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

34. Keep My Hand in Yours

A/N: Soooo I might have gone a little crazy with this chap, and it ended up being twice as long as the others lol. But I didn't want to break it up, so I'm just posting this behemoth as is. *shrugs* We do finally get some realizations and confessions though! Only took me 500k words xD

Just as an FYI, minor trigger/content warning for mentions of past child abuse, but nothing too graphic.

Anyway, hope you enjoy!

(PS: Title is taken from a song called "Everywhere, Everything" by one of my fave folk artists, Noah Kahan.)

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Chapter 33: Keep My Hand in Yours

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The sun hovers precariously over the treetops in the distance, it's light golden and syrupy and hot. There's maybe two hours left before darkness falls. On the one hand, sunset would be a blessing, since I sweated through my clothes hours ago. Even now, even under the shade of the trees, my thighs stick to the camping chair I'm sitting in, and no amount of fidgeting alleviates the uncomfortable sensation.

On the other hand, sunset means…

No. I slam that door closed in my mind, refusing to think about it. But the thought throws itself against the barrier, desperate to sink its claws into me, so I cast my eyes around for a distraction.

Unfortunately, the camp is pretty empty at the moment. Lori and Carol are up at the farmhouse with the Greenes, getting dinner ready. I helped them for a little while earlier this afternoon, washing and cutting veggies. Embarrassingly, I grew tired pretty quickly, my raw left hand aching since my right was still bound to my chest in the sling. I also noticed that I was mainly just getting in people's way, so I excused myself back to camp, plopped down in this chair, and haven't moved since.

Glenn kept me company for a little while, but then he went to the RV to talk to Dale about… something. He was kind of evasive about it, so I'm guessing it's about Maggie. I'll tease him about it when he gets back.

Other than that, only T-Dog and Andrea are in my line of sight. The former is sitting at the picnic table where I folded laundry earlier, and it looks like he might be playing solitaire with a deck of cards. Probably trying to distract himself from the thick, oppressive heat.

And Andrea's on lookout atop the RV, with Dale's rifle propped up next to her. A woven type of cowboy hat sits perched on her head, and she's staring out over the open fields surrounding the Greene farm.

I try not to, but I follow her line of sight, and suddenly, that thought I've been trying not to think breaks down the door in my mind.

Every muscle in my body tightens as anxiety floods through me, and my left leg starts jumping up and down. My right would be too, if it wasn't propped up on my pack in the medical boot. The jittery motion rattles my chair loud enough that T-Dog glances over at me, and I immediately dig my nails into my knee, pinning my leg to the dirt. I flash T-Dog an apologetic smile, but it feels strained, tight, so I turn away before he can notice.

But my eyes just go back to the distance treeline, and there's an acidic taste in the back of my throat.

The others had all returned from searching their grids hours ago, but Daryl still isn't back yet. The sun is going to set before long, and he's still not back. The logical part of my brain tries to point out that he returned around this time yesterday, but that was different. For one, he didn't have a horse, a fact that Herschel is apparently not happy about. Secondly, I slept most of the afternoon yesterday, so I hadn't had much time to worry.

Today, all I've had is time.

It feels like I'm holding my breath, even when I force myself to take a deep inhale. My chest is tight, constricted, and I flex the fingers of my left hand, glancing down at the red indents I've dug into the skin of my knee. Usually, I would do something to keep my hands busy, like sharpening the swords that are propped against the side of my chair. They're honestly in need of a good sharpening, but I kind of need two hands to do that properly, let alone safely.

My eyes flicker down to the pack propped up beneath my boot. For a moment, I consider reading to pass the time, but I discard the idea just as quickly. I only brought a few books with me in my escape from Dalton, and I know all of them by heart. That's usually not a problem, but since I know the material so well, it won't be enough to distract me.

Plus, reading just makes me think of The Giver lessons I gave Carl and Sophia at the quarry. It makes me think of reciting poems to Daryl just to hear him laugh or make a sarcastic retort.

My heart skips another beat at the thought of the hunter, and a moment later, there's a zap of pain in my thumb. I blink and only then realize that I'd brought my hand to my mouth and started chewing at my cuticle. Which isn't usually my nervous habit.

The tightness in my chest increases as I drop my hand into my lap, and beads of sweat drip into my eyes. The sting makes me close them, and I begin tracking the flares of color behind my eyelids, just to give my mind something else to focus on. Of course, that only lasts for a moment, until a streak of blue reminds me of a certain pair of piercing eyes, and my breath hitches as another thought whispers through my mind.

What if… Daryl didn't make it back by sunset? What would we do? What would I do? According to Glenn, the hunter told the others the general area he was searching, but his grid is miles away and miles long. And, like he's said before, tracking isn't good in the dark. Not that I would actually be able to track him, given my terrible sense of direction, let alone my injuries.

But what else is there? Waiting until morning? Splitting the search parties between Sophia and Daryl?

No. No. The hunter is going to make it back. Any minute now, he'll probably come riding up on that "borrowed" horse and roll his eyes at me for working myself up.

Yer face will get stuck like that. That's what he said yesterday, and I can almost feel the ghost of his finger, poking me in the forehead.

So, I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Let it out slow. I do that several more times until my heart starts to settle, and then I hear the creak of hinges. Opening my eyes and turning my head toward the noise, I see Glenn stepping out of the RV and shutting the door behind him. From this distance, he kind of looks upset, but when our eyes meet, he flashes me a weak smile before beelining toward me.

For a moment, the pressure in my chest lessens as I watch my friend approach. It feels good to be close to him again, to have someone to just talk to, especially during shitty times, and I start to think of all the different ways I can tease him about Maggie to take my mind off… other things.

Of course, that's when Andrea's voice slices through the air, loud and edged with panic.

"Walker!"

With that one word, everything in me, every survival instinct, immediately gets cranked up to eleven, and I snap my head up to see Andrea standing on the roof of the RV, pointing out across the field. My heart takes off at a gallop, and I scramble to my feet, fumbling for my katana at the same time. Pain flares through me as I shove the sheath between my right elbow and side, struggling to get the blade out with one hand free.

Glenn skids to a stop beside me a moment later, and at first he tries to stop me, but when I shoot him a glare, he relents and helps me free the sword from its sheath. The hilt stings against my abraded palm, but the familiar weight centers me, calms the frantic stumbling of my heart.

I look up and meet Glenn's wide eyes, and then we turn in unison to face the field, equally squinting into the dying sun because Glenn isn't wearing his cap.

The glare stings my eyes, and I lift my left arm, and sword, to shield my face. Glenn takes a step away from me, but I already knew I wasn't close enough to nick him. The calculations of distance between my blade and an object are second nature to me now.

I still can't see much, but I squint across the field anyway. At first, there's just the glare of the sun and the stretch of long, dead grass. But then… movement. My eyes lock onto the blurry spot as something staggers out of the treeline, over a hundred yards away.

"Just the one?" Rick's voice asks as he suddenly walks past me, toward the RV.

Atop the motorhome, Andrea bends down and scoops up the binoculars, bringing them to her face, but I can see her squinting against the glare, too. I wonder how much she can actually see.

"Y-Yeah," she replies, but her tone doesn't sound sure. "Actually, I bet I could nail it from here."

The blonde drops the binoculars and picks up the rifle instead, but Rick holds up a hand.

"No, Andrea," he says, an edge to his voice. "Put the gun down."

Suddenly, I catch more movement in my peripherals, but it's just Shane bursting out of his tent with a pick axe of all things, stalking past T-Dog, who's grabbing a bat. Glenn shoots me a quick apologetic glance before he darts away from my side, but he returns a few seconds later, holding a hatchet or maybe a small machete.

"Stay here," he tells me as he skips past, a note of pleading in his voice, but he's gone before I can respond.

I grit my teeth as I watch the men converge on the RV. I want to go with them… but if it's just the one walker, I'm probably not needed anyway, especially in my condition. Still, I tighten my grasp on the katana, even though it stings, in case it ended up being more than just the one geek.

"You'd best let us handle this," Shane calls up to Andrea as he struts past, his open shirt flapping in the breeze as he props the pick axe against his shoulder.

"Shane, hold up." Rick turns to his partner, and he holds out his hand like he's a traffic cop. "Herschel wants to deal with walkers himself."

"What for, man?" Shane scoffs, tugging on a baseball cap with the word POLICE stamped across the front. He also, notably, does not stop, marching past the RV and throwing his last comment over his shoulder. "We got it covered!"

Rick grinds his jaw, flashes his teeth, frustration screaming from every inch of him.

"Damn it!" He pivots and sprints to the RV for some reason, but the other three men continue on into the field.

After a moment of hesitation, I limp after them but stop at the end of the RV, twirling the hilt of the katana in my aching palm. Seconds later, Rick runs by me with his revolver glinting in the sun, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Dale climb up the RV ladder for a better view.

But my attention is focused forward. The glare of the sun is still burning my eyes, but I can see the walker far across the field, staggering in a slow, drunk, zig-zaggy line. I squint but can't make out much more detail besides movement. Then my eyes trail back over the field a little, and I watch the four men running through the long grass to meet the lone walker. It seems Rick caught up to the rest of them, but Shane is still in front, hopping like a fucked-up gazelle with his bum ankle and heavy axe. Part of me wants to roll my eyes at him— the other guys could have handled one walker without him— but I do empathize with how he must feel, not wanting to be useless in times of trouble.

Suddenly, I hear the clack of a gun being loaded, and I look up to see Andrea aiming down the scope of Dale's rifle. She hisses under her breath after a moment, and she quickly lays down on her belly, with the rifle tucked into her shoulder and set on the top rack of the RV for balance.

"Andrea, don't," Dale says from where he's clinging to the ladder, and he turns to give her a reproachful look.

"Back off, Dale," the blonde retorts.

Guess the two of them hadn't fully made up. But Dale's right in this instance, and I frown, glancing back to the field.

"Seriously, Andrea." I try to keep my tone light, nonconfrontational. "The guys are too close now. You might hit them."

Andrea scoffs. "I'm a better shot than that."

Something about her flippant remark and the way she's still sighting down the barrel ignites a flare of irritation in me, and coupled with the tension knotted in my gut, I can't stop the next words from falling out of my mouth.

"So, what, you're gonna risk the guys' lives just to give yourself an ego a boost?" I ask, and I know I sound accusatory, antagonistic, so I try to temper it with a dose of logic. "Besides, the sound of the shot might draw more walkers. Just… put the gun down and let them handle it."

I wait for Andrea to snap back, but she ignores me instead, like I hadn't even spoken. Gritting my teeth, I turn back to the field, hoping the guys have already dealt with the problem.

It takes my eyes a moment to spot them in the white-hot glare, but I eventually see the men have fanned out in a semicircle and come to a stop. I can kind of make out the barest outline of the walker standing in front of them, shifting from side to side, and my throat tightens as I wait for the attack.

But as I continue staring, I realize… neither side is moving. The walker should definitely be trying to eat the guys, and I know Shane wouldn't just sit there and let it get the first hit in.

I frown, confusion buzzing at the back of my head, but before I can think on it anymore, the retort of the rifle cracks through the air.

"Andrea!" Dale immediately snaps his head around, shouting over the probable ringing in his ears.

"What?" Andrea laughs, sounding impossibly smug as she lowers the rifle from her face. "I hit it!"

My frown deepens, and I'm just about to call her out when Rick's voice suddenly rings across the field. The distance makes his words a little muffled, but the cracking, distraught nature of his tone feels like a kick to the gut.

"Noooo! No, stop! Stoppppp!" He's waving his hands over his head now, and my breath catches.

What happened? Oh, god, did Andrea hit one of them instead? My heart leaps into the back of my mouth, but… no. There's one, two, three, four figures still standing in the field. It's just the walker that's gone.

So, why does Rick sound like that?

In my peripherals, I can see Andrea standing up on the RV roof, her smug aura gone now, and then Lori's voice echoes behind me, screaming Rick's name. I glance over my shoulder to see everyone sprinting out of the farmhouse and across the yard to our camp, with Herschel, Lori, and Maggie in the lead.

"What on Earth's going on out here?" Herschel demands as he reaches us, red-faced and out of breath.

I turn back to the field to figure that out, and I spot the men hunched over something in the tall grass. After a moment, Glenn straightens up, and I know it's him by the way he puts his hands on his head and starts pacing back and forth. It's an anxious gesture of his.

But he's not running away, which means the walker can't be an issue anymore. So, why would he be…

An idea starts to form in my head, a terrible, awful, impossible idea, and before I even realize it, I'm stumbling forward, a wide abyss yawning open in the pit of my stomach.

No. No, no, no.My thoughts are redundant and frantic, as frantic as my increasing pace. I hear someone shout my name behind me, but it's torn away by the wind whistling past my ears, the pounding of my heart.

As I hobble out into the field, I watch Rick and Shane haul up something between them. Someone. My thoughts all turn to static, and my strides lengthen until I'm sprinting flat out, even with my medical boot, even with my fractured ribs, not feeling an ounce of pain.

Until I get close enough to see what the former cops are dragging between them. Then it feels like the ground falls out from under me as something shatters inside my chest.

"Daryl!" I don't even realize it's me that's screamed until I taste blood in the back of my throat, the feeling raw, burning, like chunks of tissue and viscera should come spewing out of my mouth next.

But none of that matters. Because it's Daryl. It's Daryl, it'sDarylitsdaryl.

I'm less than ten yards away now, and bile rushes up my esophagus, replacing the blood, as the details become more clear. The hunter is limp between Rick and Shane, his arms thrown haphazardly over their shoulders. He's completely covered in dark red blood, and his head dangles down toward his chest as he's dragged forward.

Suddenly, Glenn slides into my path, between me and Daryl. He's holding the hunter's crossbow in one hand, and he tries to intercept me with the other.

"Dree, don't—" he starts, but I shove past him, stumbling to Rick's side.

Our hobbling gaits match, and I fall into step beside the sheriff, gasping for breath, walking blind, my wide eyes glued to Daryl's slumped form and the blood pouring down the side of his face.

"N-No." The word is as jagged as my breathing and tastes like glass coming up. "H-He can't… is he—"

I abruptly gag, unable to finish the sentence, too many terrible emotions to name swirling in my gut and chest, but Rick takes pity on me.

"Just passed out," the former sheriff grunts, trying to hold onto Daryl's weight. "He's still breathing. We'll… get him to Herschel. He'll be alright."

He's still breathing. Still breathing. The words loop around my head, faster and faster, but the relief they bring is negligible. It still feels like someone has punched through my ribcage and is squeezing my heart in a merciless fist, and my eyes remain locked on Daryl's lax, blood-soaked face.

"Oh, my god!" Andrea's voice cuts through the pounding in my ears, fainter but growing in volume, followed by the question I couldn't bring myself to ask. "Oh, my god, is he dead?!"

Suddenly, there's a flare of blonde hair in my peripherals, and I realize she's trying to stop Rick and Shane from moving. She's muttering about where she hit him, her hands fluttering through the air in front of the hunter, like she actually cares about Daryl. Like she didn't just fucking shoot him in the head.

And now, she's wasting time he doesn't have.

Burning rage fills me as sudden and overwhelming as a tsunami. It floods through my veins, washing away all my good sense, before it collides with the pressure that's been building in my chest since the moment Andrea fired that goddamn rifle.

Everything inside me explodes. I don't even realize I'm still holding my katana until the sun reflects off the blade as I swing it up and around in one fluid motion, the sharp tip digging into Andrea's shoulder, right above her heart.

"Get the fuck out of the way." My voice cracks halfway through, and my chest is heaving around ragged breaths. The katana in my grip is also shaking enough that I slice through the blonde's shirt without even trying.

Immediately, half a dozen voices protest. Andrea pales and stumbles back, out of my range, and then Glenn wraps his hand around mine and shoves my arm down. He's saying something as he starts to pry the sword out of my grasp, but I'm not listening. Rick and Shane have started stumbling forward again, and I stagger after them, abandoning my blade without a second thought. Andrea slowly trails after us in my peripherals, but I no longer care about her either, my attention glued to the unconscious hunter.

As I limp at Rick's side, I can see a thready pulse fluttering at the base of Daryl's neck, under the blood and mud caked to his skin. His chest is also rising and falling very faintly, and I start counting his breaths to keep myself sane.

One… two… three… four…

Distantly, I hear Rick murmuring about the bullet grazing him, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see a flash of yellow hair on Shane's other side, but it doesn't matter, doesn't matter.

Eight… nine…

Then Glenn's voice cuts through the fog of my counting, his voice sharp and shrill.

"But look at him. What the hell happened to him out there? He's wearing ears!"

As the words register in my scattered brain, my eyes suddenly zoom out a little, and my count fumbles as I take in Daryl's torso. His tank top— which I absently think should be white— is black with dirt and red with blood, holes torn near the collar and his belly. His throat and collarbones are coated in a slick sheen of blood, some of it dried, some of it oozing out of fresh cuts and abrasions.

But dangling against his sternum is a string of dismembered walker ears, the skin gray and rotting. I think the sight should disturb me, but I can't feel anything past the terror and nausea seizing me by the throat.

In response to Glenn's comment, Rick looks up towards camp, and then he reaches over, yanks the ears off Daryl's neck, and stuffs them in his shirt.

"Let's keep that to ourselves," he mutters before he readjusts his grip on the unconscious hunter.

I distantly feel a modicum of gratitude toward the sheriff, but it's eclipsed by T-Dog's voice ringing out behind us.

"Uh, guys… isn't this Sophia's?"

His words cause us all to falter, and Rick and Shane stagger, Daryl's head lolling between them, as they turn around. T-Dog is a couple yards behind us, and a scream builds up in the bottom of my chest. Daryl is still bleeding, he needs Herschel, but I'm thrown off balance when my eyes land on the doll T-Dog is holding up in the air.

Is that Sophia's doll? My eyes won't focus, and my brain can't conjure up a perfect image of the toy she usually carries around. It… looks like it, but I'm not sure.

"Hold on to that," Rick breaks the tense silence, dragging my gaze back to him. "We'll ask Daryl where he found it."

Shane scoffs and shifts his grip on Daryl's limp body. "If Dixon survives."

If. If he survives.

That single word feels like a red hot poker shoved into my belly, stoking the embers of my banked wrath, and I round on Shane with a scowl so severe I might have ripped open the split on my lip again.

"Then why the fuck are we standing around?" I snarl, but it doesn't sound like me, doesn't feel like me. It's like the words are coming from someone else. "Do you need me to take over for you, Walsh?"

I sneer his name like an insult, like Daryl has said it before, but Shane just smirks at me. The expression is dark and without humor, like he wants me to punch him. Like he wants me to try.

"She's right," Rick, ever the mediator, jumps in, trying to diffuse the tension. "Let's get Daryl to Herschel first. We'll worry about the doll later."

Shane continues to stare me down for a moment, but Rick starts walking forward again, and he has no choice but to follow. I hurry after them and then take the lead, the fire in my blood eclipsing all else, even pain. Our ragtag group staggers the rest of the way through the field, and when we reach the fence, Herschel's there to meet us.

"I've sent Patricia and Beth on ahead to set up a room," he tells us, and his eyes sweep over Daryl in a quick assessment. Then his lips purse into a thin line, and I can tell he doesn't like what he sees.

My heart is pounding so hard my chest feels sore, bruised, and my stomach churns at the look on Herschel's face. The air suddenly feels too thin, like I'm on the top of Mt. Everest, but I swallow down my panic. I try to tell myself that Daryl is the strongest son of a bitch I know. He'll be fine.

He has to be.

The next few minutes are a frantic blur as Rick and Shane drag Daryl up to the farmhouse, with me dogging their heels. I vaguely notice Beth holding the door open for us, her wide eyes widening even further as she sees the hunter, but I just stumble past her. Behind me, Herschel directs the men down a hall to the right, toward a guest room, and as I follow, I realize it's the one I rested in yesterday.

But Herschel calls out again before the cops can enter the bedroom.

"No, take him into the bathroom, just there," the old farmer says, indicating the adjacent door where I can see the shadowed shape of a toilet and sink.

"You gonna give him a bubble bath?" Shane asks, mocking, but he's also out of breath, barely holding Daryl up by the side of his belt.

"Just a rinse," Herschel corrects as he comes up behind me in the narrow hall.

"Is that necessary right now?" I can't help but ask, my heart still slamming against my ribcage. "He's b-bleeding a lot."

I point a shaky hand to the trail of blood Daryl's left behind on the hardwood, and I feel like I might be sick.

"He's covered in several inches of muck," Herschel says in a gentle tone, but I'm not looking at him, still staring at the filthy hunter hanging between Rick and Shane. "I need to see what I'm doing, and I want to lessen the risk of infection as much as I can."

I can't think of a response, can't even move my head to nod, so Herschel slips past me, gesturing for the men to move forward.

Rick and Shane start trying to maneuver Daryl into the bathroom, but he suddenly wakes up with a ragged gasp. My heart fully stops before taking off at a sprint, but I can't even feel relief because that's when Daryl starts fighting. His head rolls back on his neck, and he tries to push Rick and Shane away, his movements slow and sluggish but desperate.

"Daryl, Daryl!" Rick calls out while trying to keep a hold on the man. "Calm down, it's just us. We need to rinse you off so Herschel can tend to your wounds."

"Ge' off." Daryl doesn't seem to be listening, and he gains enough control of his limbs to stand upright. "'M… fine."

His words are slurred, and his eyes are rolling in their sockets like he's about to pass out again, but with a strength I didn't think he could possess in his state, he bucks off the two cops. Both Rick and Shane stagger back, and then Daryl careens into the corner between the bathroom and bedroom. He leaves a smear of blood and mud on the floral wall paper, and his knees almost instantly buckle. Rick reaches for him again, but the hunter swats him off, even though he's starting to collapse to the floor.

Without thinking, I surge forward, past Herschel, then Rick and Shane, and I slam my left hand flat against Daryl's sternum, hard enough to hurt us both, but also hard enough to pin him to the wall. Daryl grunts in pain but manages to stay on his feet, and I can feel his equally pounding heart beneath the tacky, blood-coated skin I'm touching. The hunter struggles to lift his head, probably to curse at us some more, but I cut him off.

"Daryl!" I snap, my tone sharper than I mean it to be, but it's been honed to a razor's edge by the fear churning inside my gut. "Stop fighting us! We're trying to help."

The hunter finally lifts his head enough to lock eyes with me, and I think I see a flare of recognition and maybe relief in their hazy blue depths. Then the fight abruptly goes out of him, like his strings have been cut. He starts to slip to the ground despite my efforts to keep him up, but Rick slides in next to me and catches him. Daryl lets him this time, or maybe he's just used up the last of his reserves.

For just a moment, I tear my gaze away from Daryl to address Rick. "Sit him up on the toilet."

Rick looks surprised at the stern order but does as he is bid, dragging Daryl into the bathroom and dropping him on the toilet as I flick on the light. The hunter sways, nearly pitching forward, and Rick tries to catch him again, but Daryl seems to regain some of his stubbornness.

"Don' needa sponge bath fr'm Officer… fuckin' Friendly," he slurs, slapping Rick's hands away.

I can only see Rick's profile, but I can tell he's going to try and argue with the delirious hunter, who is still bleeding. Before he can waste any time that Daryl doesn't have, I rush into the bathroom, grab Rick by the elbow, and start shoving him out.

"He's just gonna keep fighting you. I'll get him rinsed off. Help Herschel get everything ready."

Rick opens his mouth like he's still going to argue, but Herschel cuts in over his shoulder.

"Be as quick as you can," the old farmer says as he finds my eyes. "And keep him awake. Judging by the wounds on his head, he probably has a severe concussion. If he passes out again, there's a chance he might not wake up."

Trying not to vomit at the possibility, I nod and swiftly shut the door in Rick's face. Then I blindly stare at the white-painted wood for just a moment, taking a deep breath, before I whirl around and limp over to the hunter, tugging off my sling and tossing it into the sink.

I need both hands for this.

Daryl is slumped on the toilet, listing sideways into the sink cabinet. His eyes are closed, and a jolt a panic runs through me.

"Daryl?" I step closer, reaching for him, but he jerks away and almost falls off the toilet. Without thinking, I catch him by the shoulders and push him upright. Pain flares in my splinted wrist, but I ignore it, squatting down a little so I can look into the hunter's bloody face. "Hey, I-I need you to stay awake. You hear me, Daryl?"

Hazy blue eyes squint up at me, and some of the tension drains out of him. He leans a little heavier into my hands but his chin falls an inch, which I'll take as a nod.

"Okay, good, good," I mutter, my brain running a hundred miles an hour as I formulate my next course of action. "Can you stay sitting up for me?"

Daryl gives me another barely-there nod, but his eyes are fluttering. Heart in my throat, I move on instinct, crouching down and then kneeling between his spread thighs, the tile floor cold and biting against my legs.

The hunter twitches, and in my peripherals, I can see him roll his neck so he's looking down at me.

"W-What're ya… doin'?" he slurs, his voice groggy and halting.

"Can't shower in your boots, Dixon." A nervous laugh falls from my lips as I start tearing at his laces, but the sound is sharp, jagged, tinged with hysteria. My fingers burn and my right wrist aches, but I push it all down and away as I yank off his boots, followed by his soaking wet socks, which are leaking brackish water.

"Don' wanna… shower," Daryl mumbles. His words are becoming more slurred, and his head starts to bob.

My heart feels like it's seconds away from crawling out of my mouth, and my response is harsher than I want it to be. "Well, tough fucking shit, Dixon. Now, lean back a little."

Before he can even try to argue, I reach up with my left hand and push lightly against his shoulder, until he's half-reclined against the tank of the toilet. Beyond the panic, a very distant part of me feels a flash of embarrassment as I reach for his belt and the buckle of his jeans, but it's immediately drowned out when I see how much blood has soaked into the waistband of his pants. My fingers slip in the fresh blood and stick to the half dried patches, and now both my heart and my stomach are trying to crawl up my throat.

As I tug open his belt and the fly of his jeans, Daryl half-heartedly tries to push me away, but he just puts a hand on my shoulder and can't seem to do much else. His eyes are fluttering even more, and his slurred mumbles are illegible.

"Okay, almost there. Just stay awake, alright?" My tone turns pleading, and I reach up and cup his face without thinking. My touch makes him jerk again, but at least his eyes settle on me. "Stay awake for me, Daryl."

He grunts wordlessly, half an acknowledgement, but I know that I'm running on borrowed time.

I push myself to my feet in one quick motion and yank open the cabinet beside the shower, looking for a washcloth. Several, given how dirty Daryl is. Thankfully, there's a neat little stack of them sitting on the shelf, so I grab every last one before closing the wooden door. Then I step over Daryl's sprawled legs to turn on the shower, and I set the washcloths on the edge of the tub as I get the water lukewarm.

Once that's ready, I turn back to the hunter. My eyes immediately fall to the small puddle of blood spreading across the floor beside the toilet, and I stumble into action.

"Alright, I'm going to take off your shirt now," I murmur as I crouch in front of Daryl again. "Then we'll get you upright and drop your jeans. But I-I'll leave your boxers on."

I don't know why I'm narrating, Daryl is barely conscious, but when I go to pull his shirt off, he suddenly grabs my left hand with surprising strength. My eyes snap up and collide with his, and they're a little more focused. I frown and strain fingers forward, brushing them over the collar of his shirt, and he jerks, tightening his grip until it hurts.

"N-No," he grunts, with that stubborn fucking tilt to his jaw.

Confusion, frustration, and terror war within me. Why is he stopping me now? Doesn't he know that he's dying? I drop my gaze from his, looking at his bloody tank top, and I catch sight of a thick scar through one of the holes in the fabric. It's low on his pectoral, the skin ropy and dark, and I know whatever the original wound was must have hurt like hell.

Daryl catches me looking, and using the hand that's not holding mine prisoner, he weakly tries to cover the scar using the tattered shirt, which doesn't really work. Distantly, I think it's crazy to care about vanity when he's bleeding out… but then I realize I wouldn't want the others seeing my scars, either. Back at the quarry, I wouldn't even let Glenn and Amy help when I needed to wrap my ribs.

Understanding rises in me, pushing the next words off my tongue.

"Daryl, I don't care about your scars," I tell him honestly, and I curl my fingers around his thumb, which is digging into the middle of my palm. "You are literally bleeding out. Please, let me just rinse you off so Herschel can fix you up."

The hunter's face hardens, and I can see him try to string together the words to refuse me. So, in an act of desperation, I use my free hand to hike up my t-shirt, revealing the wide ropy scar that stretches down my ribs, toward my right hip, before dipping below the waistline of my shorts.

"You're not the only one with scars and a fucked up past. I'm not going to judge you. Please. Let me help."

Daryl's eyes widen as he stares at my scar, but his grip on my hand loosens until he lets go altogether, and I quickly drop my shirt and reach for his again.

In quick efficient movements, I undo the tie around his waist, which seems to be made out of shirt sleeves… and the red banana that was missing from the tent this morning. It's stained with even more blood now, but I drop the thought along with the makeshift rope. Then I reach over Daryl's shoulder, grab the back collar of his shirt, and work it over his head as gently as I can.

As the hunter hunches over with the movement, I can see the battlefield of scars across his back, but then he groans as the wet shirt pulls at his wound.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," I hiss, guilt slipping between my ribs like a shank. "I'm going as quickly as I can. Come on, let's get you up."

I drop his shirt to the floor and look down, and my heart skips several beats. More blood is oozing down his side now that there's no pressure, and panic starts to take the wheel again. Stumbling forward into the V of his thighs, I crouch down until his bowed head is pressed against my chest, and then I tuck my arms up to the elbows beneath his pits.

"Okay, on the count of three. One… two… three!"

Grunting, I heave upward, lightning racing through my ribs and wrist, but I push through it. Thankfully, Daryl somehow drums up enough energy to help me, and together, we get him on his feet. I feel a spark of triumph before he suddenly he pitches forward a little. I grab him around the shoulders, but his weight makes me stumble back, and the hunter barely catches himself by slamming a hand into the wall by my neck.

He's panting raggedly as he looms over me, his face half pressed into mine, smearing warm blood across my cheek. On instinct, I grab him around the hips, trying not to jostle his wound, but I can't find purchase on his slick skin. He smells like blood and mud and sweat, and my head swims with it.

"Daryl?" I croak, clearing my throat before I try again. "Daryl, can you hear me? I-I just need you to step into the tub. Then you can sit down and lean back, and I'll get you rinsed off really quick."

I probably won't be able to get him out of the tub after that, but I'll call Rick back in to help.

Daryl doesn't respond. He just breathes jaggedly in my ear for a moment before he shakily pushes himself upright. Then he slowly turns his body toward the shower, keeping his hand on the wall for balance, but his jeans fall to his ankles, momentarily tripping him up. Wordlessly, I slip in against his uninjured side, taking the brunt of his weight once more, and I help his trembling body stumble out of his pants and step into the tub. The hunter leaves a bloody smear on the tile as I help slowly lower him until he's half lying in the tub in his boxers, with his head and shoulders propped up against the back wall.

Once he's settled, I immediately pop back up to angle the showerhead so it isn't blasting him in the face. I'm still getting wet, soaked really, but I don't care, because the water is already running red with Daryl's blood.

Kneeling, I grab one of the washcloths and lean over, pressing it to the bleeding wound in his side. He hisses and jerks, eyes fluttering, and I grimace.

"Sorry, sorry," I babble, "but I need you to keep as much pressure on that as you can. Okay, Daryl?"

The hunter blearily blinks up at me, and I worry he can't understand what I'm saying, but he shakily lifts a hand and sets it over mine on his side. I remove my hand as he presses down, but he's so weak already, and I know I need to work fast.

Grabbing a fresh washcloth, I dump some kind of generic body wash onto it, and then I start scrubbing.

I arbitrarily decide to go top to bottom, so I work on his face first, wiping away the blood and dirt around his mouth and cheeks. Then I move up to his temple, and the graze where Andrea shot him. The wound isn't as deep as I originally feared, but a lot of blood is still streaming down his face. I wipe the area clean as best as I can before doing the same for the back of his head, which has left a bloody mark on the tile wall. He definitely has a concussion, and the thought makes my throat tight.

Once I'm done with his head, I grab a new washcloth and quickly scrub down the length of his arms. He's covered in bruises and abrasions, but no bite marks, thank god. The same goes for his legs, which I do next just to get them out of the way, because I know his torso is going to take the most work.

At the bottom of the tub, the water runs a murky brownish-red as the dirt and blood is rinsed away. I'm counting in my head, to make herself go faster, and so I don't pay too close attention when I push his boxers up his thighs a little.

I get to a minute in my head, and I'm just finishing off his kneecaps when I notice the water swirling down the drain is more red than brown now. Like, a lot more red.

Snapping my head up, I see that Daryl's hand has fallen limp against his side, the wound bleeding freely. When I lift my gaze further, his head is lolling against the back wall, and his eyes are barely open.

Panic seizes me by the throat, its fingers more crushing than Merle's had ever been, and Herschel's words resound through my head.

If he passes out again, there's a chance he might not wake up.

"Daryl? Daryl!" My voice goes high-pitched and cracking as I shake his leg, and his eyes flutter open for just a second before falling to half-mast again. I shake him some more, harder, but I can physically see that his grip on consciousness is slipping.

Leaning over, the shower blasting me full in the back, I grab the bloody washcloth by his hip, and I press it harshly against his side, hoping the pain will wake him.

The hunter grunts, and his mouth ticks, but now his eyes are fully closed, and his face is starting to go lax.

"Daryl!" I all but scream. "You have to stay awake. Come on, don't pass out. Please!"

His head twitches toward the sound of my voice, but he's still slipping away. Alarms are blaring through my skull, and all I can think about is how he's going to die under my hands, just like Amy. Just like Kaleigh.

I need to wake him up. Shock him, slap him, anything! But pain isn't working, and slapping won't help with the head injuries, so I do the only thing I can think of.

I dive forward and slam my mouth against his, a bastardization of a kiss.

But it's not a gentle kiss. It's frantic, desperate, our teeth clashing with an audible clack. All I taste is blood, but after an endless moment, I feel Daryl exhale sharply into my mouth, and I could sob with relief.

Pulling back, my green eyes lock with his blue ones. They're still glassy and dazed, but they're trained on my face, a wisp of confusion swirling in their depths.

"Y-You stay awake until I'm done," I pant as I maintain eye contact, and I try to make my voice sound firm when in reality, I'm about to shake out of my skin. "You hear me, Dixon?"

Daryl blinks at me as the water continues to rain down on us both, but then he dips his chin in a faint nod.

Good enough for me.

With adrenaline pumping through me like jet fuel, I grab his hand and presses it to his wound again, over the washcloth. Once I see he's holding pressure, I race through the rest of my work, scrubbing maybe a little too harshly over his chest and abdomen. There are so many little cuts and bruises on his torso, but the worst is the inch-wide hole punched clean through his side. Daryl all but whimpers when I move his hand to clean around the hole, and I suddenly realize the shape of the wound looks familiar, except I'd only see it on animals before.

How the hell did he shoot himself with his own arrow?

No, no, can't think about that now, I have to focus.

Daryl's breathing is labored, but he's still awake as I gently help him sit up. I let him lean over the lip of the tub and rest his head against my shoulder, and his warm, hitching breath fans over my neck as I reach behind him and wipe his back, especially around the exit hole of his wound. Or maybe the entrance hole?

Stop getting distracted, Audrey.

There are still a few streaks of dirt around his spine, but at this point, it's good enough.

"Okay, finished." I lean to the right to turn off the shower, but Daryl's dead weight follows with me. I don't want to strain his injury, so I extend my arm as far as I can and blindly slap at the faucet until the water shuts off, ignoring how soaked my splint now is. "C-Can you get up, or should I go get Rick?"

Daryl shifts his head against my shoulder, his nose brushing the column of my throat.

"Can do it," he mumbles into my damp skin, and I suppress a shiver.

"Are you sure?" I ask, craning my neck away, because now goosebumps are rising on my wet flesh. "I don't want you falling and breaking something."

Daryl grunts, sounding almost offended, and then he gets his hands on the edge of the tub and stubbornly starts to shove himself up. I have no choice but to rise with him, my hands hovering around his shoulders, but he manages to stand by himself. Once I'm pretty sure he's not going to collapse, I turn and grab a towel from the cabinet, and I let the hunter lean on me as he steps out of the tub.

Then he stumbles, his foot slipping on the slick tile, and he pushes me into the wall again. His wet body presses against the length of mine, with my face tucked into his clavicle. A moment later, the weight of his soaked boxers drags them down his slender hips, and I blush as I hear them splat against the floor. Daryl stiffens against me, and I worry that if he tries to jerk away, he actually will fall and break something.

So, refusing to look down, refusing to even think about it, I use the towel I'm still holding and sling it around his waist, tucking the end in against his right hip. Daryl immediately drops a hand to grab it, and then he pushes himself away from me. He puts some distance between us, but when he begins to sway on his feet, I immediately press into his space again, tucking myself under his left arm and pressing my hand against the washcloth that's stuck to him.

"Fuck," he groans, his voice tight with pain, and his arm presses down on the back of my neck like a yoke.

"I know, I'm sorry," I apologize yet again, but I keep a firm pressure against his side. "Okay, Herschel's waiting right next door. We just need to walk a couple feet. Can you do that for me, Daryl?"

"Yeah," the hunter mutters, but he's leaning heavily against me.

Before the rest of his strength can leave him, I drag us both out of the bathroom, kicking dirty clothes and washcloths out of our way. My fingers fumble with the doorknob, but I manage to yank it open, and we stagger into the hall, nearly running into Glenn and Rick.

Both men stare at us in surprise, but then Rick immediately ducks under Daryl's other arm, taking the majority of his weight. The hunter lets him, and for that I'm grateful. We stumble toward the guest room like some kind of fucked up version of a three-legged race, but I have to let go of Daryl so he and Rick can fit through the door.

I immediately go to follow, my eyes glued to Daryl's back, but suddenly Herschel blocks my path, his hand on the edge of the doorframe.

"It's best if we have as few people as possible in here," the old man says, but there's an undercurrent of sympathy in his voice. "Someone will come find you when I'm done."

I open my mouth to argue, but the farmer just closes the door in my face, and I'm left staring at the wood. It's quiet for a few moments, and I can hear the low murmur of voices in the room beyond, followed by creaking bedsprings as Daryl presumably gets set on the mattress.

As I blindly stare at the closed door, a tremor runs through my body, followed by another, and another, and I look down at my arms, coated in Daryl's blood.

There's so much of it.

"Audrey?" A hand settles on my shoulder, and I turn to see Glenn frowning at me, a concerned Carol hovering over his shoulder.

"Why don't we get you cleaned up, sweetie?" the older woman suggests as she steps forward and around Glenn.

She gently reaches out and takes my elbow, and when another shiver wracks my body, I realize I'm soaked, dripping water and Daryl's blood onto the hardwood floor. My brain is full of static, so I don't fight it when Carol begins to steer me down the hall, but I do cast one last look over my shoulder, my eyes trained on the closed bedroom door.

I don't know who I'm praying to. Maybe anyone who will listen. But regardless, the prayer repeats in my head like an emergency broadcast left on loop.

Please. Please, let him be okay.

#

"There we go," Carol says as she finishes retying the sling behind my neck.

Her voice draws me out of my haze, and my surroundings solidify around me. I'm sitting on the edge of the bed in Beth's room. I'm also wearing Beth's clothes, a thin orange V-neck shirt and linen beige shorts. The room around me is pink and girly, happy looking. I absently wonder if Beth has a diary stashed under her pillow, complete with a little lock and key.

"Audrey?" I look up to see Carol standings a few feet to my left, frowning slightly. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," is my reflexive response, but honestly, I can't even tell what I'm feeling.

Carol's frown only deepens. "Are you in any pain? I found this pill in the pocket of the shorts you were wearing. Do you need it?"

She holds her hand out, and when I mirror her, she drops a white, oval pill into my palm.

I stare down at it and try to think if I'm in pain. Carol redid all my bandages since my old ones were wet and blood-stained, and I can distantly feel dull throbs in my ribs, my hands and fingers. But mainly, I just feel numb and detached, like after the quarry.

Except my chest. Every beat of my heart feels like it's driving a shard of glass deeper and deeper, and I look down the front of my borrowed shirt, expecting to see a fountain of blood. But there's nothing.

"No, I don't need it right not," I say as I looked up at Carol. "But thank you."

I pocket the pill in my new shorts, and Carol is still frowning, but when she speaks, she's clearly trying to be reassuring.

"I'm sure Daryl will be alright."

That shard digs deeper under my sternum, my whole body tensing, and I avert my gaze as the back of my throat burns.

"You don't know that," I mutter, thinking of how much blood had drained down the tub. Thinking about how much the hunter must have lost as he dragged himself— half dead— back to the farm.

"No," Carol concedes. "But Herschel seems very skilled. He saved Carl, right? And Daryl's much stronger than a little boy."

I try to find solace in the words but can't. That shard must have nicked my lungs, because I suddenly feel like I can't breathe, let alone respond.

Carol shifts in my peripherals before taking a step toward me. "Why don't we go back downstairs? We can… check in with everyone."

I don't know how long we've been up here. It must have been a while, though, since Carol helped me wipe off, change, and redid all my dressings. I wonder if it's been enough time for Herschel to finish his work, but I quickly shove the though away.

Instead, I nod silently and get up, moving toward the door, but Carol stops me. Her lips are pressed into a thin line when I look up at her face, and then she hands something else to me.

It's a damp green bandana, folded into a neat square. Somehow, it avoided getting bloodstained, but it's still wet from the shower, much like the hair sticking to the sides of my neck. I take it anyway and clench it in my first, feeling another tremor run through my body, but Carol doesn't comment on it.

We leave Beth's bedroom and slowly make our way downstairs. Carol has to lead me for the most part, repeatedly pausing a few steps below me, like she's afraid I'll fall. Maybe that's a legitimate fear. I do feel like I'm floating.

Eventually, I blink, and we're walking into the kitchen. Maggie, Glenn, and Lori are having a whispered conversation around the island, but they quickly fall silent when they look up and see me hovering in the doorway. Glenn is the first to move, pulling out a stool and gesturing for me to sit in it, so I do. I can feel everyone staring at me, but I look down into my lap, rubbing the bandana between my fingers.

Lori is the one to break the tense silence as she walks over and places a tentative hand on my shoulder. "You doing okay, honey?"

Irritation finally pokes through the haze surrounding me, and I look up with a frown. "Why do people keep asking me that? I'm not the one who's dying."

I say the last word evenly, but it tastes like blood, and I again think about how much Daryl must have lost.

Everyone shares a look, like they don't know what to say, before Glenn steps up.

"Daryl isn't going to die," he says with a confidence that rubs me the wrong way. "Herschel's got him. Right, Maggie?"

Maggie blinks and stammers at being put on the spot.

"I— well, I-I know my dad will do everything he can," she finally gets out. "And the man—Daryl, right? He seems… strong, so I'd say he has better chances than most."

I can tell she's trying to be reassuring, just like Carol and Glenn, but it grates on my already frayed nerves. I suddenly can't stand everyone looking at me, trying to comfort me, and I rocket to my feet, the stool screeching across the floor.

"I need to grab something from camp," I mutter as I turn away from them.

"Oh, I can—" Glenn tries to offer, but I walk away, effectively cutting him off.

No one stops me as I limp out of the kitchen and out the front door, and then I blink again, and suddenly I'm halfway across the yard. The sun has dipped behind the trees now, maybe an hour of light left. As I float closer to camp, I can see other people walking around, like T-Dog and Dale. But when I see a flash of blonde hair, anger abruptly fills me again, tasting like metal. Or maybe that's the hole I've bitten through my cheek.

Swallowing both the anger and blood, I give the main part of camp a wide berth, keeping my head down. Thankfully, no one notices me, or if they do, they don't stop me. Eventually, I slow as I reach the edge of the campsite and then… Daryl's tent.

To my dim surprise, both my swords are sheathed and sitting on the camping chair outside the tent, along with my pack. Daryl's crossbow is also sitting on the stool opposite the chair. I distantly remember Glenn taking the katana from me when I turned on Andrea, and he'd also been carrying the hunter's bow, so he must have brought everything back here for us. I think I should feel grateful, but I feel nothing as I pick up my things, duck into the tent, and dump them on the bed. My pack slips off the edge, thudding to the ground, but I don't care.

Then, as I look up, my body freezes, and my gaze skips over my surroundings.

Daryl's bed is as haphazard as he left it, his belongings piled in the corner at the foot of his bed. It smells like him in the small, enclosed space, but not in a bad way. At least it doesn't smell like his blood, that awful, thick, metallic stench.

I suddenly wonder what will happen to his things if he does die in Herschel's house, and the thought feels like a sucker punch to the gut. My vision tunnels as I wobble and collapse on the edge of my cot. My hands are shaking, as is my breathing, and I clench my eyes shut. I can feel the tears, the freakout, rising, but I force it downdowndown, pulling up my walls again and retreating behind them.

I can't keep breaking down like this. It was useless. It was pathetic. It helped no one.

So, I take and deep breath and force myself to be practical. If— if— Daryl survives the night, he'll need new clothes. That's something I can do.

My body feels distant, disconnected, as I grab my pack from the foot of my cot. It's bulging with the clothes I folded earlier, but I just dump them haphazardly on the bed. Distantly, I wonder if I should change again so I can give Beth back her clothes, but the idea quickly floats away, inconsequential.

At the bottom of the bag, partially squished from my clothes, are my books, my folder of useless documents, and my journal, along with various other odds and ends. The journal makes me think of Daryl again, and I feel a pang deep in my chest, but the sensation feels so far away.

With my pack mainly empty now, I turn to Daryl's side of the tent. I feel slightly uncomfortable at the thought of rifling through his things, but I ignore it as I shuffle toward the pile.

The hunter also has a hiking bag, so I go through that first. When I flip open the top, the first thing I see is Merle's drug stash. I stare at it for a moment before pulling it out, the plastic crinkling between my fingers. I set it down on Daryl's cot for now, and then I turn back to the bag.

The next thing I encounter is a torn open pack of bandanas, and I feel that distant pang again. My hand absently goes to the slightly damp bulge in my back pocket, but I shake my head, retreating into the fog, as I keep digging through the hunter's things.

There's an unopened pack of boxers a few inches down. He must have found it when we scavenged the highway the other day, before Sophia—

No, not thinking of that, either.

I numbly tear open the bag, grab a rolled up bundle, and toss it beside the drugs on the cot. Now, I just need to find the hunter some relatively clean clothes.

Daryl never joined in on communal wash days, always taking care of his own clothes. This morning, I'd considered doing them for him, as a thank you for giving me a place to sleep, but I chickened out, not wanting to invade his privacy.

Oh, the irony.

There's only one other pair of jeans in the bag. They don't look particularly clean, but at least they're not soaked in blood, so I set them on the cot, too, before continuing my hunt for a shirt. After a few moments, I find several sleeveless button-ups, which would be easier for him to put on in his injured state. I frown down at my options, trying to discern which one is cleanest, and without thinking, I bring one up to my nose.

Daryl's woodsy smell immediately overwhelms my senses, and I suddenly remember him pressing me into the bathroom wall, panting in my ear as his body trembled. Then… his lips parting under mine with a gasp, the taste of blood, his beard scratching at my skin.

Heat burns through me like a solar flare, and I instantly feel guilty. The hunter is literally on the verge of death, and I'm here sniffing his shirt like a creep. I'm a terrible fucking friend.

Friend. That word feels like a lie all of the sudden, but I refuse to acknowledge it, tossing the shirt onto the bed and rooting around the bag for a pair of socks.

Once I find some, I gather up the pile of clothes, folding them blindly, before I shove everything into my pack. Then I sit on the edge of Daryl's cot and rifle through the stash of drugs. There are a bunch of loose pills, unmarked bottles, even some powders. I look for any bottles that are labeled, specifically ones that end with Ls, Is, and Ns. After a minute, I find one with familiar yellow pills, like the one he'd left me this morning. The bottle is half full, and I set one of those pills aside before digging out the pill in my pocket and trying to match it. I eventually find the bottle of pain meds, and there are only a few left, but I take a second one anyway.

As I palm the three pills in my splinted hand, I reach around for the green bandana in my pocket, but it's still damp, and I don't want the pills to start dissolving. Also… I can't help thinking about the note Daryl left me this morning— Green's for you— and I realize I don't want to give it up.

So, I grab the stash bag and swap it out for the pack of bandanas, blindly pulling out a brown one. I wrap the pills into a little bindle and then also shove that down into my pack. Now that I have everything I need, I stand up, slinging the bag over my shoulder. As I move toward the tent zipper, my eyes snag on the swords haphazardly thrown across my cot, but I can't even find the motivation to grab them, let alone put them on.

Suddenly, a memory rises up in my mind. Daryl, standing atop the RV yesterday morning as he helped me strap the swords on. The sensation of his fingers brushing over my waist, the stillness of the air between us.

My skin prickles, and I shove the memory away as I duck out of the tent. Daryl's bow is still sitting on the stool to my right, and I spare it half a glance but can't bring myself to touch it.

I continue forward, and as I hobble along the edge of camp, I see Andrea standing with Dale near the RV. Heat rises in me again, the angry kind this time, and it doubles when the blonde locks eyes with me, looking guilty.

Gritting my teeth, I deliberately turn away from her and continue across the yard back to the farmhouse. Her guilty conscious is not my problem right now. My ankle is starting to ache again, enough that I can feel it through the fog in my brain, but the pain gives me something to focus on, other than the hollow feeling in my chest.

As I approach the Greene home, that abyss inside me somehow grows deeper, and I wonder if I'll walk in to see Herschel's morose face and shaking head— I did all I could.

The thought makes me stumble on the porch steps, but I force myself forward and into the house.

I step through the screen door and immediately clash eyes with Glenn, who's moving furniture around in the dining room. The sight confuses me for a moment before I remember we were supposed to have some kind of group dinner tonight, but right now, even the thought of food makes my stomach roll.

As we stare at each other, Glenn slowly straightens up from his hunched position over the table, and I can tell he's struggling to find something to say. The haze around me recedes a little, and I suddenly feel a smidge of guilt. I know he just wants to help, but ever since I left Dalton, I'd been falling back on old, bad habits. Keeping things to myself, pushing people away, trying to do everything on my own.

My mom would be disappointed in me, as would Sensei.

That thought slowly propels me forward, and I set my pack down, against a wall, before I walk over to a chair and move it toward the table. It's awkward, with both my splint and boot, and it hurts a little, but not much.

Glenn smiles at me tentatively, and I mirror the expression, even if it feels almost as hollow as the void in my chest.

For the next few minutes, we work together in silence, moving furniture. I catch movement in my peripherals several times, and I can feel people staring at me from the kitchen, but I just ignore it. Eventually, Maggie comes out to join us, but she just gives me a wordless nod before helping Glenn move the larger table.

When we finish, Maggie dusts her hands on her jeans and clears her throat.

"Dinner should be ready in the next hour or two," she says evenly, and I know she's trying not to set me off again.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I think I should be embarrassed by my earlier outburst, but I can't even find it in me to care. Again, the thought of dinner just makes my stomach flip, even with the tantalizing aromas drifting out of the kitchen.

And the feeling only gets worse when I hear a door open, followed by a pair of footsteps walking down the hall.

I suck in a quick breath and hold it as I look to the hallway, watching as Herschel and Rick walk out. They both appear drained and tired, spotted with blood here and there, and Herschel's wiping off his hands on a towel. I can't read their expressions any further, and the world starts to tilt under me. I sense Glenn move to my side, like he's anticipating me fainting, but Herschel finally looks up and locks eyes with me.

"He's still alive," the old farmer announces, and I exhale sharply, swaying on my feet, before he continues. "He lost a good bit of blood, and he had quite a serious concussion, even before getting shot. But… if he can survive the night, and if we can stave off infection, then he should recover just fine."

Around me, people let out relieved noises, but I get hung up on a single word.

"If?" I echo shakily, my throat suddenly dry. "You said if he survives the night. T-There's a chance he won't?"

Herschel purses his lips. "Like I said, he lost a lot of blood. And, though he remained conscious for a while, he did end up passing out. But his vitals are stable. All we can do now is wait and see."

The room goes quiet again, and I can feel everyone looking at me, their eyes digging into my skin, until Rick breaks the silence.

"Before Daryl passed out, he did tell us where he found the doll," the sheriff says as he looks past me, presumably to Carol. "We have a lead. We're going to follow it in the morning."

Carol makes a choked noise, and people turn their attentions toward her. I feel a flare of anger over Rick just changing the subject, moving on like Daryl doesn't even matter. Logically, I know the sheriff is just trying to raise the group morale, look at the silver lining, but a part of me hates him for it.

While people are consoling Carol, I silently walk over to my pack and sling it over my shoulder. I try to slip away without anyone noticing, but Herschel steps in front of me, partially blocking my path to the hallway. Again, anger raises its ugly head in my chest, but I swallow down the barbs, trying to summon up some of the calmness Sensei attempted to instill in me.

"Someone should monitor Daryl," I mutter as I meet the farmer's gaze head on. "Make sure he keeps breathing."

Herschel seems hesitant, his eyes sweeping over me in that assessing manner of his, but he eventually nods. "Call for me if anything changes."

I nod back silently and dip down the hallway before anyone else can stop me. As I walk down the hall, the murmur of voices fades at my back, and each step feels harder than the last, like I'm trudging through quicksand. When I reach the end, I look in the open bathroom. The blood's been wiped away, and Daryl's boots and dirty clothes are gone. I distantly wonder where they went but not enough to care.

Gathering my strength, I finally turn to the closed bedroom door. I lift a hand to knock before I remember the hunter is unconscious and wouldn't answer me anyway. Still, I try to be quiet as I slip into the room and close the door behind me with a soft click.

There's a bedside table directly to my right, a glass of water sitting atop it, and the bed lies beyond that. Daryl's bare back is to me, and it's mostly clean, so the scars are dark on his pale skin. The blanket is tucked under his armpits, and his head is cushioned on a soft looking pillow.

Slowly, I make my way around the bed, where a chair's been pulled up along the far side. The floorboards creak under my uneven, faltering steps, but Daryl doesn't so much as flinch.

That only makes me feel worse.

Once I reach the chair, I silently drop my pack beside it, and then I wilt into the chair itself, my knees buckling, no longer able to hold me. I finally look at Daryl's face, and I feel my throat grow tight.

In the low light bleeding through the windows, his face is completely slack. A strip of bandages is wound around his brow, making his hair stick up atop his head, and there's a thicker padding of gauze on his left temple. Both hands are tucked up near his face, bruises and scrapes peppering his forearms. He looks pale, too. And younger.

I can feel all my pent up emotions building inside me, like a pressure cooker that's been left on too long, but I swallow them down, refusing to let them consume me. This isn't about me, it's about Daryl. What if he stops breathing, and I'm too busy selfishly crying to notice?

No, I need to focus.

So, I do. I train my eyes on the rise and fall of his chest, and like I did earlier, I start counting. I count ten breaths during the first minute, and I wonder if that's too low, but I quickly discard the idea as I keep counting. I focus on nothing else, not letting any other thoughts or emotions distract me.

I get to almost six hundred, and then Daryl twitches. Or, at least, I think he twitches. Squinting, I realize it's gotten pretty dark in here without me noticing.

"Daryl?" I whisper as I lean forward, my heart skipping a beat.

The hunter twitches again, much more noticeably this time, and I lunge toward the side table to my left, fumbling for the lamp. As I flick it on, I turn back to Daryl, and I see his eyes squinting in the yellow light.

Immediately, I'm out of my chair, putting a knee on the bed, and I lean over so I'm closer to the hunter and blocking the lamplight.

"Daryl," I repeat, "can you hear me?"

He blinks as my shadow falls over him, and his eyes land on my face. He looks dazed, tense, for a moment, before recognition seems to wash over him. Then his body relaxes, and he licks his chapped lips.

"Ain't… deaf, kid," he mutters in a hoarse voice.

A hysterical laugh falls from my lips, relief making me dizzy, but I notice how raspy his voice is and how he winces as he swallows.

"Here, let me get you some water." I stagger off the mattress, and Daryl makes a displeased noise as the lamplight hits his face more fully. I whisper a quick apology, limping around the bed, and I quickly grab the glass of water on the end table behind him.

When I hobble back around, Daryl looks more alert as his eyes meet mine, and I put a knee on the bed again before I pause.

"C-Can you sit up?" I ask as my gaze sweeps over him. "Or I can maybe go find you a straw?"

Daryl glowers a little bit at the offer, like he's offended by it, and he painstakingly pushes himself up until he's half reclined on the pillows. As he moves, the bed shifts beneath us, and I widen my knee on the mattress to keep my balance. Once Daryl's mostly seated, he gropes for the glass I hold out to him, but he misses twice, his fingers fumbling.

"Here, let me," I murmur.

I try to lean forward more, but the angle is off and pulls too much on my ribs. In the end, I put my other knee on the bed, and then I slowly shuffle forward until I'm kneeling next to the hunter, sitting on my heels. Slowly, I bring the glass to his mouth, trying not to spill, but his head twitches back, like he wants to refuse.

The knee-jerk reaction to bite the hand that feeds is something familiar to me, so I just wait calmly until he relents, brings his head forward, and puts his lips to the rim. I carefully tilt the glass up, and he gulps the water down, his eyes fluttering closed as his throat works.

When the glass is almost empty, he abruptly brings a hand up and wraps it around mine on the glass, helping me empty the last drops into his mouth. Some spill out and trickle into his sparse beard, but his eyes are open again, and I find myself holding his gaze, the breath stilling in my lungs. His fingers flex over mine, and I can feel the scrape of his calluses on my knuckles.

Then Daryl coughs a little, breaking the spell, and his grimace of pain reminds me how injured he is.

"L-Let me go get Herschel," I stutter as I begin backpedaling off the mattress, taking the empty glass with me. "He wanted to know when you woke up."

Daryl looks like he wants to argue, but I don't give him a chance, rounding the bed and reaching the door in seconds.

I set the glass on the table behind his head, but before I go, I can't help looking over my shoulder and saying, "I'll be right back." I say it like a promise, which I know is stupid, but something in me wanted to reassure the hunter that I wasn't abandoning him.

I don't wait for a response, though, and I slip into the hallway and hobble down it, hearing the the murmur of voices and the clatter of dish and silverware. Just as I reach the end of the hall, Maggie suddenly turns the corner, almost running into me.

"Oh!" Maggie stumbles back, eyes wide. "A-Audrey. I was just… coming to get you. Dinner's ready."

She gestures over her shoulder, where I can see people gathering in the living/dining room, and I fake a tight smile.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I tell her. "Could you actually get your dad for me?"

Maggie's face quickly grows concerned. "Is everything alright?"

"I-I think so." A manic yet hopeful feeling bubbles up my throat, and my smile becomes a little more genuine. "Daryl woke up. I thought Herschel should give him another glance, just in case."

"Of course." Maggie nods quickly. "I'll go let him know."

"Thank you," I reply, and when she turns around and walks back into the living room, I return to the bedroom.

Daryl is still facing away from me when I walk in, but it looks like he's hiked the covers over his shoulders. Randomly, I wonder if he's still naked beneath the sheets, but I quickly squash the thought.

"Herschel should be here in a moment," I say as I round the end of the bed and sit back in the chair, my head suddenly light and swimmy.

"Don't need the damn doc. M' fine." Daryl scowls slightly, but he's still squinting in the lamplight, and he winces whenever he shifts and pulls at his wound.

"You were shish kebabbed a few hours ago," I point out, the words feeling sharp as they come up my throat. "Not to mention shot."

Now, Daryl frowns, like this is news to him. "Who the fuck shot me?"

"Andrea." I feel that flare of anger again but breathe through it. "She… thought you were a walker. Grazed you, here."

I lift a hand and brush my left temple, and Daryl slowly copies me, prodding at the gauze. I expect him to curse, get angry, but he surprises me.

"Huh. Blondie's a pretty good shot. Didn't know she had it in her." He snorts out a laugh, but he winces again, his jaw flexing as he grits his teeth.

I frown. "It's not funny, Daryl. She almost… you could have…"

My voice cracks as I recall the sight of him, limp and covered in blood, and the hunter stares at me intently, those damn blue eyes picking me apart.

Embarrassment prickles through my veins, but before either of us can say anything, there's a soft knock at the door. Herschel walks in a moment later, and his gaze lands on me in the chair before it goes to Daryl.

"Evening," the farmer says. "I heard our patient woke up. How are you feeling, Mr. Dixon?"

Daryl's upper lip curls, and when he opens his mouth, I know he's going to say something biting, dismissive. I narrow my eyes at him, and to my shock, he actually relents.

"Head's throbbin'," he mutters. "Side feels like I've been branded. But I'll live."

As he says that last part, his eyes bore into me, and I think he's trying to be reassuring.

"I think you will, too," Herschel replies, and it looks like he's suppressing a smile. "But do you mind if I check you over? Just for peace of mind."

Still staring at me, Daryl grunts his assent, and Herschel stoops over the hunter. He pulls back the gauze on his head, nods in a pleased manner, and then tugs the sheets down. For just a moment, I see a large pad of gauze taped over Daryl's bare abdomen, a sprinkling of dark hair leading down under the blanket, but I quickly turn away to give them privacy. I can still see them in my peripherals, though, so I push myself out of the chair and go over the window, staring out across the dark lawn.

The next minute passes in silence, but I can feel Daryl's eyes on me the entire time.

"Well, everything looks good for now," Herschel finally announces, which actually makes my knees weak with relief. "Your pulse is strong, your pupils are reactive, and you don't look any paler, so I think we managed to avoid any major internal bleeding. To be on the safe side, try to stay awake for an hour or so before going back to sleep. You may have the room for the night, in case of any emergencies, and I recommend resting for a few days before doing anything strenuous."

I turn back around as Daryl grumbles his acknowledgment, and Herschel moves to the door.

"Thank you, Mr. Greene," I blurt out, and for the first time in hours, the fist clenched around my heart loosens its strangling grip.

"You are welcome, Miss Bennett." The older man flashes me a small smile, and then he opens the door and almost runs into Carol.

"Oh! Sorry," she gasps before peeking over his shoulder and meeting my eyes. "Just wanted to bring y'all some dinner."

Herschel steps aside and disappears down the hall, and Carol slowly walks into the room with a tray, two cups, and two plates. She looks between me standing by the window and Daryl half propped up in bed before settling on me again.

"Maggie said Daryl had woken up, so I thought you two might be hungry." She walks around the bed and carefully sets the tray on the empty space beside Daryl's legs.

Thank you, Carol." I still feel vaguely nauseous, but I smile and approach the end of the bed. "This all looks delicious."

Carol's responding smile is a little bashful before she turns to Daryl. "How are you feeling?"

Daryl blinks and looks uncomfortable by the genuine sincerity in her voice, the bed creaking under him as he shifts.

"Not as good as I look," he mutters sarcastically.

The older woman looks vaguely amused. "Well, get some food in you. That'll help."

She nods to me and starts to back away toward the door, but she pauses behind Daryl. She looks down at the hunter for a moment, darts a glance at me that I can't decipher, and then bends down.

Daryl flinches as she stoops over him, and she pauses briefly before pressing a chaste kiss against the side of his head, right under the gauze. Surprise sparks through me, but the hunter looks absolutely floored, his face momentarily blank with shock.

But, in typical Daryl fashion, he quickly conjures up a scowl, turning away from her.

"Watch it, I got stitches," he huffs, but even in the low lamplight, I can see a dusting of red across the bridge of his nose.

Carol purses her lips as she looks down at him, and she hesitates for a moment before speaking again.

"You need to know something," she says, and when Daryl reluctantly looks back at her, she continues. "You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy did in his whole life."

Her voice trembles, watery with gratitude, and Daryl looks even more uncomfortable with the praise.

"I… didn't do anythin' Rick or Shane would'na done," he mumbles, squirming in the sheets.

A tearful smile tugs at Carol's lips. "I know. You're every bit as good as them. Every bit. And… I'm not the only one who sees it."

Her eyes flick to me, as do Daryl's, and I feel rooted to the spot, my skin warm and tingling. Carol just smiles at me and then takes her leave, grabbing the empty glass on the table at her side and closing the door behind her.

It's awkwardly quiet for a moment as Daryl and I stare at each other. That warm feelings remains hovering just under my skin, and I think Daryl looks a little pink, so I clear my throat to dispel the thick tension.

"So… are you hungry?" I step closer to the tray on the bed without waiting for a response. Each plate has a dinner roll, a serving of mashed potatoes, green beans, and two slices of what looks like oven-roasted ham. I take one glass of water, set it on the bedside table next to me, and then I take a plate and put it on the chair behind me. Once my meal is situated, I turn back to the tray and scoot it closer to Daryl. Without thinking, I go to put my knee on the bed again but pause at the last second, looking up at the hunter. "Do you, um, need help eating?"

Daryl goes a little red, and he scoffs as he pulls the tray toward him and sits up straighter.

"Ain't an invalid," he grouses, but I still catch him wince as he puts more pressure on his back.

I don't comment on it, though. Instead, I grab my plate off the chair and take its place, shifting a little in a vain attempt to get comfortable on the hard wood and thin cushion.

It's silent as we start eating. I'm still not hungry, but I mechanically eat a few bite of greens and potatoes, tasting nothing. Every so often, I dart a glance at Daryl and watch him eat. His face still has that pinched, pained look, but he shovels forkfuls into his mouth like he's starving. Which, after everything he went through today, he probably is.

Something about sharing another meal with the hunter strikes me low in the chest, and my throat constricts around the ham I'm trying to swallow.

The Daryl before me— awake, alert, eating— suddenly flickers and is replaced by the image of his bloody body in the tub. I had been so certain he was going to stop breathing at any moment, that he was going to die while I just sat there, completely useless. My vision darkens at the edges as I recall the overwhelming panic, the way every cell in my body had rebelled at the thought of the hunter dying. How, at the back of my mind, a tiny part of me thought if he goes… I do, too.

I'm so lost in my downward spiral that I don't hear Daryl call out to me the first few times, and when I finally do hear him, his voice is sharp, loud.

"Kid!"

I snap my head up, which causes tears to tumble down my cheeks, and I realize I'm crying. Daryl realizes it, too, his scowl falling into something more uncomfortable… but softer. Somehow, that makes things even worse, and more tears carve their way down my cheeks as my throat locks up.

"S-Sorry," I croak, wiping frantically at my face, but the tears keep falling, blurring my vision. "I'm sorry. T-This is stupid, I don't even know why…"

I trail off, unable to explain, unable to do more than gasp past the lump in my throat. I think I'm crying in relief, relief that the hunter survived, but it hurts, a burning throb in the center of my chest. I duck my head, trying to hide my face but, as always, I can feel Daryl staring at me, and the words just come sputtering out of me, broken and jagged.

"I just… thought you were dead. D-Dying. There was s-so much blood, and Herschel said you might not wake up, and… and I told you those woods were cursed, I fucking told you. They almost got you, too, but by some miracle, you made it back here with- with a hole punched through your side. And then Andrea goes and shoots you in the goddamn head. God, I was so angry at her. I told her to put the gun down, but she shot you, and I was so fucking angry. Drew my sword on her and might have used it if Glenn didn't stop me. And now you're just sitting there, eating… fucking mashed potatoes, and I… I…"

I drag in a ragged gasp, breaking off, and it's silent while I try to catch my breath. The salt of my tears stings my raw fingertips as I try to wipe them away, so I thoughtlessly dig the green bandana out of my pocket, dabbing at my face until it's somewhat dry.

When I finally lift my gaze, Daryl is still staring at me, looking equal parts uncomfortable and surprised. There's something… else in his eyes, too, especially when they flick to the bandana, but I can't place it.

We stare at each other for a long, silent moment, which is only broken by my overly loud sniffles, and just as I'm about to run out of the room in sheer embarrassment, the hunter speaks up.

"I think ya could take Blondie. Even without the sword."

The response is so out of left field that it startles a laugh out of me. Then another, and another, until I'm full-on cackling. It lasts for a minute, and the sound is slightly crazed, even to my own ears. But it pops the bubble of tension in the room, and I feel all my negative emotions suddenly drain out of me, leaving me sore and deflated.

"Yeah, T-Dog's getting the mud pit ready right now," I chuckle tiredly, dragging a hand over my puffy face. "Glenn's setting the over-under, and Dale's in charge of the bets."

Daryl actually smirks at my joke before his lips thin, and he averts his gaze.

"'M sorry," he mutters after a moment, so quiet I think I've misheard him.

I frown and lean forward, the wooden chair creaking under me. "What?"

The muscles in Daryl's jaw flutter, and he still won't look at me, but the jut of his cheekbone looks pink again.

"I'm sorry," he says more clearly. "Was fuckin' stupid, fallin' off that damn horse. I didn't… mean to worry ya."

His eyes click back to me, and the guilt in them, along with the apology, makes something twist in my chest. I swallow, searching for the words, and I shift in the chair again.

"Well… I was going to worry anyway, even without the whole horse fiasco," I finally reply. "That's what f-friends are for."

I stumble over that word again, and something unreadable flashes through the blue depths of Daryl's eyes.

"B-But just… promise me you won't go out alone again," I blurt out, feeling unsettled under that piercing gaze and needing to say something.

Some of the intensity fades from Daryl's face, and he scoffs, gesturing to his body. "Not really a problem now. Doc said gotta take it easy for a day or two."

"Good. Guess that means we can be resting buddies." I smile.

Daryl rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch upward at the corners. It falls quiet again, but not uncomfortably, and he stabs at his last piece of ham, shoving it into his mouth before pushing the tray away. He tries to shift down into a more reclined position but grimaces, and I frown in concern.

"How bad does it hurt?" I ask.

"It ain't all sunshine and daises," he grunts. "But, like I told the doc, I'll live."

"Well, we could at least get you a little more comfortable." I drape my tear-stained bandana over the chair's armrest, getting up and setting my empty plate beside Daryl's on the tray. I must have finished without noticing.

Then I turn to my pack, where I dropped it beside the chair, and flip open the top flap, grabbing the bindle of pills. I unwrap the brown fabric as I turn to the hunter, and I carefully put my knee on the edge of the bed.

"White for pain, yellow for antibiotic. Right?" I asked as I lean toward him and hold out my palm.

I don't know why, but Daryl blushes a ruddy red at the mention of the note he left me, and he doesn't meet my eye as he silently grabs the three pills.

"Wait," I stop him when he goes to pop them all into his mouth. "Should you take both pain pills? Herschel said you needed to stay up a little longer, and those pills made me really sleepy when I took them."

"Takes at least half an hour to kick in," Daryl grumbles. "And I'm twice yer size, kid. One pill won't do nothin' for me."

He goes to grab his glass from the tray but realizes it's empty, so I hand him mine from the bedside table on my left.

"Here, you can finish mine," I tell him, but when his eyes go back and forth from the glass to my face, it makes my skin itch, and I try to make a joke to deflect the sensation. "Unless you don't want my cooties."

Fuck. That abruptly makes me think of the… not-kiss in the bathroom, and I berate myself, feeling my cheeks flush hotly. Daryl's face twitches, too— oh, god, does he remember?— and he rips his eyes from mine, finally taking the glass, popping the three pills, and draining the water.

Once he's done, I take the glass from him, setting it on the tray with the other dirty dishes, and I get off the bed again. Both to put some space between us, and so I can place the tray atop the dresser near the door. When I turn back around, Daryl is settling more comfortably on the bed, and I feel tense, awkward, wondering if I should leave. It's dark already, people are probably going to turn in soon.

But the thought of leaving Daryl's side and sleeping alone in his empty tent makes my stomach flip. Maybe I could stay a little longer, just until it's safe for him to fall asleep.

With that decided, I walk back around to my chair. The hunter's eyes are closed, but I can tell he's still awake by his breathing. As I go to sit, I accidentally nudge my still-open pack, and when I look down, I spot the rolled up boxers sticking out the top.

My cheeks heat up again, and I don't really want to mention it… but he might be uncomfortable and just keeping silent. Swallowing my own discomfort, I look back up at the hunter and clear my throat.

"Um, hey, Daryl?"

His eyes flick open and land on me, but he doesn't verbally respond, so I continue.

"Soo… don't get mad at me," I laugh nervously, "but while Herschel was stitching you up, I grabbed you some clothes from our— the tent."

I bite my tongue at the fumble— his tent, not ours— but I still bend down, pulling out the boxers and shirt. I leave the jeans and socks, since those are super necessary right now. When I look up again, Daryl's face is blank but ever so slightly flushed. He silently stares at the clothes I'm holding, and his mouth works, chewing on the words.

"Don't need the shirt," he finally mutters. "Pain in the ass to get on right now."

"Oh, okay, well, uh… do you want theses?"

I tentatively hold out the boxers, and now his face is definitely pink as he nods. I lightly, and quickly, toss them over, and when he picks them up, his eyes find mine, expectant.

"R-Right," I stutter. "I'll… give you some privacy."

I move toward the door, but Daryl stops me before I can get far.

"Just turn around."

Surprise flares in me— does he not want me to leave?— but Daryl's already pushing himself up with a groan, the blanket pooling in his lap, so I spin around and go to look out the window again.

I listen to the hunter struggle for a moment, and it sounds like he's breathing through clenched teeth. Without meaning to, I catch the reflection of his bare back in the windowpane, and I watch as he stands upright, yanking the boxers up over his hips and—

Guilt and something else burn through me, and I focus on the shadowed shape of a tree outside before I hear Daryl drop onto the bed.

"Ya just gonna stand there all night?"

Taking a deep breath, and trying to suppress my blush, I turn back around and watch as the hunter settles on his right side, equally propped up and smothered by pillows, with the blankets pulled up over his shoulder. I limp back to the chair and sit down in it, wincing a little. The wooden chair still isn't comfortable, and my body is extra sore from rinsing the hunter off earlier.

Daryl notices my expression and frowns. "Ya take anythin' today, kid?"

"The half-pill I saved from last night. I gave you the full one you left me this morning. But I'm okay. Just a little… sore."

I shift again in the hard chair, emphasizing my point. Daryl's frown deepens, but after a moment, he closes his eyes and burrows deeper into the covers. It's quiet for a little while, and I just watch him, absently counting his breaths again.

I only get to around thirty this time before he breaks the silence.

"Take a damn picture, it'll last longer." His eyes snap open and catch mine, pinning me like a butterfly on a board.

"Sorry. Just… making sure." You're still alive, I don't add, but Daryl seems to hear it anyway, because his expression softens, turns guilty. I don't want that, though, so I dart a look at the clock on the dresser. "You should probably stay awake for at least thirty more minutes. I'll leave after that. I-If that's okay with you."

Daryl doesn't respond, and when I look back at him, he's studying me. It's silent for another moment, and then he lets out a snort.

"What, ya gonna read me a bedtime story?"

It's joke, but not a very sharp one. It also seems to unravel another knot in my chest, and I smile tentatively.

"I can," I quip back, and inspiration strikes me as I remember the journal at the bottom of my bag. "Actually, I seem to recall a bet I still need to win."

Surprise and recognition flash through Daryl's eyes, and his lips twitch into a smirk.

"Ya mean the bet ya've been losin'?" he scoffs, but his tone is almost… playful.

"I only need to get ya once, Dixon," I say with a grin. "And I'm determined."

"Think ya mean stubborn."

"Toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe." I shrug and bend down, wincing a little as the angle pulls at my ribs. Ignoring it, I quickly dig my journal out of my pack, and I wave it teasingly at the hunter. "You ready to put your cards on the table?"

Daryl rolls his eyes but jerks his chin at me, and my grin widens as I flip the journal open. The last time we did this seems so long ago, but I try not to think about that, letting my eyes scan the familiar, worn pages. It's quiet for a while as I search for a good poem, and I keep trying to get comfortable, with the chair creaking under me.

When I finally find one, I look up. "Okay, ready?"

Shifting again, I accidentally bump my right elbow against the armrest, which makes me grimace as the impact jars down to my wrist. Daryl clocks it, and his lips thin.

"Just sit on the damn bed."

I blink at him, sure I've misheard. "W-What?"

Daryl shuffles back a few inches until he's closer to the far edge of the bed, and he nods at the empty spot beside him. "Yer squirmin' and grimacin' is distractin'. Just sit on the bed before you end up bruisin' yer a-ass, too."

He stutters on the word, averting his gaze, and the air grows thick, awkward. Part of me wants to politely decline, but the bed does look much softer… and he said my fidgeting was distracting, anyway.

"Okay," I end up murmuring, my face warm.

Still, I hesitate for a moment before I set the journal on the edge of the bed. Bending down, I tug at the laces of my hiking boot, followed by the Velcro straps of the medical one. I slip them both off and tuck them under the bed before I stand up, taking the journal with me. Sensing Daryl's eyes on me, I consider kneeling to get on the bed but feel embarrassed about it, so I turn around and sit on the edge of the mattress instead. Then I lean back on the pillows until I'm sitting up beside the hunter, with maybe a foot of space between us.

I've been close to Daryl before, but this is… different. My stomach somersaults, and my fingers tremble as I set the journal in my lap and flick it back open.

"Alright, um, where was I…"

After a minute, I find the Wordsworth poem I'd marked earlier. It's one of the less depressing pieces in my collection, and the rhythm feels light, bouncy. Reading it out loud relaxes me, but when I finish and look down at Daryl, he only scoffs.

"Next," he mutters dismissively into his pillow, and I can't help smiling before I continue on.

I end up choosing some Shakespeare, just because I know he won't like it, and I want to hear his sarcastic comments. This goes on for a while, with Daryl almost continually rolling his eyes, but I notice he's getting sleepier, his words more slurred.

Eventually, I land on a poem toward the back of the journal. It takes me a moment to recognize the piece, and I end up chuckling a little at the irony.

"What?" Daryl asks.

"Hm?" I look over at him and find him squinting up at me. "Oh, nothing. I just… forgot about this poem. I found it only a few months before things went to shit. Actually, I think I might have the book it came from at the bottom of my bag. I just kinda swept things off my desk, the night I left Dalton…"

I trail off as darker memories rise up along the fringes of my thoughts, but Daryl doesn't let me get far.

"Well?" he grunts. "Ya gonna read it or what?"

I playfully roll my eyes. "So demanding, Dixon. Alright, so this one is titled Scheherazade—"

"Shh-what-now?" Daryl cuts me off, and his face twists with confusion.

"Scheherazade," I repeat with a smile. "It's the name of a woman from Middle Eastern folklore."

When he just stares up at me blankly, I decide to explain.

"Okay, so the story goes that there was once this king, and he discovered his wife was cheating on him. In retaliation, he declared that he would marry a new virgin every day and behead her the next morning, before she could betray him, too."

The hunter's face contorts even further, his lip curling with disgust. "Jesus fuckin' Christ. What kinda story is this?"

"Most folk stories are pretty dark," I laugh. "At least the originals, before they got sanitized by Disney and shit. Anyway, you going to let me finish?"

Jokingly, I narrow my eyes at him, and Daryl grumbles under his breath but stares up at me expectantly, which I'll take as permission to continue.

"So, the king made his decree and followed through with it, but eventually, the kingdom started to have a real virgin shortage. Until one day, a woman named Scheherazade volunteered herself to be sacrificed. But, secretly, she had a plan. See, Scheherazade was very well read. She knew a thousand stories, and she was a very gifted storyteller. So, that night, in the king's chambers, she began weaving a grand tale, and the king became so entranced with her, he didn't even notice the night passing by. Eventually, she stopped in what felt like the middle of the story. The king asked her to finish, but she pointed out that dawn had arrived, and it was time for her death, as he had decreed. But the king needed to know how the story ended, so… he spared her life for one more day. The next night, she finished the tale but started a second one, even more exciting than the last, and as dawn broke, she stopped in the middle once again. And so the pattern continued, with Scheherazade telling her stories, and the king sparing her for one more day. For one thousand and one nights they lived like this, until Scheherazade eventually ran out of tales and told the king she was ready to accept death. But in the years they had spent together, the king had apparently come to truly love her, so he spared her one last time and made her his queen."

It's silent for a moment, and I look down at Daryl to gauge his reaction. His eyes are squinted, his brow furrowed, and when he notices me looking at him, he clicks his tongue.

"Pfft, she shoulda killed the king 'stead of becomin' his queen," he mumbles. "Guy sounds like a real psycho."

"I don't necessarily disagree with you," I snort. "A lot of classical 'romances' are pretty problematic if you look at them close enough."

For some reason, the hunter's face grows a little pinched at my words, but before I can ask what's wrong, he speaks up again.

"What the hell does this crazy woman have to do with a poem?" His eyes flick to the journal still open in my lap, and my brain decides to notice that his head is actually really close to my hip.

I quickly shake the thought away and clear my throat, blindly staring down at my journal as I try to focus on his question.

"Well, the poet is relying on the reader having some foreknowledge of Scheherazade, to understand the… emotional setting of the poem. The piece is addressed to her, but not really her. The poet is comparing his lover to Scheherazade. He's saying things might end in bloodshed, things might not work out between them, but for now, he wants his lover to keep lying to him. To keep their story going."

When I look over at Daryl again, he's still squinting at me in confusion, and I feel a little embarrassed about rambling so long. He didn't ask for a literary analysis.

"It might make more sense if you hear the poem," I tell him. "This is a more modern piece, too, so there's no rhyming, less meter."

Clearing my throat again, I turn back to my journal. A hint of nervousness rises up inside me, though I can't exactly say why. I've read dozens of poems to the hunter before, this isn't any different, so I just take a deep breath and start reading, my voice soft and quiet.

---

Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake

and dress them in warm clothes again.

How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running

until they forget that they are horses.

It's not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,

it's more like a song on a policeman's radio,

how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days

were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple

to slice into pieces.

Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it's noon, that means

we're inconsolable.

Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.

These, our bodies, possessed by light.

Tell me we'll never get used to it.

---

As my voice fades, silence takes its place. Keeping my eyes trained on the journal, I wait for Daryl to laugh, to scoff, to make some kind of derisive comment, like he always does.

But… it never comes.

Eventually, I'm forced to look over at him, and I jump a little when I find him staring at me very intently. His face is unreadable, and his eyes are dilated but locked on my face. He doesn't even blink, and I fight the urge to squirm. Seconds pass like centuries, and in the end, I can't take the silence, the tension, so I speak up.

"Well, what do think about that one, Dixon?" I ask, trying for levity. "Come on, don't start trying to spare my feelings now."

I flash a weak smile, but Daryl is still staring at me, and I suddenly find it hard to breathe. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, the hunter blinks, dropping his gaze and burrowing his head into the plush, feather pillow.

"S'not bad," he says, his voice muffled but audible.

"W-What?" I stare down at him, stunned.

Daryl shifts his face a little so one of his eyes is squinting up at me. "Said I didn't hate it. Was better than the other shit. Better than fuckin' Dr. Seuss."

Abruptly, an image flashes through my mind. The hunter and I in the woods around the quarry, the both of us laughing as he poked at me with a stick. The memory makes me feel warm, but not in a bad way.

"That's glowing praise coming from you, Dixon," I chuckle, but then the reality of his words hits me, and a grin starts to spread across my face. "Wait! Does this mean I win our bet?"

"Nah," Daryl immediately scoffs. "'M just stoned. And concussed. Don't count."

My eyes narrow, but I can't stop smiling, and I lean over to poke the hunter in the arm, careful of his injuries. "Nuh-uh. I think I got you, Dixon. Don't be a sore loser, admit it!"

The single blue eye that I can see rolls in its socket. "Fine. If ya count winnin' against an invalid…"

"You just said you weren't an invalid!" I laugh, referring to his words when I handed him his dinner. "Which is it, Dixon? You can't have your cake and eat it, too."

"Ask me in the mornin'. When I got m'head on straight." Daryl digs his face into the pillow again, and his words are bleeding together now, barely discernible.

He's clearly tired, only half of it due to the drugs, so I decide to give him a break for tonight.

"Boo. But fine." Closing my journal, I glance over at the clock on the dresser. "Well, you've made it past Herschel's deadline, so I think you're okay to get some sleep now. Do you need anything else before you turn in? I can grab you another glass of water…"

When I look down at the hunter, I find him staring at me yet again, but all amusement is gone from his face, which he's unearthed from the pillow. He's frowning now, and his eyes are swimming in and out of focus as they trail over me. It's quiet for several beats, and I'm just about to ask if he heard me when he speaks up.

"Got a question," he mutters.

"What is it?" I cock my head, curious. Was it a question about the poem? No, that can't be it. Does he need something besides water?

Daryl falls silent again, chewing at a piece of skin on his bottom lip. His unfocused gaze seems to study me, like he's looking for something. But then he shakes his head and buries his face in the pillow until all I can see is the curve of his ear, which looks a little pink.

"Nothin', nevermind."

I stare down at him for a long moment, but he doesn't move, doesn't flinch, and I decide not to press him.

"Alright…" I slowly turn away from him, swinging my legs off the edge of the bed.

The bedroom is quiet as I sit there and momentarily debate whether I should go back to Daryl's tent or spend the night in the chair monitoring him, just in case. The chair would be uncomfortable, but so would sleeping by myself in that tent, so I'm leaning toward the former. Given how tired he sounded, the hunter's probably asleep already, so I don't think he would mind…

Then, as if to prove me wrong, his voice cuts through the silence just as I put my feet on the floor.

"Why d'ya kiss me?"

The question is muffled, slurred, but clear enough that I freeze, everything in my body going stiff and tight. My heart, which had finally calmed down after all the shit that happened this afternoon, suddenly slams into my ribcage, hard enough that it aches.

The memory of smashing my lips against his rears in my mind. My first impulse is to deny, lie, play it off as a hallucination conjured by his concussed mind.

But what comes out of my mouth instead is, "Y-You… remember that?"

"Mhmm," Daryl hums, barely a breath.

Fuck. Fuck.

I can feel him staring at the back of my head, and the nape of my neck burns. That laser-hot sensation transfers to my face as I reluctantly turn around, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat.

The hunter's face is creased, tight, but I can't tell if he's angry or confused or… something else. All I know is that it feels like those hazy eyes are stabbing into me, pinning me to the spot. I try to come up with something to say, but my thoughts are all static, and I'm getting lost in the thin ring of blue around his enlarged pupils.

I must be silent for too long, though, because Daryl's face rearranges into a scowl, and now there's a flare of anger in those eyes.

But, for some reason, I don't think it's directed at me.

"Forget I asked." His voice is still sharper than it had been all night. "Stupid fuckin' question…"

He hides his face in the pillow again, curling in on himself. But something about his cowed position, and the pink flush I can see on the tip of his ear, unsticks my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

"N-No, it's not," I blurt out. "It's a completely… valid question. I would, um, ask the same in your position."

Slowly, Daryl peeks a single eye up from his pillow, and when it lands on me, I feel warm all over, buzzing. Without permission, my body half turns to face him, so my left leg is folded on the bed again. The other leg on the floor starts nervously jumping, flares of pain racing up from my ankle, and I nervously pick at a loose strand along the edge of the covers.

Daryl is still staring at me, but I can't meet his gaze, so I close my eyes and try to find my words in the darkness.

"I, uh… I guess, in the moment, I was just panicking," I begin shakily, his bloody face flashing across my closed eyelids. "You were passing out, a-and Herschel said to keep you awake. I tried shaking you, pressing on the wound in your side, but you just kept… drifting off. I considered slapping you but didn't want to aggravate your head wounds, so I… did the first shocking thing that came to mind. I just wanted to keep you awake. Alive. But still… I'm sorry."

As always, the hunter loves letting me stew in silence, and I feel like a frog in a pressure cooker. My whole body is tense, awaiting his response, and when none is forthcoming, I eventually have to open my eyes and look at him.

More of his face is visible now, only a quarter of it covered by the pillow, but… it's even more pinched, like he didn't like my answer. And when my eyes meet his, he immediately looks away.

"Didn't ask for an apology," he mutters.

My skin feels tight and hot, and I shift uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. "I know. But I still think you deserve one. E-Especially since I might have chipped one of your teeth. I wasn't exactly gentle."

I let out a weak laugh, but he doesn't reciprocate. That makes me feel even worse, my stomach tying itself into knots.

"S'fine," Daryl grunts, still not looking at me, but his tone is gruff, strained. "Ya just did what ya needed to wake my ass up."

"Yeah, what I needed…" I repeat quietly, but something about my voice makes his eyes click to mine again.

"What?" His pupils are still wide and black, and I feel like I might fall into them if I stare too long. There's a certain… sharpness to his gaze now, though. A familiar one.

It looks like the glint he got when he finally locked onto his prey during hunting trips.

The hairs on my arms stand on end, and I glance away, toward the window. I know the hunter is waiting for my response, but I'm still trying to find it myself.

As I blindly stare out the window, I can see a portion of the indigo night sky, and I find myself thinking about the other night. Sitting on the RV roof with Daryl at my side, meteors streaking by overhead. How it felt so easy to just sit and talk with him. How soft his hand felt in my hair. Then I think about how different that Daryl is to the one who shot me in the head the day we met. In the beginning, I thought he was just as asshole, and I know he wasn't my biggest fan, either. We had both tried to stay away from each other. Hell, the rest of the group and his own brother tried to keep us apart, too. But… we just kept coming back together.

It's like I'm an asteroid that's been sucked into his planetary orbit, and that orbit has slowly been decaying, so with every cycle, every passing day, I'm drawn closer and closer to him until… what?

What's the conclusion of this dance we've been doing since the moment his arrow grazed my skull?

Well, I experienced one possible conclusion today, and I think of how my heart felt on the edge of supernova when the hunter's blood had been burning into my hands. I think of how the world seemed to stop moving the moment Rick and Shane hauled his limp body upright.

Suddenly, Glenn's voice floats through my head, soft and knowing.

Someone to make the shitfest more bearable, right?

Daryl is that for me. I tried to deny it before, with Glenn, but I can't anymore, not with his near-death experience still haunting me. If I'm finally being honest with myself, the hunter made moving forward seem possible, even with all the blood and death left in my wake. He made the future seem less bleak.

So, I kissed him because I needed to keep him alive, but also…

As the realization comes to me, it falls right off my tongue.

"What if I wanted to?" I whisper, still facing the window.

The admission simultaneously feels like a weight being lifted off my chest and an anchor sinking into my stomach. I'd been denying my attraction to the hunter for so long, telling myself that I just wanted to be his friend. But now, every glance I'd stolen, every brush of our hands I'd ignored, everything I'd suppressed, came rocketing to the surface. A hot flash passes through my body, head to toe, and my skin feels like it's fit to burst.

Again, silence is my only answer, and part of me suddenly hopes that Daryl had just fallen asleep, that he didn't hear me. But when I look at him, both of his eyes are trained on my face, and they seem more alert than they've seemed all night.

"What d'ya say?" he asks, his voice so hushed and colorless that I can't tell what he's feeling.

I immediately want to backpedal, but… I've already said it. Best to commit and face the hunter's rejection head-on.

"What if, subconsciously, I also… wanted to kiss you?" I repeat myself more clearly as I stare into his eyes.

Daryl takes the words like a punch to the face. His expression goes blank, stunned, and I can see the way his chest hitches around his next breath. We stare at each other in frozen silence, and I wait from him to process, wait for his brain to catch up. When it does, I expect discomfort, awkwardness, the hunter trying to turn me down easy.

What I don't expect is anger.

Suddenly, Daryl's face contorts into something between a scowl and a snarl, his eyes freezing over so they stab into me like icicles. "That's not fuckin' funny."

I blink in confusion. "I-I'm not laughing—"

"This some kind of goddamn prank?" he cuts me off, each word getting sharper, louder. "Ya got Chinaman hidin' behind the curtains with a camera?"

Frowning, I distantly note the derogatory nickname Daryl hasn't used in days, but mostly, I'm trying to figure out what the hell he's talking about.

"Wha— no, Glenn isn't— I'm not—" I exhale sharply and bite the side of my tongue, trying to cobble together a coherent response. "Daryl, I'm trying to tell you that I… like you."

I blush, the word feeling juvenile, ridiculous, and not enough, but true nonetheless.

Somehow, this only pisses him off more.

"Not funny the second time, either," he spits. "Ya know what? Just… get the hell out."

He abruptly yanks the covers over his head, in a clear attempt to end our conversation. I should listen, should quit while I'm ahead, but his anger has sparked my own. Scowling, I turn to face him more and rip the covers back down. Daryl immediately bares his teeth at me, but I ignore him.

"This isn't a joke, Dixon!"

"Really?" he sneers, his eyes like twin blue flames. "Ya expect me to believe Saint Audrey wants to slum it up with fuckin' trailer trash?"

"Stop calling me that," I say with a frown. "And don't talk about yourself like that, either."

"Why?" the hunter challenges, his tone abrasive, antagonistic. "S'true."

"It's not," I argue just as hotly. "I'm not a perfect little princess or saint or whatever bullshit story you've concocted in your head. And I've already said that I know you aren't just this redneck asshole persona you like to play. You're a good man—"

"Ya don't know what the fuck yer talkin' 'bout—"

"But I do," I cut him off, and I say it so firmly that it draws the hunter up short, so I press onward, emboldened and enraged. "You think you're not a good man, because… what? Because you grew up poor? Because your brother was a bastard? None of that matters, Daryl. Choices are what make an individual. Actions. Let's review some of yours, shall we? The first day we met, you saved my life-"

"I shot ya in the goddamn head," he snaps.

"Which was an accident! You thought I was a walker, and that's how we deal with walkers." Absently, I think about Andrea and what happened today, but the thought gets washed away in a wave of indignance. "I'm talking about after that. When you realized I wasn't a walker, when I got up and started running, you could have just let me go. You had no obligation to help me. But you did. You led me back to the quarry, the first safe haven I'd known since I fled my hometown. And you didn't even ask for anything in return! Most men would have asked for some kind of "reward." Hell, they probably wouldn't have even asked, just taken. But that thought never crossed your mind, did it?"

Daryl's looks vaguely sick and clearly disgusted at the idea, but I don't let him get a word in.

"Then, at the quarry, you went hunting nearly every day and kept us all fed. Even though no one ever said thank you, even though most people didn't even look at you. You had every right to tell them to fuck off, especially after… what happened in Atlanta."

I'm very careful not to mention Merle directly, even in my anger. Honestly, I don't even want to think about the bastard, especially not now, so I barrel forward.

"But you didn't," I continue. "You could have abandoned the group, left us to get killed off like the stupid city folk we are. Instead, you ran miles through the dark, helped fight off that herd at the quarry, and saved my life again. You keep doing that, you know? Saving my life. I really was ready to end it all at the CDC. I was ready to give up… but you gave me another reason to keep fighting. You were another reason to keep fighting."

The anger is fading from Daryl's face, and he looks uncomfortable now, shifting in the sheets. "Ya left for yer ma."

"I left for you, my mom was just a flimsy excuse," I admit to both him and myself.

When Daryl continues to fidget, tries to avoid my gaze, I lean over until I can catch his eyes again. There's a roaring sound in the back of my head, and the words just keep bubbling up, unstoppable.

"That day… with minutes on the clock, you told me I'd gotten under your skin, that I'd whittled your walls down to nothing. Well, you've done the same to me. At first, I told myself I was just trying to repay you for saving my life on that first day. Then, as we spent more time together, I realized I liked spending time with you. Even when you snapped at me. Even when we just sat in silence. Even when you critiqued my squirrel butchering skills and sneered at every poem I read. So, I told myself we were friends. And we are. But… after nearly losing you today, I have to admit to myself that there is something… more, too. At least for me."

Daryl no longer looks angry now. Now, he looks like I had originally expected: uncomfortable and awkward, his eyes darting away.

I suddenly realize I've been pouring my heart out, but Daryl's done nothing but snap at me. Maybe the anger was just a mask. Maybe that was the only way he knew to turn me down.

I swallow thickly and decide to say one final thing.

"But… my feelings are my own problem, not yours. If you don't… feel the same way, then we can forget I ever said anything. We can continue being friends, and tonight can just be a hallucination brought on by your concussion."

Seconds tick by, and still Daryl doesn't look at me. His mouth is a thin line, and his shoulder is hunched up near his ear. Every line of his body is tense, uncomfortable. I count to thirty in my head and still nothing.

Embarrassment and shame crawl up my throat, burning the back of my tongue. My heart doesn't know whether to race or stop all together, so it alternates between the two. Fuck. I shouldn't have said anything. I should have just left the 'kiss' as nothing more than a life-saving measure.

As the silence grows thicker, I want to sink into the floor. I want Andrea to shoot me in the head this time. I want to go back five minutes and keep my damn mouth shut. But none of those things happen, so I have to live with my decision.

I just hope Daryl really does forget about my stupid confession so we can continue being friends. I still want him in my life, even if it's just as he is now.

"Alright," I whisper, clearing my throat, but it still feels like there's something stuck in there. "Guess that's my answer."

My face hot, I turn away again and put both feet on the floor, but in a moment of déjà vu, Daryl stops me.

"Yer still wrong."

Despite my best intentions, a flare of hope ignites deep in my chest, but I try to temper it, cover it, as I look at him over my shoulder. My face is still hot, tight, and I don't even know what expression I'm making.

"About what?" I asked, my voice no more than a whisper so I don't spook the skittish hunter.

Daryl looks like he's about to vomit as our eyes meet, and I watch the knob of his throat jerk as he swallows.

"Me bein' a good man. Good men wouldn't look atcha…" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching, and he drops his gaze. "…like I have."

Now I feel like I've been punched in the face, and that tiny little flame in my chest explodes into a wildfire, raging and uncontrollable. My whole body feels hot for an entirely different reason, and all the times I've caught the hunter looking at me recontextualize in my head.

"Oh," I breathe as I turn to face him more fully, and my heart flutters in my chest. "Well… maybe I don't mind you looking."

Daryl's eyes ricochet back to mine, and he's scowling, but I can see the guilt behind it. "Ya should."

"I don't," I say honestly, calmly, and that seems to trip the hunter up. His face twitches, and I can see him trying to come up with a response.

"Yer a kid," he eventually grunts, his expression twisting with more guilt. "I shouldn't—"

"I'm not actually a child, though," I point out. "I'm almost—"

"Yeah, nineteen, I fuckin' know," he cuts me off, but his face hardens, his eyes like ice. "Don't matter. I'm still older than ya."

"So?" I cock my head.

"What do ya mean 'so?'" Daryl snaps, scowling again.

"I mean… so what?" I repeat with a shrug. "Your age doesn't matter to me. I don't care."

"But I do." He bares his teeth, yanking his arm out from under the covers and jabbing a finger at the window, in the direction of camp. "And so would all them sons a bitches. Hell, Walsh would be leadin' the goddamn mob to string me up."

His breathing is a little heavy now, hissing out past his clenched teeth. I study him for a moment, and I can see how this really bothers him. Both the opinions of others and his opinion of himself. That guilt I noticed earlier is still lingering behind his scowl, but the flame of hope is burning in my chest at the knowledge that Daryl does see me that way, so I refuse to give up.

"I actually don't think the others will care as much as you're worrying," I start tentatively, thinking of Glenn, of Carol, perhaps even Andrea. "Maybe some of them will, but not enough to kick you out of the group or 'string you up.' There are fucking dead people walking around, Dixon. People have other shit to care about."

"Tch, okay, maybe they won't hang me," Daryl scoffs, looking away. "Maybe they'll just put a bullet in my skull and be done with it."

I frown, the memory of Andrea shooting him still fresh in my mind, making my stomach flip. "Rick wouldn't do that. Or stand for it, for that matter. Even if they tried, I wouldn't let them. But… if it came to that— which I really don't think it would— then we could just… leave. Hop on the bike and find someplace else to ride out the apocalypse."

Blue eyes flick back to me, and the surprise in them is clear, his face going slack with it. "Ya would leave the group? For… me?"

"I would," I answer, completely serious. "But it won't come to that. The worst we'd probably get is some whispering behind our backs. Which I think they're already doing anyway, so really, who gives a fuck?"

I shrug again, and Daryl looks stricken, floundering. I can see he's trying to grasp at straws.

"It… still ain't right," he mutters, but I'm not sure if he's trying to convince me or himself.

Personally, I really don't think the age thing is a problem, especially given the state of the world, but Daryl obviously doesn't see it that way. He clearly thinks he would be taking advantage of me in some capacity, but… maybe I can show him how that isn't true.

"Daryl, do you know why most relationships with an age gap are frowned upon?" I ask as I cock my head, but I don't wait for him to respond. "It's because there's almost always an uneven power dynamic between both parties. The older person typically has more money, a position of authority, a house, a car, etc. Stuff they can hold over their younger partner and use to their advantage."

I gesture around the room, toward the window and the world beyond.

"None of which apply to us anymore," I continue. "We're equally homeless, equally unemployed, equally being fucked over by the world. Okay, I guess you technically have the bike, but the shortage of fuel kinda makes that a moot point. So, what else is there? Physicality? Well, you might be physically stronger than I am, but one, I know you would never hurt me. And two, I think I could take you anyway, Dixon."

I wink, trying to lighten the mood, but Daryl is still stiff, unresponsive. As he takes in my words, I can see different emotions flickering across his face, but they keep changing too fast for me to place. He's still fighting it, so I decide to put all my cards on the table, my heart pounding in my ears.

"The last dynamic that can be a problem is experience. And, well, there might be some areas you have more experience in than I do…" I hesitate here, blushing, and Daryl blushes, too, when he understands what I'm implying. I don't want to think about that particular gap between us, at least not right now, so I press onward. "But there's another area where I think we have equal experience. One most people could never understand."

Confusion wins the war on Daryl's features, and he frowns at me. "What're ya talkin' 'bout?"

I swallow and take a deep breath, hoping I'm not about to royally fuck up. But if this is enough to make the hunter see sense, then… it'll be worth it.

"In the bathroom earlier, you didn't want me to take off your shirt," I begin gently. "It was because you… didn't want me seeing your scars, right?"

Immediately, Daryl stiffens, going red in the face, expression vacillating between shame, anger, and embarrassment. He yanks the covers tighter around his chest, but before he can snap at me, I continue.

"I realized it because I'm the same way with my scars," I tell him. "Outside of random doctors and case workers, I've only showed them to five people. Well… six now, I guess."

I take another deep breath and turn my back to the hunter. My palms break out into a cold sweat, but I wipe them on my shorts before reaching over my head with my left hand. The stretch strains my ribs, but I ignore it, grabbing the back of my shirt and pulling it up to my shoulder blades. My skin itches, unused to being bare, especially in front of someone, but I push through it.

Behind me, I hear Daryl inhale so sharply the air whistles through his teeth, and I know that despite the band of my bra, he has a clear view of the scars crisscrossing my back. I try to imagine what they must look like to his eyes. I've gotten somewhat used to them over the years, and since most of them are focused on my mid to lower back, a few even lower, sometimes I forget about them. Most clothes cover them easily enough, so it was only ever really a problem when I had to change for gym class, or if Mathias wanted to drag us to the community pool.

But I can still remember how my friends acted when I first showed them, the horror in their eyes.

I see the same thing in Daryl's when I drop my shirt and turn back to face him. But there's also rage beneath the horror, and his hands are clenching and unclenching into fists atop the sheets. After a moment, his furious gaze meets mine, and he's grinding his teeth so hard, I can hear it.

"Who…" he eventually hisses, but he can't get the rest out.

I know what he means, though, and I cast him a wry smile. "The man who was supposed to be my foster dad. Mitch and his wife, Eleanor, were the first permanent placement I had after my bio parents died. I lived in his house for five years, and he beat the shit out of me— out of all of us— almost every single day. Never enough to get caught, though. He was smart like that. Until one day, he wasn't. Got too drunk and used a knife instead of his belt or fists."

This time, I lift the front of my shirt, once again flashing him the thick scar that winds down my side.

"Kinda hard to hide a kid being partially disemboweled," I joke, but Daryl clearly doesn't find it funny.

"Jesus fuckin'—" he bites off the curse, nearly shaking with rage. "Someone shoulda killed that motherfucker."

"I tried, actually," I snort, and this was a part I never told anyone—not Sensei, not my friends—but it comes out easily now. Maybe because I know Daryl won't judge me. "With the same knife, too. My aim wasn't all that great, though, so I only managed to nick one of his kidneys before I ran out of the house. But that did mean I got to watch him cry in court when the judge sentenced him to life for the years of abuse. That was pretty satisfying. What's even better is the fact that he probably died in there as walker food."

"Good," Daryl spits, his jaw working from side to side. "Hope they tore him apart piece by fuckin' piece."

"A girl can dream." I smile, imagining Mitch screaming while a herd tore him to bloody shreds. But I shake the fantasy out of my head, growing serious again. "The reason I'm telling you all this is because… I think you can understand me in a way no one else has been able to. I don't know who gave you your scars, but I know someone did. You think I'm just a kid, that I don't know any better, but the truth is, I haven't been a child for a very long time. I'm not some innocent naïve princess who's been sheltered in a tower all her life. I know how shitty the world can be. More than that, I know what bad men are like… and you are not one of them, Daryl Dixon."

The hunter swallows hard enough that I can hear his throat click, and he averts his gaze to the corner of the room. I think I can maybe see a glimmer of tears in his eye, and his breathing is shaky. Suddenly, I realize my words have struck a chord in him. He really had believed he was a bad man, and it breaks my heart, because it's the furthest thing from the truth. I want to reach out and touch him, hug him, but I worry that might be too much, too soon. So, I just stare at him quietly for a moment, but when he still won't look at me, I decide to finally give him a break.

"Look, I know I've talked your ear off tonight, and it's a lot of shit to process, on top of all your injuries," I say gently. "So, why don't you get some sleep now, and we can talk again tomorrow, once you've gotten some rest?"

Daryl doesn't respond, and he still isn't looking at me. His eyes are fluttering, though, so his adrenaline and anger over the conversation is probably fading. I maybe should have waited to have this talk with the hunter, but I just hope something I said got through to him, and once he recovers from his near death experiences, we can have a true heart to heart.

But that would have to wait until the morning, so I start to turn away for the third time.

Daryl doesn't call out to stop me this time. Instead, his hand suddenly grabs mine atop the bed, the cage of his fingers loose but there all the same.

The barely-there touch still makes my heart skip a beat, and when I glance back at the hunter, his cheeks are flushed a rosy pink. His eyes find mine for just a moment before he buries his face into the pillow. Then he mumbles something, but it's muffled.

"Sorry, what was that?" I ask quietly, leaning toward him.

For a moment, nothing, but then Daryl tilts his head so his mouth isn't blocked by the pillow, and his eyes flick back to mine and hold my gaze.

"Stay," he says, quiet but clear. "… please."

My heart is practically tap-dancing now, and I can't help smiling. It isn't an undying declaration or anything, but coming from the hunter, it's a lot. And it gives me hope.

"I'm not going far, just to that chair. I told Herschel I would monitor you tonight, to make sure you're okay, and I wouldn't be a good nurse if I went back on my word."

My voice is teasing, but Daryl frowns as his eyes jump to the uncomfortable wooden chair. His fingers twitch around my hand, and his face turns a shade redder as he darts a look at me.

"Bed's big 'nough for two," he mutters, an echo of how he offered me a spot in his tent the night before.

Still, it's unexpected, and my eyes widen as my breathing stutters, which Daryl takes as a bad sign.

"I don't mean like— just don't want ya sufferin' in a shitty chair for me," he stumbles out. "But ya don't gotta— i-if ya don't wanna— fuck, nevermind."

He curses under his breath, goes to pull his hand away, but I catch it, tightening my fingers around his. He looks back at me, red as a tomato, and I think he looks adorable, which he would definitely kill me for saying. So, I just keep my mouth shut, and I slowly swing my legs onto the bed again, shimmying down until I'm stretched out on my left side next to the hunter.

As I rest my head on the pillow beside his, Daryl's throat bobs, and his breathing goes a little shallow. His eyes sweep over my body before they nervously jump back to my face.

"This okay?" I whisper.

Daryl gives a jerky nod and licks his chapped lips. "Do ya want— we could put a pillow 'tween us."

I recognize he's trying to make me comfortable, and my heart gives another little throb.

Smiling, I squeeze his hand gently. "I'm fine like this if you are."

He gives me another stiff nod, but his eyes dart around, like he doesn't know where to look.

"Is it okay if I turn out the light?" I ask, thinking it might be easier for him to relax in the dark.

Another jerky nod is his only response, so I turn to the lamp behind me. I have to let go of his hand in the process, and his fingers clench around mine before they reluctantly release me.

With a soft click, the room is plunged into darkness, but there's enough moonlight spilling through the window to see the vague impression of things. I face Daryl again, shifting around to get comfortable, especially with the sling still holding my right arm against my chest. Once I'm settled, it's silent and a little awkward, only the sound of our breathing cutting through the silence.

Then something tentatively bumps my left hand, which is lying palm-up near my shoulder.

Instinctively, I move toward the pressure, and Daryl's hand slowly settles over mine again, soft and timid. In response, I spread my fingers and loosely intertwine them with his, and I can hear his breathing stutter, but he shifts his hand until the tangle of our fingers is more secure. His palm is hot against mine, and a little sweaty, which I find endearing.

My eyes have finally adjusted to the low light, and I find his face in the dark, only inches away. I trace my gaze over the slope of his nose, the scruff of hair on his cheeks, the mole sitting at the left corner of his mouth. He is very handsome, something I'd been trying to ignore for weeks, but now it's all I can see.

Slowly, I bring my eyes up to meet his, and when I find him already staring at me, I feel warm and tingly all over. The urge to kiss him again, for real this time, suddenly seizes me, and I fight against it, fidgeting.

Daryl notices and frowns, breaking the silence with a whisper. "What?"

"Nothing," I reply quickly, but I can feel him tense, see the insecurity flash across his shadowed face. His fingers loosen around mine, but before he can pull away, I blurt out the truth. "I just… wanted to kiss you."

Daryl's hand momentarily tightens around my fingers, and his warm breath brushes my cheeks as he exhales sharply. His eyes are wide even in the dark, his body stiff as a board, and I'm afraid of pushing him too far past his comfort zone.

"B-But I'll wait until your head's on straight again," I add, referencing his earlier words about the poem. "I… want it to count this time."

Daryl's eyes drop to my mouth for just a moment, but then he swears softly, burying his head in his pillow. "Go to sleep, kid. 'Fore ya fuckin' kill me."

A giggle slips past my lips, and I feel warm but pleased that I can so easily fluster the hunter.

"Okay," I murmur, squeezing his hand. "Good night, Daryl."

After a moment, he squeezes back. "Night… Audrey."

Hearing him say my name makes a shiver run down my spine, and I know I'm grinning like an idiot, enough to make my face sore, but I don't care. I just nuzzle deeper into the soft bed, and I fall asleep with Daryl's warm hand wrapped around mine.