Merle edged over to the box truck slowly. He'd been watching the group for awhile now and mostly everyone was distracted. Rick and Carl were trying to help Daryl make new crossbow bolts and his brother's jaw was clenched so tight in unexpressed annoyance that Merle thought it was about to shatter. The women were clustered around doing laundry or something that involved boiling water. Andrea and Dale were on top of the RV to keep watch but they were facing in the other direction.

He hadn't been able to distract himself from that little red box for more than ten minutes all day. Now it was back on his mind full force. He slid the back of the truck open and crawled in and then lowered the door carefully. He reached under the blanket Glenn had placed on top of the box, aware and annoyed that he was starting to sweat and that his hand even shook a little.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," a cool voice said from the front of the truck.

Merle bit back his involuntary yell when Sinclaire sat up smoothly and looked at him over the back of the front seat.

"Fuckin' hell Yank! What in the name of Christ—"

"Just had a feeling," Sinclaire said with a slight frown. "I was hoping I was wrong."

"Yeah well, ya wasn't. Disappointed?" Merle snarled.

"Yeah."

Merle didn't know what to say. Contrary to popular belief, there had been people in his life that had cared that he was an addict. Those people had never admitted to being disappointed in him. They said stuff like, "Everyone backslides; it's the nature of addiction." and "I'm sure it won't happen again. You're getting stronger all the time." or, in Daryl's case, because a lot of the time it was Daryl's money, "Well, I'll just fix the truck later then. Ya need somethin' 'fore I go to work?" He'd never faced such naked disappointment. He discovered that he couldn't meet her eyes. It pissed him off.

"Who the fuck are ya to be disappointed in me anyway?" he snarled.

"I'm your friend," Sinclaire said as she climbed over the seat to sit in the truck bed beside him. "I—"

"I don't give one little fuck if ya think we're friends," he cut in. "Ain't none of ya damn business what I do with my life."

Sinclaire was surprised at how hurt she felt at hearing him talk to her like that, but she pushed the feeling down and said, "It is my business if someone's wasting supplies I risked my life to get though."

"I'm the one who brought this with us!"

"And you wouldn't have even known it was there if I hadn't told you! What if someone needs this stuff later?"

"Finders keepers," Merle said mulishly. "Don't give a shit 'bout none of them."

"What about Daryl? He could…he might step in a bear trap. And then we'd have to take off his leg at the knee and then how would you feel?"

"I'd wonder where the fuck the dumbass found a goddamn bear trap."

"Beside the point. Your brother needs his leg amputated and you've shot up all the morphine. What do you do?"

"Reckon I'd knock him out if he hadn't passed out already," Merle said. "Ya ain't gettin' no sympathy outta me for any damn body Yank. I cut off my own damn hand remember?"

"And wouldn't it have gone easier if someone was there with some morphine?"

"It would have gone easier if someone was there with a key!" Merle bellowed.

"If you do this I—"

"You'll what?" Merle drawled insolently.

"I won't be your friend anymore."

Sinclaire felt just as shocked by her words as Merle looked.

"Did ya just say—"

"Yes. And I meant every apparently childish word."

Merle didn't know what to say. He was sure that she meant it; he could see determination mixed with the hurt in her brown eyes. What he was even more sure of surprised the hell out of him though; he was sure that he would regret losing her. But was he sure enough?

Sinclaire held herself still and waited for him to decide what was more important. After several long silent moments Merle's frown intensified and he spoke gruffly.

"What the fuck was you and Lori arguin' about this mornin' anyway? Fuckin' woke me up."

"It was a discussion of epic literary proportions," Sinclaire said casually so her relief didn't show. "She actually asked me to bring some Nora Roberts books back next time."

Merle's frown smoothed out as Sinclaire's deepened.

"Thought ya said that everybody should be readin'," he said. "Thought ya said some shit was just a matter of taste. Thought ya said—"

"I don't care what I said," Sinclaire interrupted. "It was the way she asked. She said, "Bring back something good. Like Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele." She might as well have asked for…for…" Sinclaire couldn't think of anything bad enough.

Merle barked out a laugh and shook his head.

"Yer passionate about some weird shit, ya know that Yank?"

Sinclaire only shrugged and said, "I can't help it. I grew up with high literary standards."

"Uh-huh. Why don't ya give Lori that dirty book ya was readin'?"

As he'd expected, Sinclaire's face went dull red at the mention of Lady Amanda's Rakish Rogue.

"I was only using that book as research."

"Into fuckin'?"

"No. Into…um…the low expectations of the average American reader," she finished in triumph.

"Uh huh," Merle drew the word out. "Either way, I don't think Nora Roberts is enough to pitch a fit about."

"Pitch a fit," Sinclaire repeated. "That could go in the dictionary."

"Hell, everybody knows what pitch a fit means," Merle argued. "Think I'm gonna go get somethin' to drink. Leave ya to yer broodin'."

"I am not brooding," she answered. "I am in deep thought. It's different."

"Broodin' like a hen," Merle said as he slid out of the truck. "Enjoy it Yank."

He walked off. Sinclaire waited until she knew he couldn't see her before she sagged with relief against the side of the truck. She wasn't optimistic enough to assume that he'd never be tempted again, but she was incredibly grateful that it had gone so well. She watched him walk down to the river, his left hand in his jeans pocket, the stump where his right should have been in the pocket of his jacket. She was just wondering why he was walking so softly when she saw Daryl on the bank of the river, up farther where the drop was significant. He must've given up on the bolts. Merle wouldn't—she held her breath when Merle slammed his right shoulder into his brother's left. Daryl teetered but he didn't fall, mainly because Merle grabbed the back of his shirt and held him upright.

She saw Daryl punch Merle in the gut as his lips moved in indignation, but she knew that neither brother was angry. Daryl should have been in the truck with her; she'd seen him watching Merle anxiously throughout the day. But he'd ignored it rather than fight it. It was odd. Daryl was a protector, a survivor. So why the hell couldn't he stand up to his big brother?

Sinclaire drew her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them to conserve warmth as she watched the Dixon brothers. Merle was gesturing to the lake front homes they still hadn't gotten around to investigating and Daryl was shrugging. The movement of his arms and chest, just out of visual range, played though Sinclaire's mind anyway and that unfamiliar feeling she got around Daryl lately burst down her spine. What the hell was it?

She cataloged unfamiliar emotions as ruthlessly as a computer program for the next several minutes and finally decided on sympathy. Yes, sympathy. It wasn't something she had to feel often, it was alien, just like the sensations that tended to sweep through her when Daryl was around. That had to be it.

Poor guy, he was as awkward as Merle had made him sound. The guys she was accustomed to were confident, motivated soldiers and officers. And if they weren't confident and motivated then the military had no problem weeding them out. So, she was sympathetic for poor, awkward, unconfident Daryl.

Or was she? She frowned as she analyzed further. Daryl seemed confident about some things though. He was good at everything that someone needed to be good at in this situation. He was absolutely confident about hunting and trapping. Confident about building and plumbing. Confident about what had been wrong with the truck engine when it was sputtering last week.

She thought back to the way he'd looked as he closed the hood and wiped the grease off of his hands with the red rag he kept in his back pocket. "Should do fine now," he'd informed her. "Told ya it wasn't nothin'." Then he'd given her a half grin and walked away.

Sinclaire discovered she was chewing her thumbnail. Her stomach had gone tight too. What the hell?

She was relieved to be distracted by the sound of Nate's SUV pulling into their backyard. He gave her a wave when he got out and she saw Merle and Daryl head over, identical scowls on their faces. Merle's frown smoothed out when Tiff got out of the backseat, but there was apparently no help for Daryl's irritation. He brushed past the group and went into the bar.

Nate walked over to the truck and sat down beside Sinclaire.

"Hey," he said. "Smuggled something just for you."

"Oh really?"

Nate reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a can of pears in syrup.

"Found it in the grocery store. It was on the floor," he explained with a smile. "But I think it's okay."

Sinclaire wasn't listening. She was popping the top. She took a sip of the juice and sighed. She loved pears.

"Want one?" she asked a few moments later.

"I'm not a big fan," Nate admitted. "They taste like they're full of sand to me."

Sinclaire chewed thoughtfully and then said, "I guess I can see how you got there. More for me."

He returned the grin she gave him and they sat in silence for a few minutes as they watched the group.

"So," he said abruptly. "Carrie tells me that you and Daryl have a thing."

Sinclaire took longer than necessary to chew her mouthful of pear. She didn't want to lie, but she had Glenn's cover to maintain.

"I figured you had something going on with Merle personally," he went on.

She snorted.

"Yep. You've got me. The Dixon brothers share me," she said with a nod. "It's such a relief to have it in the open."

"Uh huh," Nate said dryly. "Well, now certainly isn't the time to pursue conventional relationships."

"Are you asking me to join your harem?" she teased with a glance Tiff and Carrie's way.

"Crossed my mind."

Oh shit. He looked serious. Obviously not serious about a harem, but serious about…her. She cast a frantic look Merle's way, but he wasn't paying any attention.

"Hey."

She nearly sagged with relief when she heard Daryl's voice. He'd come back from the bar familiarly belligerent and holding a bottle of whiskey. He took a swig before he spoke again.

"Ya'll had any trouble with them things?"

"No," Nate said. "Not really. A few strays…nothing I can't handle."

"Yeah," Daryl said. "Ran into some in the woods yesterday. 'Bout ten. 'Course, it wasn't nothin' I couldn't handle neither."

"I think I'll leave you two to talk zombies," Sinclaire said. "Go and say hello to the others, you know?"

She got up before either of them could answer, not that she really thought they would. She didn't know why Daryl had decided to have a conversation with Nate, who he seemed to avoid at all costs, but she wasn't complaining.

She'd planned to start talk to the girls, but Carrie was chatting with Glenn and Tiffany was leaning against the RV flirting with Merle. It looked like she was out of luck. She sat on the porch steps, tucked her hands in her jacket pockets to keep them warm and watched people socialize. She refused to admit that she felt a little lonely without Merle to chat with.

Instead, Sinclaire convinced herself it was better to have some quiet time. She needed to think of a good place to hide that morphine box.