The Bite of a Blade, the Sting of an Arrow

by Shadows-Dancing-In-The-Hall

Audrey's life had never been easy. The walkers were a new twist, but surviving pain and loss was nothing she hadn't lived through before. But...Daryl Dixon was new too. And Audrey doesn't know what to make of him. Daryl/OC

32. We Could Die Chasing This Feeling

A/N: I don't know where all this motivation is coming from lol. But here's another chap. I also have two more drafted out. Basically, I've just been dying to write the scene where Daryl impales himself on his own arrow for like ten years, so I'm trying to get there. If anyone's out there, hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 31: We Could Die Chasing This Feeling

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After tending to my wounds, Herschel lets me 'convalesce' in the house for a while. He had to pop my wrist back into place, which nearly made me throw up again, and he rewrapped it with a sturdier splint, which might have actually just been a broken yardstick. He taped some gauze to my abraded palms, too, and redid the bandages on my ribs and ankle. Then, to offset all my wounds, he gave me a pain pill, but it's weaker than the one from Daryl's stash, so I don't get to drift off into a blissful sleep. Instead, I'm stiffly propped up in a bed, surrounded by frilly pillows, feeling like I'm too dirty to be sitting on something so clean. I'm not actually that dirty, not anymore, since Herschel wiped down my arms and legs, muttering about infections. But I can't shake the feeling, and I can't get comfortable.

That's only half due to the pain, though. The other half is because Herschel's youngest daughter keeps poking her head in the doorway, staring at me with those big blue eyes that aren't Amy's but remind me of her all the same. After the twentieth time I see her blonde mane of curls hovering in the doorway, I let out a sigh and decide I can't take it anymore.

I slowly, carefully, swing my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, my right arm strapped to my side with a makeshift sling. Now that my wrist isn't being jostled as much, the pain is just a dull throb spread throughout my body. More than manageable.

"O-Oh, I don't think…"

I look up to see Herschel's daughter— I think I heard him call her Beth— take a step into the bedroom. Her eyes are wide in her pale face, and she's wringing her hands.

"I don't think you should be getting up," she finishes tentatively.

"It's okay, I'm feeling much better," I tell her, and it's only half a lie.

"Daddy said you needed to rest," she argues, and something about her frown abruptly reminds me of Irina, my baby sister. It makes my breath catch a little, but I push through it.

"Well, I'm not exactly going to be running marathons anytime soon," I chuckle weakly. "I just want to check in with the others back at camp."

I really hope that walker didn't give them any more trouble.

"Your friend, with the baseball cap, he went into town with Maggie," Beth replies as she takes another step forward. "They won't be back for a while. Daddy's out with Mr. Grimes, checking the fences. A-And some of the others left to check the highway for that little girl."

The reminder of Sophia is like a blow to the solar plexus, and I barely suppress a wince.

"Oh…" I murmur from the edge of the bed. "Well, um, thank you."

"You're welcome." The girl smiles shyly. "But, really, you should rest a little longer. I-I can even keep you company, if you want."

The earnest expression on Beth's face, in her tone, makes guilt twist in my gut. I can tell she's looking for a friend, someone close to her age, but looking at her just makes me think of Amy, of Irina, and I feel a little sick. Unfortunately, I don't know how to refuse her without coming across as a bitch, but I thankfully don't have to.

"Oh, Audrey, you're awake," Lori says as she appears in the doorway.

"Never really slept." I crack a wry smile. "How's Carl feeling?"

"Better." She matches my smile. "Stronger. Getting a little stir crazy. I was actually going to grab him something from our tent. Do you need anything from camp?"

"I'll go with you," I offer quickly. "Need to stretch my legs a little."

Beth's crestfallen expression twists the knife of guilt a little deeper, and Lori frowns like she's going to argue. Surprisingly, she doesn't.

"Alright," she says, her eyes flicking over me. "Do you need help getting up?"

"Nope, I got it," I grunt as I push myself to my feet, favoring my right side but mostly steady. I only sway for a moment before I step forward, and every step after that is a little stronger, more sure.

I hobble past Beth as she steps aside, and I throw her a small smile.

"Thanks for looking out for me," I say, and something about her sad face makes me add, "Raincheck on the company?"

A fleeting smile crosses her lips, and she nods. I nod back as I limp to the doorway, and Lori gives Beth a smile, too, before we start to slowly make our way to the front of the farmhouse. Lori is just propping the screen door open when Beth's voice echoes down the entry hall.

"Oh, wait!"

We both pause, and I glance back to see the young blonde jogging after us, with something clutched in her hand.

"Here, I washed this as best I could," she says, passing me a slightly damp square of cloth.

I look down at the red bandana, the darker crimson stains of my blood faded but still present. I hope Daryl won't be angry I ruined another one of his rags, and then I wonder if the hunter is back yet. My heart flutters at the thought, though I can't tell with what emotion, and I try my best to ignore it.

"Thank you." I smile and tuck the bandana into my front pocket, and Beth bobs her head before walking back toward the kitchen.

Lori is giving me a strange look when I turn around, but she doesn't say anything as she holds the door for me and then helps me down the stairs, her hand a gentle pressure on my left elbow.

"Maybe Glenn will find a golf cart in town," I sigh as we begin the trek down to camp. "We can start a shuttle service."

"That would be nice," Lori laughs, but I can tell she's watching me closely, waiting for me to trip.

By some miracle, I don't, not even in the taller grass, and Lori leads me to a camping chair near the firepit. My pack and swords are actually conveniently propped up against the chair, and I make a mental note to thank Glenn when he gets back, because I know it had to be him.

I collapse into the chair with a barely stifled groan, and Lori asks if I need anything, but I shoo her off, telling her to get back to Carl before he starts climbing the walls. She leaves, but not before calling out to Dale to keep an eye on me. He gives her a crisp salute from atop the RV, and Lori gives me one last lecture to take it easy before she goes over to her tent and then back up to the farmhouse.

As her figure disappears through the door, I scan our campsite, trying to gauge who's here and who isn't. Dale's on watch, and T-Dog's collecting scraps of wood and depositing them on the opposite side of the firepit. Shane, Carol, and Andrea aren't around, nor is the SUV Shane fixed up, so I'm guessing they're the ones who went to check the highway. Rick and Glenn are apparently with their respective Greene family member, and a certain hunter is nowhere in sight. My skin itches at how long he's been gone now, but when I glance up at the sun, I realize it's only just past midday.

Too much happened this morning. And yet I still don't know what ended up happening with that walker. Though, since Glenn went to town and no one is panicking or crying, I guess things turned out okay.

Trying not to think about Glenn's screams echoing up the well, I slouch in the camping chair, my eyes half-lidded. It's much warmer here than it was in the Greene's well-ventilated home, but at least no one is staring at me with too-wide, too-blue eyes. In fact, no one is paying me any mind, and I'm starting to relax a little, the pain in my body fading to a dull pulse. I'm struggling to keep my eyes open, but something moving in the corner of my vision draws my hazy attention.

When I focus, it's only T-Dog, dumping more firewood. But, as he bends down, something falls out of his pocket. I frown at the sight, but I can't really tell what it is.

"Hey, T-Dog," I call out before he can walk away, and when the bald man turns to me, I gesture lazily at the ground. "You dropped something."

"Huh?" He ducks his head and then lets out a snort, stooping to pick the item up. "Shit, I totally forgot I had these."

"What are they?" I ask, sitting up a little straighter and craning my neck.

"Just a pack of cigarettes," he replies as he walks over to me. "Found them on the highway yesterday. Smoked a couple when I fucked up my arm, just seemed like the thing to do when I thought I was gonna die of tetanus. I don't even smoke, though, so… not sure what to do with 'em."

Out of the blue, Daryl's face floats across my thoughts, up close and zoomed in, followed by the gravelly rumble of his voice.

Just a bad habit. Usually use cigarettes to curb the urge but don't got any.

"Can I have them?" The words fall out of my mouth before I've even fully registered them.

T-Dog blinks in surprise, his eyes flicking from me to the pack in his hand. "Uhh, I don't think that's the best idea. Rick definitely wouldn't like me giving 'em to you."

"Actually, it's not… for me," I mutter, fighting the urge to fidget in my seat.

T-Dog cocks his head, his brow furrowing, before something like understanding glints in his brown eyes.

"Oh," he says shortly, and he's still giving me that funny look, so I try to play it off with a joke.

"But if the cops catch me with contraband, you don't have to worry," I quip. "I'm not a snitch."

T-Dog laughs and shakes his head. Then he stares down at the cigarettes for a long moment before he looks back up at me. "Alright, yeah, take 'em. Just don't go revealing your source."

"My lips are sealed." I smile faintly as I take the pack he hands to me, and I go to slip them in my front pocket but encounter a slightly damp bulge. Wincing, I take out the folded-up bandana and drape it over my chair's armrest, replacing it with the pack of cigarettes. "Thank you."

T-Dog's eyes momentarily click to the bandana before he dips his head in a nod. "Like I said, don't mention it." He turns to the firewood again, but then he pauses midstep and glances back at me. "But, hey… can you do me a favor?"

"Sure, what's up?" I frown.

"Tell Dixon thanks for me. For the pills yesterday."

Fire crawls up my cheeks, but T-Dog walks away before I can respond. When I'm alone again, I scrub the back of my left hand against my face, hoping to force away my blush. I don't even know why I feel so embarrassed. I haven't exactly been trying to hide the fact that Daryl is my friend, not since the quarry. Obviously, people had noticed us… hanging out together, and at least no one is lecturing me about the company I keep.

Still, the concept of being perceived makes my blood feel warm, and I half wonder what the group's been thinking.

Someone to make the shitfest more bearable, right?

Glenn's earlier words make the heat in my cheeks rush down my neck, and I cast my eyes around, looking for something to distract me.

There's not much, though. Just haphazard clothes lines stretched between the trees, various tents scattered about. Oh, hm, that's something. We haven't had a real camp since we left the quarry, and now that we do again, I remember I don't have a tent anymore. The one I shared with a woman named Abby got torn to shreds, along with my roommate.

Which begs the question… where am I going to sleep tonight?

My eyes skip over the tents. The Grimes family has the biggest one, enough for Carl and both his parents. Shane has a small, single-person number set a little distance away from the Grimes abode, and I don't even want to think about whatever… situation those three adults had going on between them.

Glenn and T-Dog share a two-person tent, and I assume Andrea and Dale will sleep in the RV. Then there's Carol, who also has a multi-person tent but only a single occupant. For now. She'd actually offered me a spot earlier this morning, when everything was being set up, but I waved her off with a polite non-answer. Truth is, if Sophia isn't found today, I don't think I can listen to Carol cry herself to sleep while I'm lying on a blanket that smells like her lost little girl.

Of course… there is one other option.

As much as I fight it, my gaze goes to the last tent in our little camp, set further back, along the edge of the trees. It's big, just a little smaller than the Grimes', meant for two people. Daryl's bike is parked beside it, and I can see that he just dumped most of his stuff in the dirt before he set out this morning. There are two broken-down metal frames propped up against the side of the tent, and I know one of those cots isn't actually being used since its former occupant is… MIA.

I try to laugh the idea off as ridiculous, because it is. Daryl barely tolerates being in a fifty-foot radius of other people, he definitely wouldn't want someone up in his personal space, sleeping only a few feet away.

However, as I think that, my brain suddenly decides to remind me of the events of last night. Daryl's huffing, sarcastic laughter while he let me blab on about stars and dead friends. His hand in my hair, stroking me like I was a porcelain doll he was afraid to break. The ghostly sensation of his fingers on my temple makes my whole body tingle, and I violently tear my eyes away from his tent, cursing my traitorous thoughts.

"Audrey?"

I snap my head up to find Dale on my other side, frowning down at me with his rifle slung over his shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "You look a little red."

"I-I'm fine," I stutter, clearing my throat. "Just a little… warm. It's hot out here today."

"It is," Dale says slowly, and his eyes scan over me, his expression dubious. "Why don't you go lay down in the RV? Just for a little while. I got a small fan in there. Glenn even found some extra batteries for it yesterday."

I open my mouth to refuse, but I don't have a good argument. Maybe I do need to lay down for a bit. Just to get my head on straight.

"Actually, that sounds amazing." I smile up at the older man. "Thank you, Dale."

"Of course. Here, let me help you up."

He does just that, taking my good elbow and leveraging me out of the camping chair. Flares of pain ignite in me, like flashing Christmas lights, but they're easy enough to ignore as I let Dale turn and lead me to the RV.

I leave my pack and swords behind, too tired and sore to deal with them. I do pause long enough to grab the red bandana, though, and I ignore Dale's look as I wad up the damp fabric in my left fist.

Dale helps me up the steps to the RV and then points me to the back, telling me to take whichever of the beds I want. I thank him again and limp down the short hallway as he goes back outside and shuts the door behind him. All the windows have been cracked, so the air isn't too stagnant, but I still walk up to the small fan mounted on the back wall and flick it on. The artificial wind makes me sigh, and I just stand there for a moment, letting the lukewarm air rush past my face.

But my leg is starting to throb again, so I eventually open my eyes and glance between the beds. In the end, I chose the left one, so my right arm is facing the wall when I'm on my back. I even crank the fan to the side a little so it'll hit me more directly.

Groaning, I sit on the edge of the mattress, swinging my legs up as I collapse back onto the pillows. I feel a smidge of guilt over my dirty shoes on the covers, but I don't have the energy to shuck them off.

Besides, it never hurts to be ready to run at a moment's notice.

My sore body melts into the narrow bed, and already my eyes feel heavy. I shift, trying to find the most comfortable position, and something tickling my hand makes me look down. I unclench my fingers, and Daryl's wrinkled bandana slowly unfurls, the red color stark against the white gauze covering my palm. The fabric is still slightly damp on my skin, so I stretch it out on the pillow beside my head, that way the fan could help dry it.

My eyelids begin to flutter soon after, and when I tilt my head to the side, my nose brushes the edge of the bandana. It smells like soap, with a little bit of blood, but my fuzzy brain swears there's something under that. Something familiar, like leather and…

I fall asleep before I can finish the thought.

#

I wake up to a soft clatter, barely a noise, but everything in me immediately lights up, tense and alert for danger. My right hand tries to shoot for my hip, for the hilt that should be there, but both pain and something else restricts me, trapping my arm against my chest. A claustrophobic feeling seizes my throat as faces flash through my mind.

Mitch. Merle. The undead. Every person that has tried to pin me down and tear me apart.

That just kicks my adrenaline into overdrive, and I'm trying to scramble back, smacking into something hard, when a voice cuts through my panicked breathing.

"Hey, hey! Audrey, it's okay, you're okay. It's just me!"

My eyes snap open, find Carol crouched a few feet away, her hands outstretched but not touching me. Chest heaving, I glance around wildly, taking in the RV, and only then do the ghostly hands that are clawing at me fade away. My heart is still pounding in the back of my throat, harmonizing with the pulses in my side and arm, and I suck in a deep breath, counting to ten as I exhale.

The adrenaline slowly fades, leaving me shaky, and when I swallow, my throat clicks, dry.

"Here," Carol murmurs, and she reaches for the 'counter' at the end of the bed, where it transitions to the hallway. She grabs a glass of water sitting there and turns back to me, gesturing to take it.

Instinctively, I try to reach out with my right hand, meeting that same pain and resistance as before. Dropping my gaze, I catch sight of the sling binding my arm down, and I wince, embarrassment prickling through my veins.

"Thanks," I rasp as I take the glass with my left hand, not meeting Carol's eyes until I've gulped down every drop. Her face is carefully composed, if a little contrite, as I give her the glass back. "Sorry for… freaking out. Just forgot where I was."

"No, I'm sorry," Carol says, pressing her lips together and hunching her shoulders. "I didn't mean to wake you, I was just trying to… tidy up."

She motions at the opposite bed, which has been made, and the table between the headboards looks clear of clutter now.

"It's okay, really." I wave her off because that hunted, bracing-for-a-blow look in her eyes is too familiar. "I… needed to wake up anyway."

Turning my head, I notice the light coming through the window is a little more orange, and when I peek through the half open blinds, it looks like late afternoon, not yet sunset but almost. I must have slept for a couple hours at least. There are more people walking around camp now, and my eyes snag on a familiar baseball cap. A smile immediately spreads across my face, and something unhitches in my chest.

"Glenn's back," I sigh in relief.

"Hm? Oh, yeah, he and Maggie got back a few hours ago," Carol replies. "Said the run went great. Actually, he left some things here for you."

"Things?" I turn my head and watch the older woman bustle down the hallway. She's out of my view for a moment before she returns with a plastic bag straining at the seams. She places it on the end of the bed, beside my foot, and pulls out the first item.

"He actually got the toothbrush?" I laugh, taking the slim box from Carol's fingers.

"Seems like." She smiles. "There's a stick of deodorant in here, too. Andddd… these."

She takes out two boxes next, both much bigger than the toothbrush. I frown, eyes skipping over the packaging, and then I snort.

"Well, can't exactly say I don't need these," I mutter as I take the wrist splint first, then the medical boot. However, just the thought of touching my wrist makes me nauseous, so I decide to set the splint aside for now. Instead, I try to unbox the boot, but Carol reaches out to stop me.

"Here, let me," she says with a tentative smile, and I mirror it as I hand her the box again.

She removes the boot and steps back as I slowly swing upright, the blood rushing to my feet in pins and needles. My sneaker feels a little tight, my ankle swelling beneath the bandages, and I bite back a grunt when Carol crouches down and, as gently as she can, pulls the shoe off. Then she carefully maneuvers the boot onto my leg, and since it has a harder outer shell, even along the bottom, I should be able to walk around in it.

"There, how's that feel?" she asks as she stands back up.

"Good." I kick my leg out a little. The boot reaches halfway up my shin, and my leg feels sturdier but not strangled.

"Good," Carol echoes. "But don't try to get up just yet. Let me get you another glass of water."

I won't say no to that, so I patiently wait on the bed as she walks back into the 'kitchen.' I continue kicking my legs, just to get the blood flowing, and my gaze skims over the RV's bedroom. They pause on a splash of red in my peripherals, and I look down at the bandana, half tucked under the pillow. When I reach out, the fabric is dry to the touch, and I pull it into my lap, rubbing it between my fingers.

A question forms in the back of my mind, bubbles up my throat before I can stop it.

"So, uh, is everyone back then?" I ask and then wince, thinking of Sophia and the fact that she's obviously not back, because Carol wouldn't be here otherwise.

If Carol notices my faux pax, she doesn't comment on it. She does, however, parse my true question.

"Daryl hasn't returned yet," she says as she comes into the bedroom and hands me the glass of water. "But he'll probably be back soon."

"Hmm," I hum, taking a sip to cover my flushed face, and to cover up the fact that I don't know what to say.

Carol cocks her head slightly, her eyes calmly studying me.

"You really worry about him, don't you?" she asks after a long moment of silence. "Daryl, I mean."

More blood rushes into my face, and I cough, water trickling down the wrong pipe.

"W-What? No," I croak, leaning over to set the water on the bedside table. My hand shakes more than I want it to. "I mean, I was just asking, like, in general…"

The lie sounds thin even to my own ears, but Carol smiles indulgently.

"But you do worry about him," she asserts, and this time it isn't a question. "Even back at the quarry. You were the only one to try and help him with the hunting."

"I-It just felt like the right thing to do," I mutter, unable to meet her eyes. That had been part of it, at first. And the fact that I owed him for bringing me to the quarry. But now I just… I don't know.

Carol hums. "He's a surprising man, that Daryl Dixon. Few weeks ago, I would have never thought he'd go out of his way to help my little girl. You seem to have brought out the best in him."

"Oh, I really don't think I did anything," I laugh nervously, shifting on the edge of the bed, my skin suddenly too tight. "Honestly, I think I just bother him most of the time."

"Even if that's true, Daryl doesn't let many people bother him," Carol points out, and when I don't have an answer to that, she chuckles under her breath. "But I won't press the issue. I was just going to finish tidying up, if you want to help. Might take you a little longer, but I have some clothes you can fold."

"Y-Yeah, just bring them here," I say quickly, jumping on the chance to change the subject and keep myself busy.

"Okay, I'll be right back."

She disappears back down the hallway, and I exhale sharply, my face still warm. Thankfully, by the time Carol returns with a basket on her hip, I've recomposed myself. Then she dumps half the clothes beside me and takes the rest to the opposite bed, and we lapse into a mostly comfortable silence as we begin folding.

I say mostly, because every few moments I'm having to blow hair out of my face, since the fan is still directed at me. After the tenth time, Carol glances over and looks like she's trying not to laugh.

"Do you want me to tie back your hair?" she offers. "You sound like you're drowning over there."

"Sorry," I reply and then have to spit several strands out of my mouth. Carol raises an eyebrow, and I smile sheepishly. "And I'd welcome the help, but I don't have any hair ties on me." There might be some buried at the bottom of my pack, but finding them seems too arduous a task right now. "You can move the fan, though, if you want. Didn't mean to hog it."

"Hm." Carol purses her lips and narrows her eyes, and they drop to my side. "I could do something with that. At least enough to get the hair out of your face."

I glance down at the bandana beside me, my heart skipping a beat. I almost refuse, since it's not really mine, but I've already bled on it…

"Okay," I find myself saying and turn back to Carol. "If you think you can tame this rat nest."

"I've seen worse." Carol smiles faintly and sets her laundry aside, standing up. "Can you turn around, or would that hurt too much?"

"I think I can manage," I chuckle, half turning my body to the side so I'm facing toward the hallway.

Carol slips in behind me, and her hands are gentle as she sweeps my hair over my shoulders.

"Oh," she murmurs, her fingers pausing. "I never noticed how, um…"

"Uneven it is?" I snort. "Yeah, I don't recommend giving yourself a haircut with a sword. It is surprisingly difficult."

"I could even it out for you," she suggests. "Dale has some scissors in the kitchen."

"Oh, you don't have to—" I try, but she cuts me off.

"It's not a problem, really. I've… given my fair share of haircuts in the past, and I like keeping busy."

My throat tightens when I realize she's talking about Sophia, probably remembering all the time she's cut her daughter's hair, and I don't have it in me to refuse.

"If you're sure," I mutter, and Carol pats my shoulder before slipping past me and going back to the kitchen.

When she returns, she has me carefully turn a little more, so I'm facing out the window and my back is to the middle of the room. She uses her hands to comb out the worst knots, her fingers soft and comforting, and I force myself to not think about other hands carding through my hair. Once it's mainly detangled, Carol skillfully pours some water onto my ends, making sure only a few drops cascade down my back, splatter on my shoulders. Then she parts my hair and begins trimming, gently tilting my head this way and that to check her work. It only takes her a few minutes to fix what my clumsy hands butchered weeks ago, and my new hairline brushes the middle of my neck. On both sides.

"Okay, almost done," Carol says, breaking the silence.

She brushes off any stray hairs from the back of my neck and shoulders, and then she reaches down and picks up the bandana. I hear her moving behind me for a moment before she tucks my hair behind my ears and sets the bandana flat over my head, one of the flat edges lined up with my brow. Next, Carol gathers my hair at the back of my head and lifts it up, tying two of the bandana ends together at the base of my skull underneath. Once that's secure, she tugs the bandana back a little, until my hair is pushed out of my face.

"Turn around," she requests, and I cautiously do so, trying not to fall over and jar any of my injuries. She steps back as I swing my legs down to the floor again, and her eyes rake over me before she reaches out and shifts the headband a little to the front. "There we go. Now we can see your pretty face. Here."

She turns and grabs something from the bedside table, and when she hands it to me, I see it's a small compact mirror, a little dingy but not broken. My bruised face blinks at me, the bandana tucked around my head like bonnet, with one of the corners pointing down toward the nape of my neck.

"Well, I don't know how pretty it is with all this mess," I laugh, gesturing to the yellowing bruises on my cheek, the bridge of my nose. "But… thank you. It feels really nice."

"Happy to help," Carol replies, and she gives me another small, barely-there smile before she grabs a damp hand towel and sweeps up the remnants of my hair on the ground.

When she's done with that, we return to the laundry, and it is a lot nicer without my hair in my face. We fold in companionable silence, and we're done before too long. I ask if there's anything else I can do, but Carol says she's already tidied up the front of the RV, and the others are just getting dinner ready.

At the mention of our nightly meal, my eyes dart to the thicker orange light spilling through the windows. I peek past the blinds, watch as people go about the evening chores, but the one person I'm looking for is still nowhere to be found. I try to put it out of my mind, tell myself there's nothing I can do, so I might as well listen to everyone's advice and rest a little longer.

Carol pulls out a sewing kit from somewhere, and she folds up the other bed into a bench, sitting at the little table between us and patching holes in the dimming light. I don't want to bother her, but I quickly begin to feel antsy. It's always been one of my biggest flaws, one that my Sensei had tried to train out of me with meditation and various mind-stilling techniques. It never fully worked. My mind always wandered, thinking about things I need to do or should have done.

Right now, though, wandering thoughts are dangerous. I can already feel anxiety boiling in the pit of my stomach, and I need something to both distract me and grab my attention. I end up pulling one of Dale's cheap thriller novels into my lap. It's pulpy, and not exactly peak literature, so I end up reading the first page several times without retaining anything. I frown and try again, forcing myself to pay attention to the words, and slowly but surely, the story pulls me in.

The hardened detective is just having his first flashback about his dead wife when I hear the RV door rattle open. My eyes flick up halfheartedly, expecting Dale, maybe Glenn, coming to tell us that dinner is ready. Instead, my gaze locks with a familiar ice-blue one, and my next breath hitches in my chest.

Daryl stands uncertainly in the hallway. He's streaked in dirt, as usual, with tracks of dried sweat running down his neck and to his chest, which peeks out of the top of his partially unbuttoned shirt. A piece of grass or hay hangs out of the corner of his mouth, and it bobs up and down as he chews it. His eyes trail over me slowly, pausing on my sling and boot, before they click back to my face.

I flush, wondering if he recognizes my headband.

Time seems to stand still for a long moment before he tears his eyes away, scanning over the kitchen and the rest of the RV. Once I'm not pinned under his stare anymore, I inhale deeply, doing my own quick catalogue of the hunter. He looks dirty, and tired, but uninjured, and relief tastes sweet on the back of my tongue.

In my peripherals, I see Carol glance between Daryl and me before she ducks her head and returns to her sewing.

"We cleaned up a bit," she says, and Daryl stops studying the RV to look at her. "Wanted it to be… nice for her."

The air in the bedroom goes a little thin, and we all know she's talking about Sophia. My relief over the hunter quickly turns bittersweet, because… he didn't find her. Again. So she'll spend another night in the dark, dangerous woods.

My tongue suddenly feels too dry and heavy to work, but Daryl seemingly takes Carol's comment in stride.

"For a second, thought I was in the wrong place," he mumbles around the stick of grass, and I recognize he's trying to lighten the mood a little.

Carol huffs out a small laugh without looking up, but when she finally lifts her head, her face is sober, a hint of desperation flickering behind her eyes.

"So… nothing?" she asks, even though she obviously knows the answer. "Again?"

Daryl bites down on the grass in his mouth, the end jumping, and Carol nods mutely before focusing on her sewing again. The hunter's face contorts as a tense silence envelops the RV, and his eyes skip to me momentarily. I think I see a tinge of red on his cheeks, but then he shifts so he's facing Carol more fully. He takes a step forward, pulling a hand out from behind his back, and sets a brown beer bottle on the shelf just past the "bedroom" doorway.

There, sticking out of the neck, is a broad, white-petaled flower with a yellow center.

Carol lifts her head again, a confused frown tugging her lips downward. "A… flower?"

Even though I can only see his profile now, Daryl looks uncomfortable, nearly constipated. He shifts from foot to foot like he's unable to stay still, but he takes the grass out of his mouth and gestures at the flower.

"It's a Cherokee rose."

When Carol and I just blink at him, he purses his lips but continues.

"The story is that, when American soldiers were moving Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much cuz they were losin' their little ones along the way. From exposure and disease, starvation… a lot of them just disappeared. So, the elders said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, give them strength… and hope. The next day, this rose started to grow right where those mothers' tears fell."

I distantly think that's the most I've ever heard the hunter say at one time, and it's definitely one of the gentler tones he's used. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and I glance at Carol to see tears brimming in her eyes.

"I'm not… fool enough to think there's any flowers bloomin' for my brother," Daryl goes on with a scoff, taking me by surprise yet again with the mention of Merle. "But I believe this one… bloomed for your little girl."

He motions at the flower again, hunching in on himself like he's expecting us to laugh at or mock him. But I'm just openly staring at the side of his face in shock until Carol smiles, wobbly and watery.

"Thank you," she sniffles, her eyes going back to the pretty flower, and a lone tear trickles down her freckled cheek.

Daryl nods, looking even uncomfortable as he pops the grass back into his mouth. He retreats half a step, into the hallway, and his eyes flicker to me for just a moment. It feels hard to breathe under those blue eyes, my chest weirdly tight, but then the hunter ducks back down the hall and leaves the RV without another word. The silence rings in my ears, broken only by Carol's sniffling. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, and I'm surprised to see one corner of her mouth curled upward. She catches me looking, and I suppress a wince and try to sculpt my expression into something appropriately… comforting? Sympathetic? I don't know, but Carol clears her throat, pulling me from my self-conscious spiral.

"A man of many surprises," she says as she tips her head toward the flower, and I blush, remembering our earlier conversation. The corner of Carol's mouth just ticks up a fraction higher, and she wipes her eyes, tilting her head at the door next. "You should go check on him, see if he needs anything."

If I was a better person, I would say, 'No, it's okay, I'll stay here and keep you company.' But I'm not a better person, I'm me. Audrey Bennett, who's as uncomfortable with the emotions of others as I am with my own. And… I actually want to do what Carol says. Daryl didn't look hurt, but the hunter is like an ornery cat. He would totally downplay an injury and just grit his teeth and bear it.

Sound familiar? a sarcastic voice drawls in my head, but I ignore it.

"Y-Yeah, I'll go… do that." I fake a smile and nod, slipping to my feet and only feeling a little unsteady. I limp toward the hall but pause in the doorway, glancing over my shoulder at Carol, who's still dabbing at eyes. "Um… Thank you for today. F-For the haircut, and for letting me pretend to be useful."

"Well, those clothes weren't going to fold themselves," she says dryly, but gratitude glints in her watery eyes again. "Go on now. I'll see you at dinner."

I dip my head before continuing down the hall, and I only stagger a little down the RV stairs. Outside, the sun has dipped beneath the trees, and the sky is streaked in orange. At a glance, most of the group is gathered around the glowing firepit— Rick and Lori, Shane, Andrea, T-Dog, Dale and Glenn… Not Daryl, though, and before I can find the hunter, Glenn looks up and catches sight of me.

"Dree, just in time!" he calls out, waving me over. "Dinner's ready."

Several heads turn to look at me, and my smile is as stiff as my walk, but I hobble over to join everyone. The smell of cooking meat fills the air, and I spot Lori and T-Dog pulling something out of the fire and dishing it out onto different plates.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" Rick is the first to ask once I'm close enough.

"I'm feeling fin— better," I correct when Glenn narrows his eyes at me.

"I heard what happened earlier, with the well," the former sheriff says with a frown, and his gaze goes to my sling, then my boot. "I'm sorry I wasn't here—"

"Seriously, it's okay," I cut him off, finally drawing up to their circle around the fire. "The important thing is Glenn survived and, hey, the whole ordeal even made me take a nap, which has done wonders, let me tell you."

"Good, you needed it," Glenn chimes in, and I poke out my tongue at him.

"Well, I'm glad you're feeling better," Rick says as his frown turns into a faint smirk. Then he seems to notice I'm still standing, and he looks around the circle. "Oh, here, let's find you a seat…"

"She can have mine," Andrea offers as she starts to get out of her chair. "Someone should bring Dixon a plate, and I'm just about to start watch, anyway."

"Oh, I-I can bring Daryl a plate. I needed to return something to him anyway."

The second the words are out of my mouth, it immediately feels like all eyes are on me, and I clench every muscle in my body to avoid fidgeting. I wait for someone to say something, dreading every terribly long second, but Andrea just smirks.

"How convenient," she hums, and then she shrugs and collapses back into her chair. "But sure, knock yourself out. He's at his tent."

Something about her tone causes my cheeks to warm yet again, but no one else makes a comment. Conversations resume as Lori starts passing out the plates, and I relax a fraction once everyone is no longer looking at me. I shimmy around the fire, getting in line, and Lori looks up when I hold out my left hand for a plate. Her eyes seem to study me for a long second, but she finally passes me a plate with a small side salad, roasted potatoes drizzled in butter from the Greene's cattle, and a square of steak. My mouth is already watering.

"Thank you." I smile and ignore how my hand stings with the extra weight of the plate.

"You're welcome. I'll set your own dinner here, next to your things, for when you get back." She puts another plate on a stump beside her, where my pack and swords are propped up, and then she turns to the next person in line.

I shuffle out of the way, glancing at the plate in my hand, to the one on the stump, to the people gathered around the crackling fire. No one is paying me any attention, and I look toward Daryl's tent. An idea takes root in my mind, and before I can think better of it, I shift the plate I'm already holding into the crook of my elbow, stooping down to pick up the second plate in my now free hand. Then I bring my how laden arm closer to my body, so both dishes are better stabilized against my ribs. I spent last summer working as a waitress for a little extra cash, and I didn't win any employee of the month awards, but I did learn how to balance multiple plates.

It's a little harder when I'm down two working limbs, but I can manage.

Hopefully.

Before I can start to doubt myself, I begin walking away from the fire, toward Daryl's tent. It's slow going, both because I'm trying not to trip in the growing shadows, and because I don't want any food to slip off the plates. My frown of concentration flicks repeatedly from the ground to my arm, and I don't even realize I've reached my destination until a muttered curse makes me lift my gaze.

Most of the stuff that had been dumped in front of Daryl's tent is gone, save for a camping chair and some other odds and ends. The flap of the tent is closed, but there's a lantern illuminating the inside, and I can see the hunter's shadow moving back and forth, his outline distorting as he seems to pull on a shirt. I suddenly feel like a voyeur, and I shift on my feet, wondering if I should just leave the plate here and go back to the firepit with my own dinner.

I'm so lost in thought that when Daryl abruptly slings back the flap and ducks out of the tent, he nearly bowls me over.

"Fuckin'—" He snaps his head up, scowl half formed, but he freezes when his eyes land on me.

It's silent for a moment as we stare at each other, and for some reason my brain decides to note that the hunter's shirt is fully unbuttoned. His lightly muscled chest and abdomen glint damply in the dying sunlight, and I distantly realize he must have been wiping off most of the day's grime. When my eyes dart back to his face, it is equally clean, and strands of hair stick wetly to his forehead and drip water down the sharp line of his nose. I've just noticed his hair's getting longer, and… it suits him.

My skin itches at the thought, my stomach fluttering, and I need to say something. Anything. Stop staring like an idiot, Audrey.

"Hey!" I plaster on a smile and bite the inside of my cheek, cursing my overly perky tone. "I, um, brought you some dinner. You hungry?"

Daryl stares at my face for what feels like an eternity before his eyes drop to the plates balanced on my arm.

"Why're there two?" he grunts without answering my question.

"Oh, uh, I was thinking I could maybe… stick around, i-if you don't mind," I stammer. "But if you want to just… eat in peace or something, I can head back to the firepit…"

Again, those piercing eyes jump to my face, and Daryl presses his lips together before he just turns and ducks back into the tent. I blink, wondering if that was my answer, but the hunter steps out a moment later with his shirt mostly buttoned and something tucked under his arm.

"Move," he mutters, but not sharply, and I shuffle to the side as he unfolds a camping stool and drops it on the left side of the tent entrance. "Ya can have that one." He jerks his head at the camping chair opposite the stool, and I can't help but smile.

"Thanks," I say before nodding at him to take the plate gripped in my slightly trembling fingers.

Daryl does just that, but the moment the dish is out of my hand, he goes stock still, a sharp inhale whistling through his teeth.

"The hell?" he growls, setting his food down on the stool and grabbing my hand. Well, grab isn't the right word. My hand is still face-up, so he cups his palm underneath and gently pulls it up toward his face.

"Whoa!" I gasp as the motion nearly knocks my plate to the ground.

Daryl makes a vaguely irate noise as he also takes my dinner and leans past me to set it on the camping chair. Then he's in my face again, and he holds my hand with a gentleness that's incongruous with the fire burning in his blue eyes.

"What the fuck happened?" he demands, the words slicing through the air with a befuddling amount of anger. He lifts my hand higher, so it's between our chests, and the white square of gauze is stark even in the low light. Unfortunately, the gauze itself doesn't fully cover all the deep abrasions the rope cut into my hand, and there are clear blisters, fresh scabs, and chunks of missing skin on the heel of my palm. Bandaids are stacked knuckle to tip on each of my fingers, and dried blood is caked under several of my nails.

"Kid!"

I startle, jerking my head up to find him glaring at me. I don't know why he's suddenly so upset, and I stumble over my response.

"Rope burn," I blurt out. "Just rope burn. I-It's really not a big deal. I wasn't even the one in the well."

My answer seems to confuse Daryl enough that his scowl falters, and then he realizes he's still holding my hand. He drops it like it's burned him, his fingers curling into a fist as he takes a step back.

"What well?" he grunts, and even those he doesn't say as much out loud, his expression demands clarification. Now.

"It's… kind of a long story," I sigh, and it strangely feels easier to breathe with the distance between us. "Can we maybe sit down while I tell it? I don't want dinner to go cold."

Daryl's lips thin into a razor sharp line, but he turns, picks up his plate, and drops down onto the camping stool. I do the same with my chair— albeit with a little less grace— and another sigh slips past my lips as I drape my left elbow over the armrest and slowly flex my fingers. When I look up, Daryl is staring at me unblinkingly, and I shift in my seat, trying to get comfortable.

"Okay, where do I start?" I mutter, and I use my forefinger and thumb to gingerly pick up a cherry tomato from my salad. Lori had given us plastic forks, but I feel like using the utensil would be more painful that just eating with my hands.

"The beginning," Daryl says flatly.

I roll my eyes at him, popping the tomato in my mouth. It's dressed with some kind of vinaigrette, and the snap of the tomato, paired with the sharp tang of vinegar, makes me hum appreciatively. I can't remember the last time I ate something this fresh. Maybe those peaches, on the day Daryl found me…

"Alright, so the beginning." I swallow and pick up a slice of cucumber next. "T-Dog and Dale went to get water from one of the wells on the property, and they found a walker at the bottom. Big bloated bastard. It was still alive, too. Or, well, alive for one of those things. So, everyone gathered round, tried to figure out what to do."

"Shoot it," Daryl scoffs immediately, stabbing at his own plate with a plastic fork. "Not goddamn rocket science."

"That's what I said," I snort as I nibble the skin off the cucumber. "But I was outvoted. On the slim chance the water wasn't already contaminated, the others didn't want to run the risk of spraying walker brains everywhere."

"Fuckin' stupid," the hunter mumbles around a mouthful of potatoes, the knob on his throat bobbing as he swallows. He goes to scoop up some more, and I notice he's already halfway through his plate. He must have been really hungry. "Ya said the fucker was already bloated, right? If he'd been down there long enough to get like that, the well was already screwed."

"Exactly." I shake my head before biting into one of my own potatoes. The delicious taste of warm butter and salt coats my tongue, and I hum in pleasure, my eyes slipping closed. When I open them again, Daryl is staring at me, but he quickly turns back to his own plate, so I clear my throat and continue. "But, like I said, outvoted. Instead, someone can up with the brilliant idea to send Glenn down the well like a worm on a hook, so he could lasso the walker, and it could be dragged up to the surface to be killed."

"Ya serious?" Daryl asks as he glances up from his plate, and when I nod, too busy chewing another potato, he makes a noise of disbelief. "And he agreed to that suicide mission?"

"Unfortunately," I grumble, rolling my eyes again as I remember my earlier irritation at the situation. "I'm, like, ninety percent sure he was just trying to impress Maggie, but she also thought the idea was idiotic, so I don't know what he was thinking."

The hunter cocks his head, and he seems to study me for a minute, his eyes sharp and shrewd. I wonder what he's looking for, but his next words nearly have me swallowing a potato whole.

"What, he bangin' the farmer's daughter already?"

I cough and flush at his wording, and then flush deeper when I realize I shouldn't have said that. Glenn told me not to go running my mouth about his crush, but I couldn't seem to control it when I was around Daryl. I always say the wrong thing, the stupid thing, and I bite the inside of my cheek.

"You didn't hear me say that," I mutter as I stare down at my plate and pick at some of the soggy lettuce. The vinegar stings my fingertips, and I wince, sucking them into my mouth momentarily. "Anyway, he goes into the well, and halfway down, the old water pump being used as the anchor snaps. I was sitting on the lip of the well, and I was only supposed to be the lookout, but I just… reacted. Reached out and grabbed the rope. Nearly got dragged in on top of Glenn, but Maggie managed to catch me. It was all just frantic adrenaline as we pulled him up and out. All in all, it took probably under a minute, but… the damage was already done."

I lift my left hand, wiggling my bandaged fingers, but Daryl is staring at my right arm, in the sling.

"What 'bout yer wrist? Ya end up fully breakin' it this time?" The damn hunter was always too perceptive.

"Um, it was just a temporary dislocation, thank you very much," I quip, but the joke falls flat as Daryl's lips twist into another scowl.

"That ain't much better," he grunts. "How are ya such a damn magnet for injuries? All ya had to do was let the doc give ya an exam and fuckin' rest."

"Herschel gave me two exams!" I protest. "He said none of the damage was permanent. I also took a nap for at least a couple hours. And I showered!"

I don't know why I added that last part, maybe my brain was grasping at 'relaxing' concepts. But I wish— not for the first time— that I had a better filter, because Daryl's eyes are scanning over me again, lingering around my face, hair, and borrowed clothes. My skin itches, but I pretend it's from the mosquitoes buzzing through the dusk air.

"Thought ya looked less grimy," Daryl says after a long moment, and I squawk indignantly.

"You're one to talk, Dixon," I shoot back.

A smirk twitches across his lips before he ducks his head to finish off his steak, sawing at it with a sharp knife I never even saw him pull out.

A short silence envelopes us as we continue eating, and I polish off my potatoes and salad before turning my attention to my steak. I'd been procrastinating starting in on it because I couldn't exactly cut it with one hand and a plastic fork, and I didn't want to be gnawing on it in the middle of our conversation. Now that there is a natural lull, I have no choice but to go full caveman, and I'm just about to pick up the slab of meat when Daryl's voice stops me.

"Give it here." He's holding his hand out when I look up, and he flexes his fingers impatiently. "Yer plate. Hand it to me."

"Oh, are you still hungry?" I ask and pass him the plate without a moment's hesitation. He was out in the woods all day, he can have the steak. Even if my mouth is still salivating over the aroma of cooked meat.

Daryl rolls his eyes but doesn't answer, just picks up his knife and starts cutting the steak into bite sized pieces. When he's done, he drops the blade onto his own empty plate, which he's set on the ground beside him, and then he leans over and hands me back my dinner. I blink at the cubes of meat and then up at the hunter, but he's pulled his knife back into his lap and is cleaning it intently.

"Thank you," I murmur, and he grunts in acknowledgement.

The steak is a little tough but still delicious, and I sigh deeply as the smoked flavor washes over my tongue. I try to eat slowly, to savor each bite, but it's gone all too soon. I sadly lick the last of the grease off my fingers, not even caring about the bandages, and it's well worth the tiny sparks of pain. Once my plate is practically bone dry, I lean back in my seat, feeling more full than I can remember being in months. Well, we ate a lot at the CDC, but then I got too drunk and threw it all up, so I don't know if that counts.

As I place a hand over my pleasantly full belly, my gaze trails back to Daryl. He's moved on from his knife and is now tending to his crossbow, wiping it down and checking the string. The silence between us is comfortable, peaceful, and I relax further into the chair as I tilt my head back, staring at the twilight sky past the trees. Birds and bats alike flutter through the canopy, and the cicadas hum their distant lullaby.

Trying to get more comfortable, I stretch out my leg and prop my medical boot on a rock, wiggling my tingling toes. The motion seems to draw Daryl's attention, and his hands slow in their task as he stares at my foot. I wonder if he's going to make another dig about being a magnet for injuries, but his face is unreadable beyond a light furrow on his brow. He finally turns back to his work, so I resume studying the sky, and it's silent for another few minutes until the hunter breaks it.

"How's yer ankle?"

"Hm?" I slowly tilt my head forward and find him staring at my boot again. "Oh, it's okay. Herschel says if I can take it easy for a bit, it should be healed up in no time. Glenn found me this boot when he went into town today, and it definitely feels more supportive while allowing room for some minor swelling. I do kinda feel like I'm walking on a peg leg, though, especially since the sneaker on my other foot is a couple inches shorter."

Daryl chews on his lower lip with his eyes still glued to my leg, and without a word, he pushes himself to his feet and ducks into the tent. I hear him rummaging around for a moment before he comes back out, and he doesn't meet my questioning gaze when he sets a pair of hiking boots beside my chair.

"Found these in a farmhouse today," he mutters as he turns his back to me, returning to his stool. "They're in decent shape. I washed them, made sure the soles were intact. Dunno if they'll fit ya. But if they do, it'll be better support for yer ankle. Once the swelling's gone."

I feel my eyes widen as I look back at the boots, leaning out of my chair to pick one up and pull it into my lap. It's slightly weathered, and damp, but in good condition otherwise. I check the size on the tongue, and they're a little big, but not enough to be a real problem. They're definitely sturdier than the sneakers I'm wearing, with great ankle support and a thick enough sole that I could probably wear one of them opposite the medical boot and walk evenly.

My heart kicks as I turn the boot over in my hands, and I suddenly feel deeply touched that Daryl thought of me when he saw these. More than that, he brought them back and washed them… for me. Throat suddenly dry, I swallow thickly, and I don't know what to do with the tangled nest of emotions in my gut, so I turn to one of my favorite coping mechanisms.

Deflection.

"Wow. Flowers, boots… what other souvenirs did you bring back for the group?" I joke. "Can I make requests for next time?"

Even in the fading light, I can see the muscles in Daryl's jaw flutter when he grinds his teeth. He ducks his head to hide his face, but I think I spot a dusting of red high on his cheeks.

"If ya don't want 'em…" he grumbles, leaning forward to take the boot back, but I pull it into my chest and cradle it like a baby.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," I laugh to lighten the mood, but Daryl's face is still tight and pink-hued, and his gaze is averted to the side, like he can't bring himself to look at me.

I suddenly realize he's embarrassed, and now I feel bad for making light of his thoughtful gift. My smile morphs into something more sincere, and I tug at one of the boot's laces.

"Thank you, Daryl. Really."

Some of the tension fades from the hunter's face, and he mutters something that might have been 'Welcome,' as he starts fiddling with his crossbow again.

I'm still smiling when I lean down and set the boot beside its pair on the ground, but as I sit back upright, something presses sharply into my left hip. Ghosting my hand down my side, my fingers nudge a lump in my pocket, and I remember that I had my own present to give the hunter. It takes a little maneuvering, but I manage to fish the pack of cigarettes out. It's marginally crumpled, but when I flip open the top, the cigarettes themselves are unbroken, and there are only a couple missing.

Glancing up, I stare at Daryl for a moment, gathering my courage. I feel slightly embarrassed, but if we've reached the gift-giving stage of our… friendship, then it's rude to not reciprocate, right?

Right.

"Hey, Dixon," I call out, and as he lifts his head, I toss the pack to him.

Daryl's hand flashes up, his reflexes sharp as always, and he catches the pack with ease. He glances down at his hand, surprise flickering across his features as he looks back at me, but he quickly tries to cover it up.

"Tch, thought ya didn't condone my bad habits," he grunts, echoing my words from last night, and the memory of pulling his hand out of his mouth and holding it in mine for way too long slithers up my brain stem.

I shake it off as best as I can and feign nonchalance.

"I don't." I shrug and search for the right words as I say them. "But… I'm not the boss of you. Besides, given the state of the world, I think cigarettes are pretty low on the list of things that will actually kill you."

Daryl studies me for a moment before he refocuses on the pack in his hand, his fingers flipping open the top and extracting one of the cigarettes.

"Where the hell d'ya even get 'em?" He slips the rest of the pack into his chest pocket, slotting the remaining cig between his thin lips.

"T-Dog found them on the highway yesterday," I reply, and I try to keep my tone light as I add, "He said you could have them, as thanks for the pills you gave him."

Surprise darts across Daryl's face once again, but he covers it up by digging a Zippo out of his jeans. He flicks it open with a quick snap of his wrist, a flame leaping to life a moment later, and he holds it up to the end of the cigarette. His cheeks hollow as he takes a drag, and the cherry on the end glows bright orange before he closes the Zippo with another deft flick of his wrist.

He holds his breath for a moment, then tilts his head to the side and exhales, so he doesn't blow the smoke directly into my face. The cigarette is dangling between two of his fingers now, and I watch him raise it back to his mouth and inhale. His features actually seem to relax, and he breathes out through his nose this time, his eyes slipping closed.

The thick, acrid smell quickly fills the air, but… it isn't exactly unappealing. I've smoked a couple of times, when Mathias and Kaleigh convinced me to after a couple of equally illegal drinks, but I never really enjoyed it. Now, though, as I watch Daryl take yet another drag, the light of the cherry glinting in the sparse hair around his mouth, the urge seizes me with a surprising intensity.

"Can I try it?" The words fall out of my mouth without my permission, but I try to look confident when Daryl's eyes settle on my face again.

The hunter snorts twin plumes of smoke from his nose, and he looks like he's about to refuse… but then he doesn't. Instead, he cocks his head and considers me, and without a word, he leans forward, holding the cigarette out between his index and middle fingers.

I lean forward to meet him, and he tilts his hand so I can grab the butt. Our fingers brush, but I ignore the scrape of his calluses. I'd planned to sit back once I had the cigarette, but Daryl is still stretched toward me, his eyes trained on my face, and I find I can only move my hand to my mouth, as if in slow motion. The smoke stings my eyes when I wrap my lips around the end of the cigarette, and I blink away a thin layer of tears as I inhale. A dry, ashy flavor immediately coats my tongue, then burns down my throat before it settles in my lungs. Like all the times I've tried smoking before, it's not… great, but it's not terrible, either. At least I'm not coughing.

Until I go to exhale, and suddenly Mathias' voice is echoing through my head, giggling about why he loved to share cigs with his revolving door of boyfriends.

It's just soooo intimate, ya know. Putting your lips where theirs were just seconds ago. It's like an indirect kiss. Very hot.

Unbidden, my eyes click to Daryl's lips, and then I'm choking, sputtering, smoke coming out of my nose and mouth while tears blur my vision.

Quiet laughter cuts through my coughing fit, and I blearily squint at Daryl as he shifts forward and plucks the cigarette from my limp fingers. When he settles back on his stool, he's smirking, and he's still smirking as he takes another, very smug, drag. I tear my gaze away from his mouth and cough twice more, clearing my sore throat.

"Shut up," I grumble as I slump back in my chair, and I hope the deepening shadows hide my flushed cheeks.

Daryl just huffs out another laugh, smoke curling around his face, but he doesn't make fun of me any further.

Another bout of silence washes over us, broken only by Daryl's deep inhales and exhales. I'm trying not to look at him, Mathias' laughter whispering at the back of my mind, but I'm not really looking at anything else, either. My eyes dance from the lavender sky to the swaying fields of grass, and I subconsciously check for dangers. But there's nothing to find, just roosting birds and a couple lightning bugs flashing at random intervals. One comes close enough that I reach out and gently cage it between my fingers, and I open my palm to watch the insect walk across the square of gauze, flickering like a guttering flame. After a moment, it flutters back into the air, alighting briefly on the tip of my nose and making me chuckle. Then it flies off, and as I watch it go, the back of my neck prickles.

I drop my eyes in time to catch Daryl looking away, and he sucks a little aggressively at the remainder of his cigarette. He shoots me a couple more furtive glances as he finishes smoking, but I can't really read his expression in the growing dark. Before I can ask what's wrong, his head snaps to the side, toward the firepit, and he drops the cigarette butt to the ground, putting it out with a twist of his heel.

I follow his line of sight to find Carol approaching us, and she flashes me that barely-there smile.

"Evening," she greets, and Daryl nods at her before she continues. "I was just collecting plates, if you guys are done eating."

"Oh, you don't have to do that, I'll bring them back to the RV." I try to wave her off, about to stand, but she holds out a hand to stop me.

"I don't mind," she says. "I'm already here, and the less you're on that foot, the better."

I frown, but she just raises an eyebrow at me, so I sigh and subside into the camping chair.

"Alright. Thank you." I bend down, pick up my plate, and pass it to her, and Daryl silently does the same, minus his hunting knife.

"You're welcome." Carol stacks everything in her hands, turning to go back the way she came, but then she pauses and shoots me a look over her shoulder. "My offer from this morning still stands, just so you know."

I smile, trying for polite, but it feels strained and tremulous.

"I actually might take you up on that," I say, because where else am I going to sleep tonight?

"Just let me know, and I can get things ready for you." Carol nods before walking away, and when she's gone, Daryl turns to me with a frown.

"What's that 'bout?" he asks. "What offer?"

I sigh and slouch a little in my chair, propping my left elbow on the armrest so I can rub my fingertips over my brow.

"My tent got destroyed back at the quarry," I explain. "It hasn't really been a problem, since we've been on the move, but now I need somewhere to crash. Carol offered her tent this morning, but…"

I trail off, the rest of the sentence sticking in my throat, and Daryl's frown deepens.

"But what?"

Pursing my lips, I swallow, and my eyes drop to my lap as something twists in my gut. "It feels wrong… sleeping in Sophia's spot." The words taste sharp and bitter.

Silence reigns for a long moment, but not the comfortable kind. It's heavy, and awkward, and I suddenly feel the need to dispel it.

"But it'll be fine." I wave my hand dismissively, my eyes still trained on my knees. "I slept most of the afternoon, so maybe I'll take one of the night watches."

Again, cicadas and crickets are my only response, and when I awkwardly shift in my chair, the sound is overly loud. I'm starting to think I've out worn my welcome, and I cast my mind about for an excuse to take my leave. Before I can settle on one, Daryl clears his throat, and when he speaks, his voice is quiet and rough.

"Could sleep here."

I snap my head up, my mouth falling open. Out of all the things he could have said, I was expecting that the least. "W-What?"

Daryl isn't looking at me, head turned to the side, but even his profile looks pinched, uncomfortable. He lifts a hand to his mouth but falters, shifting instead to brush his still damp hair out of his eyes.

"Tent's big enough for two," he mutters, throwing a half-hearted gesture at the structure between us. "And I still got both cots."

My heart stutters over itself, hitting every rib on the way down to my stomach. I'd considered the idea earlier, but not in any real way. I never thought Daryl would go for it, let alone offer it up himself, and I can't help but wonder if this is a pity or obligatory thing. Maybe he still feels guilty about the bruises his brother left behind, and he's doing this to make some kind of amends.

Was last night obligatory, too? that voice asks in the back of my head, followed by the memory of the hunter's hand in my hair.

I shove both away and fumble to get my tongue working again.

"O-Oh, that's- I wouldn't want to impose…" I stammer, and the corner of Daryl's mouth ticks, his shoulders curling in on themselves. His face also looks redder, maybe, but the sun has fully set by this point, so everything is shadowed.

"If ya want to sleep on top of the RV again, be my damn guest," he grunts, still not looking at me. "Just an offer. Take it or leave it, I don' care."

I should leave it. I should politely decline, say goodnight, and go find Carol. But…

"I'll take it," I say instead, the words out before my senses can come back to me. "I-If that's okay with you."

Daryl's eyes snap to my face, and a hint of shock swims in his blue irises, like he didn't actually expect me to accept. I worry he regrets offering, but before I can backpedal, he jumps to his feet. He mutters something about "Gettin' it ready" as he all but dives into the tent, and the flap falls closed behind him.

I blink at the spot he just occupied, feeling stunned. I would pinch myself to make sure I'm actually awake, but my body is still throbbing enough to know that I am. My eyes trail to the tent, and Daryl's shadow stutters back and forth, silhouetted by the lantern light. I half-heartedly consider helping, but it's a little… cramped in there, so I would probably just get in the way. Instead, I listen to the hunter grumble and stomp around for a few moments, and then it hits me that he's setting up my cot. I'm going to be sharing a tent with Daryl Dixon. We'll be sleeping mere feet away from each other, and we've technically done that a couple times already, but this feels… different, somehow. Intentional, rather than passing out beside each other due to alcohol or pain pills or exhaustion.

My blood feels hot and bubbly all of the sudden, and I squirm at the uncomfortable feeling. It propels me unsteadily to my feet, and I distantly think I need to walk this weirdness off.

It takes a moment, but I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth long enough to call out to Daryl. "I-I'm just going to grab my stuff from the firepit. Be right back!"

I start hobbling away before the hunter can answer, but despite the distance I put between us, my body still feels like it's full of static. It distracts me, enough that I trip several times in the growing dark, but I somehow make it back to the firepit without falling on my face.

To my relief, it seems most everyone has already turned in for the night, so I don't have to answer any questions about where I disappeared off to. Andrea and Carol are the only people I see, the former on lookout atop the RV, and the latter is just coming out of the RV. Carol softly closes the door behind her, and then she looks up and spots me lingering around the dying embers of the fire. I flash her a stiff smile as she approaches me, and I bend down to pick up my pack and swords, biting back a wince as the added weight tugs at my shoulder.

"Are you turning in for the night?" Carol asks when she reaches me.

That staticky feeling centers itself in my cheeks, and I just hope the older woman can't see how hard I'm blushing.

"Oh, um… yes," I mutter, adjusting the three different straps digging into my shoulder. "A-And thank you for your earlier offer, but I'll actually be staying with— uh, I mean… I'll be staying somewhere else for the night."

God, why did I say it like that? I wonder if I should try to explain myself better, mention how Daryl just has that extra cot, that's all. But Carol's lips twitch into that ghost of a smile, and even though it's getting darker by the moment, I think I see understanding glint in her eyes.

"Alright," she says simply, easily. "Well, you have a good night and get some more rest. Oh, also, I went ahead and put that wrist splint, deodorant, and toothbrush in your pack. They're sitting on the top, just under the flap."

"Oh." I blink and half turn my head, like I'd be able to see the items she's talking about. "T-Thank you. I… totally forgot about them."

Wonder why? Mathias' voice snickers in my head.

"It's no problem," Carol replies before she starts making her way to her own tent, a hand lifted in a half-hearted wave. "Goodnight."

"Night." I watch her go for a moment and turn to walk back the way I came, but then Andrea's voice stops me.

"Night, Audrey!" She doesn't shout the words, but they carry through the night air, and I turn to see the blonde standing atop the RV. The moonlight isn't very strong, but I think I see her smirking down at me.

Cheeks aflame, I wave at her and quickly turn away, but I can feel her eyes following me all the way across camp. I know she must know where I'm headed, but thankfully she doesn't call out again, and I'm able to slink away with minimal embarrassment.

It takes me a little longer to reach Daryl's tent this time, what with the added weight I'm carrying, but when I arrive, the flap is pinned back, and a warm yellow light beckons me inside. I hesitate at the threshold, my skin tight and prickly, but my hand and ribs are starting to throb again, and I need to put my stuff down. So, I swallow my discomfort, take a deep breath, and duck into the tent.

As I straighten up, my eyes do a quick scan of the small, enclosed space. There's a camping lantern set against the back wall directly across from me, which is the source of the yellow light. Two cots sit opposite each other and take up a majority of the tent, and Daryl is perched on the one to the right, unlacing his boots. The small bed beneath him is messy and haphazard, with a pillow and threadbare blanket just tossed on top. His crossbow pokes out from underneath the frame, and his other belongings are piled up in the corner at the foot of his bed.

In contrast, the cot on the left is meticulously made. A light-blue quilt is tucked into the metal frame, and a rather soft looking pillow is perched at the head.

"That one's yers," Daryl grunts, his voice making me jump.

I look over at him, and he jerks his chin at the bed on the left before refocusing on his boots.

"O-Oh, thanks." I clear my throat before I relax my left shoulder, letting my pack thump to the ground at the foot of my cot. I manage to catch my swords before they follow, and then I limp toward the empty bed. As I look down at it, I feel another moment of hesitancy, thinking about Merle and how weird it is that I'm about to sleep in his bed.

But then that prickly sensation crawls across the nape of my neck, and I know Daryl is watching me, so I sit on the edge of the cot as nonchalantly as I can. Absently, I brush my fingers over the blue quilt, pausing on a rusty smear. It isn't until my fingers align with the imprint that I realize the stain is my dried blood, from the last time I'd been in this tent, when Daryl stitched up the wound Shane blasted through my arm.

God, that wasn't even a week ago. It feels like years.

My eyes dart to my upper arm. Herschel had actually removed the stitches earlier, since the wound itself had resealed. The scar left behind is pink and raised, but I have uglier scars, so I'm not too worried about it.

Shaking off the thought, I bend down and slide my katana under the bed, like Daryl's done with his crossbow, and I do the same with my tanto, except under my pillow. You can never be too careful, after all…

Once my weapons are tucked away, I turn to my shoes next. My ribs protest the hunched over position, but I ignore it as I tear at my laces until my sneaker loosens enough that I can tug it off. The medical boot is a little harder, with a few more Velcro straps, and I blush at my fumbling fingers. Thankfully, I manage to get it off in the end, and I tuck both pieces of footwear under the bottom corner of the cot. I notice the boots Daryl got me are already there, set a little further back, and I smile at the sight before I slowly straighten up.

A quiet hiss worms its way through my teeth as my ribs throb particularly hard, and I clench my eyes closed, pressing a hand to my side. When the pain passes, I exhale sharply, and my eyes flutter open to find Daryl staring at me again.

We only lock gazes for a moment before the hunter gets up and goes to the foot of his bed, rummaging through his stuff. I hear the crinkle of a plastic bag, followed by a familiar rattle, and Daryl turns around with Merle's drug stash in his hands. He squints in the low light as he brings one bottle toward his face, reading the label. Then he tosses the plastic Ziplock back in the corner as he works to pop open the cap.

"Here," he says as he takes a half step forward and holds his hand out.

Him standing over me, with his hand level with my face, elicits another memory from last night. I fight a full body blush and know I'm losing the battle, but it looks like I'm not the only one remembering, because Daryl fidgets from side to side, his face painted pink in the dim lighting. I decide to save us both from further embarrassment and quickly take the pill from him, but instead of just popping it, I wedge it between my teeth and break it in half. The bitter taste makes my face twist, but I swallow one half before spitting out the second, slightly damp piece.

"The hell you do that for?" Daryl asks, and now he's frowning down at me.

"I-I just didn't want to take the whole thing tonight," I explain, swallowing and grimacing again at the sharp aftertaste. "Herschel already gave me something this afternoon, and last night taking the whole pill made me really sleepy. I just… don't want to be too out of it, in case a walker comes knocking at our door."

Daryl looks vaguely impressed with my foresight, at least I think, but he turns and walks toward the tent flap without comment. As he starts to zip it closed, I slip the remainder of the pill into my borrowed khaki shorts, hoping it won't fall out in the middle of the night. Then, since there's nothing else for me to do, I swing my legs up onto the cot and stretch out. The makeshift bed isn't exactly a memory foam mattress, but it's a right sight better than anything I've slept on since Dalton. If you don't count the nap I took in the RV.

A sigh slips past my lips as I lie my head on the surprisingly soft pillow, and I wiggle a little until I'm as comfortable as my sore body will allow. My right arm is still wrapped in a sling, and I'm actually lying on top of the quilt, but I'm too tired to fuck with anything else right now. As if to prove a point, my jaw cracks around a yawn, and I reach up halfheartedly to cover my mouth. Then a slight pressure against the back of my skull reminds me of the bandana knotted around my head, and I shift my hand further up to tug it off.

"Oh, yeah, I meant to return this earlier," I murmur, fighting off another yawn. "It's been washed, but there might be a few bloodstains on it. Sorry."

Daryl finishes zipping the tent closed and turns to me as I hold the bandana out. For some reason, he goes stock still when his eyes land on me, and they dart over my prone form on the cot, completely ignoring the red bandana dangling between us. The corner of his mouth ticks, and I think I see something flash across his face before he abruptly ducks his head, stomps over to the lantern, and flicks it off. The tent is plunged into darkness, and I blink rapidly, my adjusting eyes watching as the hunter flops into his own cot.

"Keep it," he mutters in the dark, and he doesn't sound angry, but there's an undercurrent of… something in his voice.

"Are you sure?" I asked, and even though I'm basically whispering, my voice still sounds too loud.

"Got more, don' need it," Daryl replies, and I hear him shifting on his cot.

"Oh… okay. Well, thanks." I tuck the bandana partially under my pillow.

Daryl doesn't respond, and silence envelopes the tent, broken only by the wind in the trees overhead. I fidget in the awkward quiet, feeling it press down on me like a weight. Turning slightly so I'm on my left side, my eyes go to the hunter's shadow a few feet away. I can't tell which way he's facing, but his silhouette looks stiff and uncomfortable. Pursing my lips, I know I should just close my eyes, but I also know I won't be able to sleep in this oppressive atmosphere. So, I bite the bullet and clear my throat, watching as the hunter's shadow grows even stiffer.

"Hey, Daryl?" I whisper.

He grunts something. I don't think it was an actual word, but I take it as an acknowledgment all the same.

"What else you got in that Mary Poppins bag of drugs?"

It's silent for a moment, but then the hunter's cot groans, and I think he's turned to face me, at least partially.

"Why, ya still hurtin'?" he asks.

"No," I hum. "Was just thinking of taking up a new hobby."

Daryl actually snorts out a dry laugh, and the sound makes my lips curl upward as the awkward air inside the tent evaporates.

"Go to sleep, ya addict," he grouses, but there's no real heat to it.

"Boo, you're no fun," I try to pout. It comes out giggly, though, and I can't stop smiling. "Whatever. Goodnight, Dixon."

I don't really expect him to reply, so I'm pleasantly surprised when he murmurs, "Night, kid," before silence falls over us again. This time, it's comfortable, no longer awkward, and my body relaxes further into the cot. Minutes pass, and I can feel the partial pain pill starting to take effect, making my limbs heavy and my eyelids droop. But, no matter how tired I get, I still can't fall asleep. My unfocused gaze keeps tracing the shadows stretched across the walls of the tent, and even though I try very hard not to, I keep thinking about the last time we let our guard down while camping. When we were all sitting around a fire, enjoying a fish fry like it was the fourth of July, until walkers came out of the dark and started tearing people to pieces.

Amy's blood-spattered face floats through my thoughts, and I shift my left hand under my pillow, stinging fingers wrapping around the hilt of my tanto.

"I can hear ya fuckin' thinkin'. Go to sleep."

Daryl's voice slices through the darkness, making me jump both in fright and guilt. My eyes click to his shadow. I still can't tell what direction he's facing, if he's looking at me, but even without his sight, he's seen right through me.

"Sorry," I mutter, relaxing my fingers around the short sword. I plan to just leave it at that, but the words suddenly rush up my throat, falling from my tired lips like stones. "I'm just… worried. This place seems too… peaceful, too perfect."

"Don't go jinxin' us, kid," he scoffs.

"Sorry," I repeat with a wince.

There's another beat of silence, long enough that I start to think the hunter's said all he wanted to say, but he surprises me yet again.

"Ya don't gotta worry 'bout anythin' sneakin' up on us. I put sticks and shit around the tent. If that doesn't wake me up, somethin' brushin' the tent will. So… just relax and try to sleep."

His words are soft, and there's no irritation to them. He's clearly trying to reassure me, and it's working. The hunter's survived this long, which means he obviously knows what he's doing. He's also a pretty light sleeper, so if anything does happen, he'll hear it, like he said. Slowly, the tension leeches from my muscles, and the haunting memory of Amy's bloody face sinks to the back of my mind.

"That does make me feel a little better," I whisper as I stare at the hunter's shadow. "Thanks, Daryl."

He grunts in acknowledgement, and then it's quiet again. I blink slowly as fatigue drapes over me like a warm blanket, and I stare at the outline of Daryl's body in the dark until I can't keep my eyes open anymore. Even when I can't see him, just the knowledge that he's there, only a few feet away, helps soothe my jagged, anxious edges.

I sigh as I begin to fall asleep, and my last conscious thought is that the pillow I'm nuzzling smells like Daryl, not his brother. Then oblivion claims me, and I tumble into the dark.