were parked on the road near the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest, waiting on the pair to return from looking into an artist's colony they had seen a sign for. Dale had told them it would be secluded, a place where painters and writers had been able to work in an atmosphere of peace and relative solitude. It sounded more like a day camp for pussies to Daryl.

He shot a quick look at Carol. Yup. She was still mad at him. As if somehow he had known that she and Trish were having a bonding moment that he blundered into three mornings earlier. Oh, that she forgave him for. It was the fact that he had stood there, listening to Trish talk about her father, while the women were completely oblivious that was the root of Carol's cold shoulder. Privacy was a precious commodity, and he had pretty much violated what little they'd had that morning.

If Trish knew he had been there the whole time, she never let on. They had fallen back into their familiar routine of conflicting shifts and schedules, so the subject had never come up. But she wasn't outright upset with him like Carol was, so either she didn't know or didn't care that he had been eavesdropping.

"It's been almost two hours," Maggie said with a twinge of worry in her voice.

"They've got three before Rick goes to check on them," Lori said reassuringly.

Two hours was about how long it took to inspect and clear an establishment. Honestly, Daryl was more worried about the rain. It had started pouring thirty minutes earlier, and he knew that even if he had to ride in it one way, Trish would have double that time getting back to the convoy. If there had been walkers, they would've either been dealt with, or she would've hightailed it back to the highway. Fortunately, it wasn't much longer before they had an answer. Glenn stepped into the RV, soaking wet and grinning from ear-to-ear.

"It's safe," he announced, taking the cap from his head and wringing it out in the sink.

"And?" prompted Maggie, who had heard the same trill of excitement in his voice that Daryl had.

"And we found friends. Some of the Vatos made it out of Atlanta."

"Was that the group operating out of the nursing home?" Carol ventured to guess. Glenn pursed his lips, obviously not wanting to reveal everything he knew quite yet, but he nodded at the question.

"They didn't all make it, and Felipe wants to wait until they can talk to all of us. But we need to get back right away. Trish already has the sniffles from driving in the rain."

Daryl didn't wait to hear if anyone else bothered to comment. He left the RV without a word to anyone, letting the rain pelt him when he stepped outside. At the head of the caravan, Trish and Shane had already pulled down the stretch of road that led to the artist's colony. Nobody was going to waste any time in the weather, and he heard the motors turn on Rick and Dale's vehicles seconds before he flipped the key on the Triumph.

Daryl knew the kind of hell it was operating a motorcycle in a downpour. Not ideal riding conditions by any stretch of the imagination. The sooner they got moving, the sooner he and Trish would be dry. He prayed those sniffles Glenn mentioned were the only problem she would have to deal with during their stop, but praying had never done him any good before. Maybe this time something would finally come of it.

Wool stank when it was wet. That was Trish's most coherent thought as she rode through the rain, leading the way towards the safe haven that the Vatos had created out of the abandoned artist commune. The sweater she had picked up earlier in the week was soaked. Well, everything was soaked, but the very thing she had put on to keep her warm that morning was now the object of her scorn.

She could feel the chill settling into her bones as the first building came into sight. Someone had opened the bay door on the pottery studio, which was now being used to house vehicles. There was just enough room left for the Honda, and Daryl's Triumph, but the rest of their convoy would have to park outside. Just as well. They didn't have to ride in this crappy weather.

With barely enough energy to peel herself off the back of the bike, she practically fell into a man named Jorge, who steadied her just as she heard Daryl come in behind them. Her head was fuzzy, but she could hear him swearing after he killed the engine. "I'll get her, man. Need your help with our stuff."

"Ain't your mule, Puto," Jorge replied, and Trish got the vague sense that there was some sort of history between Daryl and their hosts that Glenn hadn't mentioned.

"And she ain't your problem." Daryl was at her side now, tucking himself under her arm and gripping her around the waist. Trish couldn't manage to keep her hand on his shoulder, and leaned into him as the room started spinning. Even without the rain, she was still frozen, and being inside wasn't making a difference in getting warmed up.

After a few tense seconds, Jorge backed away and Daryl's grip tightened. Through clouded vision, she could make out a door at the rear of the studio that led back outside. They would have to pass through that wet shit again to get to their dorm.

One foot in front of the other. Step by grueling step. Trish was completely numb by the time they were within ten feet from their goal, and she felt her legs give out. Daryl barely caught her, and she remembered that he had been out in the weather, too. But he scooped Trish up without a sound, determined to get indoors where Felipe was waiting for them.

"Bring her upstairs," the Vato told them, and she assumed he was leading the way, for the two men continued talking as Trish closed her eyes. "Your girl?" Daryl tensed at the question.

"No."

"Fair enough. How close are you?"

"Close enough." The climbing had stopped. Trish spared a look around and saw a blurry, but sparse room with half a dozen twin-sized beds.

"Good. Strip her." This time, he nearly dropped her. Correcting his slip, Daryl decided to set her down in a chair that was next to the bed. "You can't shoot me in the ass for doing my job. She's got hypothermia. Get her out of the wet shit."

Her gloves, shoes and socks came off with relative ease, but shaky hands lifted the heavy, stinking sweater over her head and it landed on the floor with a wet plop. The trembling was worse when Daryl removed her tee-shirt. He let out a curse as Felipe whistled from behind him. "Maquina indeed. Nice ink. Come on, man. Pants." It seemed to take forever as he fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans, but Daryl couldn't get any farther. He leaned in, burying his face in her neck and reaching a hand around to the small of her back.

"Get 'em," he growled at Felipe, lifting her up until her hips were off the chair and their torsos were flattened against each other. Trish barely registered the wet jeans sliding down her legs with Daryl's warm breath on her shoulder. A moment later it was gone. He had moved her to the bed.

"Your turn. And you need to…"

"I know what I need to do. Shared body heat. Fuck you. Go away." If she hadn't been so drained, Trish would've laughed. Not only at Daryl's choice of words, but because this was nothing like how she had imagined getting him into bed with her. But a minute later, he was there, stripped to his boxers and pulling her against him. One hand cradled her head as she tucked it under his chin. The laugh that had threatened a moment earlier surfaced as a shallow cough and the arm beneath her wrapped itself around her waist.

"Fuck you, too, God," she heard him whisper as the darkness of sleep finally settled around her. "You answered the wrong prayer."

Night had fallen while Daryl slept. The dim glow of candles had replaced the hazy sunlight that had come in through the windows near the ceiling. A quick glance showed him that they had been covered, even though he knew in the back of his mind that the Vatos wouldn't have been able to survive long in this location if they hadn't been doing that all along.

A quick scan through the rest of the room showed him what he hadn't noticed in the rush to get Trish safely to bed that afternoon. They had been placed in the rear, nearest the bathrooms, and he felt more secure knowing there was a wall at his back. There was a desk and chair next to the bed on one side, and dorm-like closets on the other. A curtain roughly five feet from the foot of the bed had been let down to afford some privacy, but the soft hum of voices reminded Daryl that they weren't completely alone. He had initially seen six sleeping areas, and guessed that the others were set up similarly to the one he currently occupied with Trish.

She hadn't budged an inch, not even after Daryl had lifted his head to look around their corner of the loft. It was her cough that had woken him, not bad enough to be concerned with yet, but if they didn't stick around to let her rest a few days, it would be worse later on. He looked down at Trish, still wrapped comfortably in his arms, and a rush of relief swept through him to see that her color had returned and there were no further signs of hypothermia.

It was a painstakingly slow process to untangle himself from her, but Daryl knew he couldn't stay. He was fully awake, and the need to be productive overwhelmed the desire to lie around in bed. There was a second pillow that had fallen on the floor unused, and he tucked it against her as he slipped out from under the covers. Trish curled around it, as if somehow she had sensed the change even in her sleep.

A check in the closet showed that someone had brought dry supplies from the RV, but all of their wet clothes had been taken away. His crossbow had been placed on the desk next to the guns and knives he had taken off of himself and Trish in their haste to get undressed. Daryl wondered briefly if she had ever known how to treat the weapons after being exposed to the rain, and made a silent promise to show her once she was awake.

He made short work of dressing before stepping out from behind the curtain. Carol was in the sleeping area next to his, taking clothes from her bag and hanging them in the closet. She gave Daryl a weak smile when she saw him, so he ambled towards her since the silent treatment seemed to have finally ended.

"We left the bed across the way empty in case you wanted to move," she said quietly.

"Probably best for her right now if I did," he agreed. "She's gettin' sick. Needs her rest."

"I heard her coughing," replied Carol with a nod. The look in her eyes told him she had noticed the right now part of his statement, but said nothing.

"Shower's free," said a familiar voice from behind them, and Daryl turned to face someone he had never expected to see alive again. Miguel's expression gave away his own surprise, but he masked it quickly and held out a hand in greeting. Daryl took it, glad for a relatively warm welcome, even if it was from the kid whose feet he had once threatened to cut off.

"Had one already," he said.

"So I heard. How's la Maquina?" Daryl tried not to bristle at the use of Trish's street-name as he withdrew from the handshake. Felipe had used it, too. How had they heard of her all the way up here?

"Sleepin'."

There was a rustle of movement down in one of the sleeping areas near the stairs, which drew Miguel's attention. "Oye, Antonio, el novio de la máquina está despierto." Not that Daryl had understood much of it, but this seemed to be someone the young man wanted him to meet. "We have to go to him." A quick glance at Carol's nod told Daryl that it would be all right. Not anyone she felt threatened by. He followed Miguel's lead to where he had seen the curtain ripple, not quite sure what to expect.

Prepared for anything, he was still surprised. The scrap of a boy that stood before him didn't seem like much at first glance, but the way he was scrutinizing Daryl indicated that he had been forced to grow up long before the apocalypse. He couldn't have been more than fifteen, younger even than Miguel. Thin as a whip and tough as nails, but there was something in the boy's eyes that spoke of something dark in his recent history.

"How long?" the boy asked. The question confused Daryl, but he sensed an undercurrent of brotherly protection in it.

"How long what?"

"Since you've been sleeping with mi hermana?" Yup. Brotherly concern. Daryl understood that one.

"When did we get here," he asked Miguel quietly, with as straight a face as he could muster.

"About five hours ago," came the reply.

"Well, according to Miguel, about five hours." He didn't feel like mentioning the four weeks of shared sleeping quarters on the road. Daryl didn't think that quite counted given the context of the boy's question. Antonio, he told himself. His name is Antonio. But the darkness still hadn't lifted from the kid's expression.

"You love her?"

Caught off guard, Daryl reacted without thinking. "What the hell kinda' question is that? We ain't damn kids. Ain't nothin' been goin' on, and ain't nobody's business but me and hers anyhow." He was in Antonio's face now, temper rising and fists clenching. But something flickered across the boy's face that he recognized, and he backed off. Antonio narrowed his eyes and the corner of his mouth turned up in a grin.

"That sound like a 'yes' to you, Miguel?"

"Sure did."

Daryl felt like a caged animal. Trapped between two adolescent boys hell-bent on making him all touchy-feely about a woman he barely knew. Throwing his hands up, he stalked out of the makeshift bedroom and made a beeline for Trish's. Carol looked as if she had wanted to say something, but he was moving too fast and Daryl knew she wouldn't want to wake Trish by causing a scene. After pulling an "Army" hoodie out of the closet and grabbing his crossbow, he paused just long enough to glance at the sleeping woman.

Damn that woman. He didn't know how to feel about her. Daryl just knew that he wanted her safe. Wanted her to open up to him like she had to Carol. Wanted her next to him every night. God damn that woman for making him want her. As he left her behind and headed towards the stairs, he spared a final glance for the boys. God damn them for giving him a word to describe it all.

Because god damn Daryl Dixon was not going to admit that he was falling in love.

**lyric credit** "Drown in You" by Daughtry