A/N: Chapter 2, posted along with Chapter 1. I have a lot already done, so I may as well give you a good chunk of it before I pace myself.

Looks like the danger hasn't passed yet for Daryl...

Hours later he woke up to the sound of walkers getting loud outside. He wasn't particularly worried, though; there was no way the dead would be able to get through the garage door. It was day now, seeing as it was bright outside. His watch told him that he'd been trapped for a good ten hours, and the buzz of alcohol had worn off by now. Pete looked over to the man he'd beaten and strangled. Dixon had moved a foot or so, now sitting up against the wall, arms resting on his bent knees. He looked like shit, bloody and bruised. He was awake, too, watching Pete warily.

The doctor smiled coldly. "Good morning."

Daryl didn't respond.

The doctor shrugged. Then he stood and went to the lunch box, pulling out the plastic water bottle. He turned and faced the hunter, whose eyes immediately locked onto the bottle. Pete took a long sip, then leaned back leisurely against the work table.

"Thirsty?"

Daryl's eyes shifted to the man's, then back to the bottle, nodding slightly. He was really thirsty.

"What was that?" The doctor asked mockingly, showing he expected Daryl to voice his need.

The hunter snarled. "Ain't gonna beg."

"Oh, but if you want this, you will. Because I have no idea how long we'll be stuck in here, and I'm not convinced it's worth my while to give you anything."

Daryl just shook his head incredulously, his eyes shifting to the ground.

Hours passed uneventfully. Pete was content sitting on his side of the room reading the magazines by the lunch box. He had his watch so time was of no concern to him. The hunter had no sense of time, though - usually his internal clock was reliable, but with the hits to the head, a lot of things were blurry. It felt like days passed, but he knew that wasn't possible because he would have died of dehydration by that point.

His mouth and throat were drier than a dirt road in drought season. He'd gotten a few painful coughing fits, his dry and bruised throat starting it and his bruised ribs making breathing harder in general. By nightfall, it was nearing the sensation of wandering the road in the large group without water, when dehydration had been a very real threat.

Finally, Pete fell asleep. The half-empty water bottle was next to him but not in his hand. Daryl saw his chance and gingerly got to his feet. He was unsteady but careful not to make any sound as he headed over to the other side of the garage. The sound of moaning and scraping from walkers outside and inside the house covered his small sounds of pain. When he got near, the hunter knelt beside the sleeping man and reached for the bottle.

Pete's eyes shot open and he grabbed the hunter's wrist. Daryl yelped and fell in panicked surprise. Pete looked darkly amused and livid at the same time as he stood over the other man. He bent the wrist in his grip until the downed man was grimacing.

"Thought you could get away with stealing from me?" His voice was low and deadly. He bent the wrist farther and it snapped, forcing a ragged scream out of Daryl. "You'd better stay the hell away from me, or I'll break more than that."

The hunter was wheezing, eyes squeezed shut as the doctor twisted his broken wrist further. Pete grabbed the other's shirt and dragged him to the other side of the room, then stepped back. Daryl glared up at him as Pete grabbed a crowbar from the work table. "Maybe next time, you'll hesitate before you steal from someone that matters."

While Pete was sleeping restfully on his own side of the garage, Daryl was fading in and out of consciousness. While he was awake, he was focused on regulating his shallow breaths. If he didn't, he'd cough, then get caught up in a coughing fit, and Pete would wake up.

It was so stupid that he thought he was past danger when he'd ducked into the garage to escape the dead. He should never have forgotten for a second how dangerous people could be. Hell, he'd grown up understanding it, but now when his life depended on it, he didn't flinch to let someone step up to him. He hadn't even fought back after that first punch, understanding how important it was to his group for this Alexandria thing to work out. Well, shit, now he was going to die here, and it was just because some guy decided wanted to have power and control over something in a time of danger.

So here he was, lying on the ground with a few broken bones and no way out. Oh, and he was gonna die from dehydration if he didn't get water in the next few hours.

And he would be fine with all of that if it was worth it if he at least knew his family was safe. But he had no idea if anyone else made it. For all he knew, he and Pete were the only people alive in the whole world. The doctor didn't seem to get that; he was still in the mindset of the coddled townspeople who were used to safety and security.

Daryl was so, so thirsty. Maybe at the beginning of the end of the world, when he was an outsider and a proud Dixon, he would have rather died than sacrifice his pride. But after years of risking his life and learning more about people, he learned that he had to live no matter what because he was one factor that kept his group from death every day. If he was gone, no one would hunt for them, and if people were the most valuable thing left, then he was too. So the hunter sucked it up and cleared his throat.

"Hey," he rasped. Not loud enough. He repeated it louder.

Pete shifted, then inhaled deeply as he woke. The doctor rubbed his eyes and stood. He picked up the water bottle and took a swig of fresh water, then looked over at the hunter lying on the floor where he'd left him.

"Want something?" He asked.

Daryl hesitated to draw further attention to himself but pushed on. "'M thirsty."

A small, amused smirk spread on the tall man's smug face. "What about it?"

The hunter worried his lip. "Cin I have some a yer water?"

'What's the magic word?" Pete prompted condescendingly.

"Please?"

The doctor chuckled and ambled over with the bottle. Daryl tensed as he got closer. He flinched when Pete grabbed his shoulders and pulled him up, shoving him back into the wall behind him to sit him up. Daryl cried out at the harsh handling that made his busted ribs shift.

"Shut up," Pete hissed dangerously. He twisted the lid of the bottle and held it to the gasping man's lips, tilting it and grabbing a handful of Daryl's long hair to guide his head. The water slid down his sore throat and felt like heaven. The bottle was taken away too soon, but he couldn't ask for more.

"What do you say?"

Daryl didn't respond immediately, which earned a punch to the face. The hunter spat blood off to the side before diverting his eyes and rasping, "Thank you."