She and Daryl picked up the pace through the woods; she really had gotten a pretty late start and then with the berry picking and the conversation, she was afraid she wouldn't make it back before dark.

"So you're spending the night right?" she asked offhand.

"What?"

"You aren't going to walk back at night are you?"

"I ain't scared of the dark."

"Are you sure? Even when it's full of things that bump?"

"They don't bump; they shuffle. But I reckon I can stay if that's what ya'll want."

"I don't mind. Actually it might be easier to keep Merle here if you stay," she said, thinking out loud.

"Yeah, you're probably right about that," Daryl agreed. Then he cleared his throat and looked away from her as he asked, "He's really been lookin' for me?"

"Yep," she confirmed. "He woke up in the truck talking about you; he lost his temper at every significant delay, and he was really pissed that we decided it was best to stop for the winter. He's missed you in his own weird Merle-ish way."

Sinclaire didn't expect an answer so she wasn't disappointed when Daryl fell silent again.

"Ya really an Army Captain?" he asked some time later.

"Yes," she replied. "I've been in the Army since I was 18…just got my first command."

"How old are ya?"

"29."

"Ya look younger than that," he informed her.

"If you meant that as a compliment, thanks," she answered.

Further silence. Sinclaire thought that Merle's assessment of Daryl's communication skills had been right on. What the hell would a month and a half have been like with him?

She was surprised when he suddenly swung the crossbow free of his shoulder and brought it up, aiming and shooting quickly. She heard something fall and he walked over, pulling the bolt free of a wild turkey. Well. Maybe a month and a half with him would have made rationing the MRE's easier.

"You're really good at that," she complimented him as he cocked the bow again.

Daryl shrugged and said, "Gotta eat."

"I wanted to hunt rabbits," Sinclaire said, "But they're too damn fast. Any advice?"

"Yeah," Daryl wanted to grin with relief. The silence between them always felt awkward…he swore he could feel her comparing him to his brother. "What's better than shootin' 'em is trappin' 'em…"

She listened with interest as he explained the traps.

"Sounds pretty easy," she said, pointing to the left and smiling when her camp came into view.

"Yeah," Daryl said again. "It is."

He was suddenly so nervous he was worried he was going to start to shake. He'd be seeing his brother again. His brother who, for the first time in a long time, wouldn't be all fucked up. He gripped the strap of the crossbow until his knuckles turned white.

"Hey Merle?" Sinclaire called out.

There was no answer. She went and checked the box truck but it was empty. Then she walked over to the bar and opened the door. "Merle?" Sinclaire turned to Daryl who'd followed her onto the bar porch. "He must still be out. Want a drink?"

"What?"

"A drink, there's still plenty of the good stuff," she informed him.

"Uh, sure…I guess so."

The question was so normal that Daryl hadn't quite known how to answer it. Sinclaire ushered him in with a grand sweep of her arm and another of her pretty smiles.

"I'm going to leave the door open," she said. "That way Merle will know we're in here. Just keep an eye on it so we don't have any surprise visitors."

He nodded; she walked behind the bar and raised her eyebrow.

"Do you have problems drinking liquor poured by a Yankee or do I have to put on my awful Southern accent?"

Daryl started to shake his head, but at the last minute he said, "Lemme hear it."

"What can I getcha sugar?" she asked.

He gave a quick laugh and said, "Whatever ya feel like pourin' as long as ya don't do that again."

"I'll stick with gin," Sinclaire said, half to herself as she poured, "Champagne is just…"

"Ginger ale that knows somebody," Daryl finished in surprise. "That's from…"

"M*A*S*H," Sinclaire and Daryl said at the same time.

"Merle never gets any of my quotes," she explained, tossing her drink back.

"Yeah? Well…ya probably don't quote boxin' or monster trucks," he informed her, sipping the drink she'd poured. Contrary to the quote, it wasn't gin, it was whiskey.

"I can't say that I do. So you're a movie buff?"

"I guess ya could say so," he shrugged. "Not much else to do where I'm…where I was from."

"Hey, we could play a shot game while we wait on Merle," she suggested. "Movie quotes. If you can't guess you have to drink."

"Sounds good to me," Daryl knew it wouldn't be a good idea to get drunk…but he also figured he wouldn't be drinking much. He watched an awful lot of movies. "Ya can go first."

"Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?" she asked, pouring the next shots.

"Batman. Lesson number one: don't underestimate the other guy's greed."

"Lesson number two: don't get high on your own supply. Scarface," Sinclaire finished the quote before giving her answer. "Okay…let's see…" she went for a hard one. "If they ever try to trace any of those accounts, they're gonna end up chasing a figment of my imagination."

"The Shawshank Redemption," Daryl said without even taking a moment to think. "One of my favorite movies."

"Damn."

"That's a pretty fucking good milkshake. I don't know if it's worth five dollars but it's pretty fucking good."

Sinclaire wracked her brain for a good minute and a half. Daryl tapped his fingers on the top of the bar.

"Damn," she whispered again, conceding defeat and taking the shot.

"Pulp Fiction," Daryl informed her.

"That's right Mr. Martini, there is an Easter bunny."

He frowned in deep thought. What the hell kind of fucked up… "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest!"

"I really thought I had you there," she admitted.

"For a second ya just about did. All right, here ya go, "Boy, I got vision and the rest of the world wears bifocals."

"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid," she said in triumph. He was going to drink damn it! "Here's something for you, bow-hunter, "Oh Donny! You couldn't kiss me like that and not mean it just a teensy bit!"

"What the fuck?" Daryl stared at her but she only wriggled her eyebrows. He drank.

"Singin' in the Rain," she said smugly.

Daryl decided to play dirty. In the end, Sinclaire was pretty drunk, but not as drunk as he'd meant for her to be. She'd gotten the quotes from Bladerunner, Goodfella's and The Terminator. He'd only missed two more, one from Big Fish and another from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

She was laughing over his latest challenge, "You can't do this to me! I'm an American!" not because she didn't know where it was from, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom as a matter of fact, but because the line had been from the female lead and he'd made his voice higher to accommodate it, when they heard a distinctive drawl from behind them.

"Well, well. Ya wanna tell me just how the fuck this happened?"

"Hey Merle," Daryl said.

"I found him!" Sinclaire gestured widely; Daryl hastily picked up his shot glass.

"Ya by yourself?" Merle asked, still standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," Daryl answered.

"What happened to the rest of 'em?"

"Back at their own camp," Daryl replied.

"Really Merle?" Sinclaire asked in surprise. "You aren't even going tell him hello? No hugs?"

"Fuck no," Merle and Daryl said at the same time.

"Well this is barely worthy of a lifetime moment. It's a real let down," Sinclaire looked let down, Merle noticed.

Her pretty mouth had drooped into a pout and she'd crossed her arms.

"She drunk?" Merle asked.

"A little," Daryl answered over Sinclaire's denial.

"What the fuck ya gettin' her drunk for?" Merle eyed Daryl suspiciously.

"I ain't gettin' her drunk!" Daryl replied indignantly. "She's just losin' a bet."

"What's the stakes?" Merle went on. It was weird, but he was feeling oddly protective of Sinclaire just now.

"There ain't…" Daryl began, but Sinclaire cut in.

"We were just passing the time. HE doesn't make me do the accent before I pour his drinks, just so you know."

"Where's the fun in that?" Merle stepped in and closed the door. "How 'bout one while we're talkin'?"

She poured him one, but when she started to refill her own glass, he put his hand over it and then gave her a bottle of water.

"It's hot," she complained.

"It's been in my pocket all day sweetheart," Merle drawled. "And I don't know if you've noticed, but that ice machine ain't workin'."

"Ya could put 'em in a box and sink it in the river," Daryl said. "They'd stay cold that way."

"Yeah, thanks Daniel Boone," Merle answered. "Ya gonna tell me where that camp's at now?"

Daryl finished his whiskey and said, "No."

"What the fuck ya mean "no?"

"I mean no. I ain't gonna tell ya where it's at just so ya can go back and kill everybody."

"Fuck, I don't wanna kill everybody! Just Rick and the nigger."

Sinclaire shook her head and Merle said, "T-dog. That better?"

"It's really the murder I was shaking my head about…I tend to worry more about it than about racism."

Merle ignored that and went on, "So? Spit it out little brother."

Daryl just shook his head. Merle banged his left hand down onto the bar. Sinclaire noticed Daryl flinch.

"Ya gonna tell me that you're more loyal to them than ya are to your own family? I'm all ya got left!"

"I ain't choosin' them over you," Daryl stood up to make his point better. "I just don't think ya oughta…"

"What? Ya don't think I oughta pay them back for leavin' me up there to fuckin' bake in the goddamn sun? Or to get eaten by those motherfuckers? I cut off my own damn hand to get off that fuckin' roof, Daryl!"

"I know that! I'm the one who found it! I went back for ya and ya weren't there!"

"Bullshit!"

"It ain't neither! I was there! Glenn nearly fuckin' died on that trip tryin' to find ya so don't tell me…"

"Glenn? What the fuck ya think I give a damn about the chink for?"

"Because he went back there to save you! Ya oughta give a damn about some of that! Me and Glenn and Rick and T-dog all went back for ya…"

"Yeah, and Glenn, Rick and T-dog are the ones who left me there to begin with!"

"Glenn wasn't even there! He was…"

"Why the fuck ya takin' up for him? Ya got somethin' goin' on with the chink Darylina?"

"Jesus Christ Merle!"

Virgin was one thing…gay was something else altogether. Daryl slammed his own fist down against the bar; the shot glass fell over and whiskey poured across the bar top.

"Ya take that back!"

"Or what?" Merle grinned at him. "I can still kick your ass, even one handed."

"Damn it, I didn't come all the way out here to fuckin' fight with ya," Daryl sat back down.

"What the hell did ya come out here for if ya ain't gonna tell me what I wanna know?" Merle questioned.

"Maybe he wanted to see you," Sinclaire pointed out dryly. "Though I can't imagine why…you're kind of a dick sometimes."

"What?" Merle turned and eyed her.

"Now is definitely one of those times," she went on. "The fact is that I don't want more blood on my hands. I don't want you to know where the other camp is. I'm way drunker than I meant to be. Give me a second free of redneck family bonding and I'll think of something logical. Better yet, we could all go to bed."

"What?" this time the question came from Daryl.

"You said you were sleeping here. I say we sleep. I'm drunk. Merle's a dick…you're whatever you are…sleep is what I say we do."

"Fine with me," Daryl agreed. "Ya'll sleep in here?"

"No," Sinclaire took another sip of water and said, "Come on. We'll go to the truck."

"And what's to stop me from just walking over to their camp?" Merle questioned.

"The fact that Daryl drove me here," Sinclaire lied.

"Yeah," Daryl agreed. "I just parked the truck oughta sight."

"Sneaky fuckin' bastard," Merle muttered after a moment. "All right I reckon. But we're havin' this out in the mornin' and I don't give a damn how hungover ya are sweetheart."

Sinclaire executed a crisp salute and they walked to the truck. Everyone lay down in silence; Sinclaire dropped off to sleep fairly quickly. Daryl snuck a glance at her. She and Merle were sleeping next to one another, but they weren't touching. He couldn't figure the two of them out.

Merle saw Daryl's glance, but he didn't say anything about it. He wondered why his brother was being so damn stubborn about the whole thing. He just wanted retribution…it wasn't like those fuckers hadn't done anything wrong. They were the reason he'd lost his hand. Now he was sort of wondering if they'd be the reason he lost his brother too.