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

18. We All Assume the Worst the Best We Can

Chapter 18 guys :) and Daryl's back! Sorry this took a bit longer. I had the WORST writer's block with this. But it is pretty hefty so i hope that makes up for it :)

Just pointing out again that I'm switching POVs within the chapter again. Hope you enjoy! Please remember to review! I love you guys! :D

Disclaimer: This story is written for fun purposes only. No profit is being made. I own nothing :(

Warnings: Coarse language and a few racial slurs

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Chapter 18: We All Assume the Worst the Best We Can

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The next thing I am aware of is the sensation of gentle fingers brushing along the side of my face and Jacqui's voice floating, disembodied, through the darkness.

"Audrey? Audrey wake up. Wake up; we're back."

My brain's fuzzy and disoriented, uncomprehending, but when I blink open my eyes and lick my dry lips to sluggishly respond, the pain that suddenly racks my body is enough to bring me fully online, clear and lucid and damn how I wish I wasn't. As I draw a ragged breath, my lungs hitch, unable to fully expand without my side blooming in pain, and dots dance in my unfocused field of vision. I grimace and a groan dies in my chest as the expression sets a dull fire across my skin. Mother fuck. I'm going to fucking kill Mer—

Guilt abruptly slams into my chest at the thought, knocking the air out of me, sending me spinning, the image of the older man chained to a rusted out pipe under the baking Georgia sun, walkers clambering up the narrow staircase, flashing behind my eyes. Nausea burns in my belly and I can't help but close my eyes and grit my teeth against the sensation, reeling. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. I had been stupid to think sleep could save me from this, this overwhelming, all consuming…shame. A part of me screams in the back of my mind that I have nothing to feel regret over, that I am not to blame. T-Dog's the one that dropped the key and I was ten stories below when it happened; I couldn't have done anything. And even if I could have, I was under no obligation to even try. Merle Dixon tried to fucking murder me. It was premeditated and damn if he wasn't finding joy in it at the time. If I would have gotten my sword and lashed out and lopped off his head, stabbed him through the heart, it would have been purely self-defense. It would have been perfectly justified. Hell, I am justified in celebrating now; completely and utterly. No one would blame me; in fact many would probably join me.

But I just fucking can't.

At least not completely.

Yes, a part of me is glad Merle's gone. That's a guillotine poised above my neck that I'm not sad to see leave. But while I believe in punishment where it's due…all I can think about is rotten teeth and jagged claws and Merle's flesh being rent in two, screams of agony rising in the air as he's devoured, bound and chained like a fucking buffet. And then I think of Daryl, blue eyes that I know can shine with pity, scowling lips that I know can smirk and laugh, calloused hands that, despite what others might think, I know have the ability to be gentle, reaching out to little girls who drop their plates and who get lost in the woods. Bile simmers in the back of my throat and the backs of my eyes burn with an emotion I can't identify, too tangled and messed up to pinpoint.

"Honey?"

Jacqui's voice has me opening my eyes again but this time, I don't think about the pain clawing through my veins. I don't think about walkers or Atlanta or the name Dixon. Instead, I ground myself in the warm brown irises of her eyes and the concerned cadence of her voice and force myself to pry my tongue off the roof of my mouth and answer her. I tell myself to man the fuck up.

"Y…yeah," I manage to rasp out, throat feeling like I had swallowed serrated glass some time in my sleep. "I'm awake."

The older woman seems relieved at my statement and gives me a gentle smile. Distantly, I feel her warm fingers trail across my jaw before retracting, folding back to her side. I blink and flush as I realize I'm half draped across her lap, shoulders pressed into her thighs. "Welcome back," Jacqui teases but I can tell the sharp edge of worry still skating through the words. I try to smile at her in reassurance but I'm sure the affect is barely more than a wince at best.

Taking several shallow breaths, I begin to struggle upright, making sure to keep my right arm tucked against my chest, careful not to jostle it. The motion sends little starbursts floating across my vision but I feel Jacqui's hands against my shoulder blades, coaxing me up. When I'm fully upright, I wheeze slightly and turn to look at Jacqui, and Andrea who's sitting beside her, with a grimacing smile. "It's great to be back," I cough out, going for joking but coming out pathetic. The two women give me similar frowns of pity, lines of anger deep around their mouths and eyes. For the first time, I wonder what my face must really look like. I'm guessing ten kinds of fucked up. Great.

"Ahh. Sleeping beauty awakens," a voice says behind me and I crane my neck to see Morales half turned in the passenger seat, another relieved grin meeting my gaze. I stick my tongue out at him but flinch when pain lances through my mouth. Confused, I pry my left hand from the floor and gingerly bring it up, tentative fingers searching. My tongue burns and when I press careful fingertips to the source, they come away a watery red. I furrow my brow at the sight and realize I must have lacerated my tongue at some point. That would account for the metallic taste, like pennies pressed against my teeth.

Morales frowns at the sight, the teasing light abruptly gone from his normally kind brown eyes. His round, bearded face looks suddenly exhausted. He seems to have aged ten years. "We're almost there mijita. Just a few more minutes."

I blink at his statement and look past his face, squinting at the bright afternoon light streaming through the windshield. The dusty dirt road that leads to camp meets my gaze and by the incline and some key landmarks I realize he's right. We're no more than two, three minutes out. Something akin to unease rises in me but I turn to face the back of the van before it can reach the base of my throat and choke me. I try to tell myself it's because craning my neck to look forward is painful. I know it's a pitiful lie at best.

Suddenly, I become aware of an obnoxious wailing, high pitched and repetitive. It grinds against my eardrums and sets my teeth on edge. I try to find the source by looking out the windshield again but my side flares red hot in protest and I hunch over with the pain, hissing quietly between clenched teeth. Concerned fingers trail across my back, my shin, but I shake my head in dismissal. "What the hell is that racket?"

Andrea's worry lined visage swims into my line of view. "What? The car alarm? That's just Glenn."

Glenn? I furrow my brow and go to ask what the hell she's talking about when I suddenly remember Rick's voice, assuring me Glenn was safe and sound, driving a vehicle that had drawn off the walkers so we could all get out. I vaguely recall him mentioning an alarm.

"Oh," I say because there's nothing else to be said. Jacqui reaches out and pats my knee lightly, the only part of my body that's not engulfed in pain.

"Don't worry sweetheart. Everything's fine. Just relax."

I try not to snort at the notion. Relax? Yeah right.

No one says anything else as we push the homestretch back to camp. T-Dog is stonily silent on the other side of the van but I can't bring myself to look at him. I'm not necessarily blaming him; I…just can't. Andrea is curled up closest to the door, chin propped up on her knees, head tilted to stare past me out the windshield. The older woman looks tired, exhausted. I don't blame her. First, she runs through the city collecting supplies, then she nearly dies, and in order to survive she had to sprint down ten flights of stairs and haul god knows how many pounds of food and other items into a van, all while dodging clawed hands and snarling teeth. My eyes slide over to the pile of bags that are strewn across the van's floor, piled against the door. And she succeeded. Triumphed. I think she has the right to be ready to drop. I think we all do.

Before long, Rick hits a bump in the road, a steep one, and I know we've arrived. Everyone else does too. I can see it, feel it. Jacqui sits up a little straighter beside me; Andrea lifts her head and smiles, big and wide and relived; Morales mutters something in Spanish and whatever it is, it sounds happy, elated. The car alarm had cut off a few moments ago which means Glenn's stopped, means that…we're back. It's like the tension bleeds out of us, draining away. The worry unhitches from our muscles; the sharp burn of panic is soothed and balmed. Unconsciously, we've all been holding our breath since that first gunshot in Atlanta and now we're finally breathing again. We're back. Safe and sound and victorious. We've got enough food to last for a damn good while. No one's going to starve. Even with the sickening churn of guilt deep in my gut, I can't help but smile when I think of Carl's face, Sophia's, and how they won't be getting any thinner any time soon.

Rick slows the van to a stop and shifts it into park. He kills the engine. Everyone takes a collective breath. Exhales. And then Andrea begins to laugh. Loud and exuberant and free and when I meet her gaze, she's grinning from ear to ear. There are tears in her eyes but I can tell they're from happiness and relief and Jacqui soon joins in, leaning over to wrap her arms around the other woman as they laugh together. It's freedom and it's joy and it's this statement of holy shit we are still fucking alive. Soon, my own cheeks hurt from reasons other than cuts and bruises and I'd laugh if I knew that the action wouldn't hurt so badly. As it is, I settle for just grinning like a loon, watching as Andrea pulls away from Jacqui and fumbles for the door, letting out a joyous whoop as she heaves the metal barrier up and out of the way, jumping to the ground and rounding the vehicle without any hesitation. Distantly, I hear her call out, "Amy!" followed by a familiar sounding screech and half a strangle sob. My grin dims into a soft smile. God. We're really fucking back.

T-Dog shuffles out of the van next, casting half a glance to the stack of supplies before shaking his head, apparently deciding to leave unpacking for later. Instead, he turns to help Jacqui out, holding her hand so she can slide into the hot afternoon sun. Jacqui flashes him a small smile and then looks back at me, tilting her head.

I flush and want to wave her on, tell her to go greet the rest of camp but I know she won't listen. And, more than that, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to get out on my own. My eyes trail down the length of my body and land on the swollen knob of my ankle. Well, there go my dreams of being a track star.

It takes some maneuvering and a lot of gritted teeth but eventually I'm standing on dirt and dried grass, a little out of breath and with sweat on my brow. Standing in the warm sun makes me suddenly realize that my clothes are still damp, clinging uncomfortably to gashes and bruises hidden along my body. I wince as shifting makes the fabric chafe against damaged skin. This is going to be a fun clean up.

"You alright?" T-Dog shifts in front of me and his brow his furrowed deeply, the bruise on his cheek a molten purple. I avert my eyes and shrug slightly, going for a reassuring smile.

"Better now that we're back. Nothing some R&R and some Advil can't fix." Jacqui frowns beside me and by the grip she has on my elbow, I can tell she doesn't buy a word I'm selling. I suddenly feel smothered, T-Dog on my left, hands hovering to catch me like I'm about to swoon or something, and Jacqui on my right, all mother hen and bleeding concern. I'm grateful and touched but I feel a little overwhelmed, used to being in the background, not the center of attention. Something else is eating at me, twisting darkly in the back of my mind, but I don't inspect it, don't want to. At least not now. Now, all I want is a second's worth of peace and quiet before I have to face the group and just about choke on Shane's I fucking told you so.

Pulling away from their helping hands, I lean against the van's warm side and wave at T-Dog and Jacqui. "Hey, why don't you guys so greet everyone? I'm pretty sure Lori and Abby are dying to see you Jacqui," I say, trying to coax them along. The two blink at me and even T-Dog opens his mouth to argue but I cut him off before he can get a word out. "I'll be right behind you. I…I just need a minute to take a breath is all." Which isn't a lie. It's not the whole truth but it isn't necessarily a lie.

Jacqui purses her lips but T-Dog's the one to catch my eye and before I avert my gaze again, I see he understands. "Come on Jacqui," he murmurs. He steps around me and places a hand on her shoulder, drawing her away. "Let the girl breathe. She'll be fine."

Fine is a relative term and I see the older woman thinks the same but after a moment of silent tug of war, she relents to be led away. Before she goes, however, she leans over and squeezes my left hand in a comforting gesture. "Call if you need anything sweetheart," she says and I nod, telling her I will.

When the two of them round the front of the van, I let the reassuring smile I've been wearing for what feels like forever slip away. Taking as deep of a breath as I can, I close my eyes and slump against the warmed metal at my back, trying to balance on one leg and with one arm pressed against the van so I don't topple over. In the distance I can hear jubilant crowing and laughter and though I do want to join in, I also revel in this silence because, let's face it, the second I step into everyone's line of sight, I won't be getting any silence or peace for god knows how long. I wish that no one would freak out when they see me. I mean, I know I look like I got tossed into a wood chipper and then possibly a meat tenderizer but hey, I'm alive right? These are just superficial wounds and, honestly, I've kind of had worse. Not that any of them know that but still. I'd say I'm not a child but I think Shane might actually self-combust if I say that after he takes a good look at me. I royally screwed the pooch on this one.

The sound of creaking metal and a tired sigh makes me snap open my eyes and turn to locate the noise. Rick is stepping out of the van's driver seat a few feet away, hand rubbing at the back of his neck and an exhausted grimace on his face. He hasn't seen me, has his eyes closed, and I'm just contemplating slipping around the back of the van again when he sighs once more and opens his eyes, ice blue gaze automatically landing on me. He blinks, surprised, and I send him a jaunty little wave, smiling awkwardly.

"Hi."

Rick flounders for a moment. "Uh…h…hello." Unsurprisingly, his eyes skitter across my face; down to the arm I have pressed to my side and the leg I have tucked up, swollen and achy. His brow furrows, deep worry lines creasing his forehead. "Do…would you like some help?" he asks, gesturing to my leg as he takes a small step towards me. I want to tell him no, send him ahead like Jacqui and T-Dog, but then I realize that I can't exactly hide back here forever and I'd rather walk up to meet everyone than somebody wander back to look for me and promptly freak the fuck out. Besides, maybe with Rick, Mr. Newcomer/Screw up/Savior by my side, some of the attention will shift from me to him. Maybe. Hopefully. Probably not.

After a moment's hesitation, I give him a small, shy, nod in response. "S…sure. Um…thank you."

Rick doesn't respond but he does step closer, within arm's reach. A frown mars his features, a calculating look in his blue eyes. "If I uh…if I can just hang on your arm for a little balance I think I can make it," I offer when the silence stretches too long to be comfortable. Rick meets my eyes.

"You sure?"

I nod. "Pretty. It won't exactly be comfortable but I can do it."

Not looking entirely convinced, Rick steps around to my left side anyway, offering his arm out like something straight from some damn movie, gentlemanly and smooth. Except I'm the farthest thing from a gratuitous actress as I fumble against his elbow and dig a little too deeply when my first step sends flames licking up my spine. Rick doesn't flinch and just asks if I am ok. I hum an affirmative despite the fact it's a lie.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just…just walk slowly."

Rick nods in assent and we start forward, inch by inch, shuffle by shuffle. We barely make it to the front of the van before I start laughing. "What's so funny?" Rick inquires. There's a confused smile on his lips when I look up and I only laugh harder, shaking my head as my vision swims.

"Nothing. I just feel like a ninety-year-old woman is all.

Instead of laughter, my statement prompts another frown. Deep blue eyes stare down at me for a moment and I feel my own smile slip because I know those eyes. Where do I know thos—

"I'm sorry you got hurt," Rick abruptly blurts and it's my turn to frown, confusion bleeding through me. There's more than just sympathy and pity in his tone. He sounds almost…guilty.

"O…oh. Well thank you?" I'm not really sure how to respond but when Rick's frown takes on a regretful hitch I can't help but say, "It wasn't your fault though. You don't have to look so guilty." I mean it's not like Rick's the one that beat my face in and tried to throw me off a roof.

For a moment, Rick is silent and I think we might just drop the topic but then he sighs, heavy and world wearied. "I should have gotten to that man, Merle, sooner. If I had—"

Ahh. I was right. I snort out a derisive laugh. "Are all cops this self-depreciating?" Rick looks bewildered so I continue.

"Not to be mean or anything but man…you don't even know me. And you definitely didn't know Merle." His name tastes foul in my mouth but the taste is not angry. I refuse to acknowledge what it is. "He and I didn't exactly play well with each other. This," I say, gesturing to myself, the blood drying on my skin. "Has been in the making for weeks now. Unfortunately, you just caught us on D-day."

Rick has his lips pursed, unconvinced, for a solid thirty seconds before a tentative smile tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head at me. "Alright. Alright. If you say so. I still feel bad though. You uh…you really took a beating."

I roll my eyes. Understatement of the year right there. "Tch. If you feel so guilty, how bout you channel some of that martyring into being a shield for me because when camp sees my face? I am in for some deep shit." I cringe when I think of Shane's reaction. Or, dear lord, Lori's. Deep, deep shit.

"What? They're gonna be mad at you for getting hurt?" Rick's voice is incredulous and when I cast him a glance out of the corner of my eye, he's openly gaping. I'm pretty sure I can hear the what kind of people are in this camp that is running through his head.

"Not necessarily," I say with a shrug. "More like…freaked the fuck out." Shifting my eyes from Rick to the main campsite, I see that we're only a few yards out and only one car blocks my line of sight. Sighing, I drum up all the strength I have left and plaster on my most convincing I'm fine smile. "Well…you'll see."

Before Rick can say anything else, we round the last car and officially step into camp.

Almost right smack dab in front of Shane. Oh joy. My luck abounds today.

Shane's about five yards away and the second he sees me, the relieved grin on his face does a 180 and I don't know what falls out first: his eyes or his words. I can feel my smile slipping and I brace myself for the biggest shit fest Shane Walsh can throw.

"A…Audrey?" The older man's voice jumps two whole octaves and there are too many emotions in that one word for me to pin down.

"Heyyy Shane," I chuckle nervously. "I um…I can explain."

Shane is looking at me like I should have started explaining yesterday but before I can get a word out, Rick goes stock still beside me and he inhales so fast, the air whistles as he sucks it into his lungs. Upon hearing the noise, Shane notices Rick for the first time, brown eyes clicking from me to him and I think thank god my plan of using a Rick as a diversion might actually work. Fumbling to get my tongue into action, I'm just about to introduce my personal cane for the moment but Shane beats me to the punch.

"R…Rick?" he chokes and I blink in shock. How…how the hell does he—?

"Shane?"

I tear my gaze from Shane and crane my neck to look up at the man by my side and…holy fuck. Rick's white as a sheet; blue eyes so wide they might just pop out, chap lips quivering as his face goes lax with utter and complete shock. Flickering my gaze over to Shane, I see he's in a mirrored state, except Shane looks like he just might hurl. He sways in his shoes and his arm drops like it's gone numb, shotgun scraping along the ground. My head's on a swivel as I look from Shane to Rick and back again, lips parted and brow furrowed. What the hell is going on here? Do they know each other?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I remember something Carl had said to me, just in passing, accidental as we hung out after I finished my drills. "Shane's not my dad. My…my dad died. But he and Shane were best friends. They were partners on the police force."

And then I remember that random flash of memory I had when I saw Rick's uniform, a similar streak of beige I couldn't place but now can see clutched tight in Lori's fingers, one random laundry day. Shane's shirt. A matching pair to Rick's. Cop's uniforms. The gears in my head turn, begin to click into place. A dawning sense of disbelief starts to crest me. Rick's shirt…and…and his eyes...that…déjà vu feeling I've had all day about them…

Holy fucking shit.

The second the realization hits me, the second I'm drawing in a gasp, Rick suddenly makes an odd noise. Half choke, half whimper. Complete disbelief.

"Oh…oh my god," he whispers and then, I hear it.

"Dad!"

I whip my head around and see Carl thirty feet away, tears streaming down his pale cheeks and mouth twisted between a smile and a sob. He's running, feet eating the distance between him and, Jesus Christ, his father. Lori's sprinting at his heels but Carl's faster, more desperate, and there's no way she is going to catch him.

Rick sees Carl and before I can even blink, he's tearing across camp to meet his son, wrenching so fast from my side that I can't get my arm out from the crook of his elbow fast enough, dragged forward three feet before I can manage to let go, stumbling and off balance. I nearly bite off my tongue when my momentum forces me to put my full weight on the injured ankle but I had no other choice unless I wanted to end up with a mouthful of dirt. For an instant, the pain in blinding. I flail and try to find something to lean against, collapse on, anything to stop the pressure on my leg, when all of the sudden, an arm wraps around my waist and pulls me to rest against a lean chest, mercifully taking me off my right ankle. My breathing is ragged at best as I press back against the support, shifting slightly so whoever's arm isn't brushing against the sore region of my rib cage where Merle kicked me. The person seems to understand because the pressure's quickly released.

"Haven't fallen enough today?"

Doing my best to scowl, I tilt my head up to look at my 'savior', squinting as the sun shines directly into my eyes. "This," I pant out. "Is totally not my fault."

Glenn smiles down at me and takes his hat off, slipping it back onto my head. The fabric's a little sweaty but the sunlight is immediately reduced, leaving me blinking in the replacing shadow. "It never is," he responds and I do my best to dig an elbow into his ribs. Since he only laughs, I don't think I did a proper job.

It takes a little maneuvering but Glenn manages to get the two of us next to an obnoxiously red Dodge Charger, the car he must have driven up here because I sure as hell have never seen it. With a slight moan, I slip out of Glenn's grasp and collapse against the warm siding, the small of my back digging into the door handle but with the weight off my ankle, I can't really be bothered to give a shit. When he's sure I'm situated, and not going to go sprawling into the dirt, Glenn sidles up next to me and nudges my unhurt arm, jerking his chin towards Rick and Carl who are embracing tightly, almost toppled over in the dirt with Rick on his knees. I blink stupidly at the sight because, honestly, I still can't fully believe what I'm watching. I feel out of sorts and out of place because really. What are the fucking odds that the day we go into the city is the day Carl's supposedly dead father strolls into Atlanta? What are the fucking odds that Lori and Carl are even part of our group? This…this is some serendipitous shit. I don't know if it's the multiple blows to the head I took today but the world seems tipped off its axis.

"You know," Glenn suddenly muses after a minute or two. "Rick had mentioned something about his wife and son before, right after you passed out." The two of us watch in shock and amazement as Rick hauls Carl off the ground, a good sized twelve-year-old boy, and stumbles the last five feet to Lori, who looks like she's seen a ghost. I blink at the thought. Huh. For all intents and purposes, I guess she has. There's a split hesitation in the older woman's features, a breath and a blink, before she flings her arms around Rick, Carl squished between the two. From this distance, I hear a broken sob as Lori buries her face in the line of Rick's shoulder. I'm not even sure whom it came from.

"But it's so fucking surreal. I mean Lori and Carl?" Glenn continues with a shake of his head. "Small world huh?"

A small frown pulls at the corners of my lips as I watch the Grimes family reunite. "Yeah. Small world," I mutter and, for some reason, the words come out just a little bit bitter.

#

"Are you sure you don't want Dale in here? O…or maybe Shane? Jacqui even. They'd know how to help you a lot better than I can."

I don't look up from where I'm squirming against the scratchy blue sheets of one of the RV's beds, shifting to try and find a less painful position. After the hundredth time of rearranging my hips and legs, I concede defeat and slump against the pillows, doing my best to ignore the pain pulsing through every inch of me.

"I'm sure Amy," I answer, not opening my eyes. Bursts of color bloom across my closed eyelids and I find myself absentmindedly tracking them. Red. Green. Purple. Aqua. "Shane's busy with Rick and everything and even if he wasn't, I wouldn't want him in here."

"Why?" Amy asks from the darkness. There's a flare of pink that accompanies her question and I can't help but giggle quietly. Amy's voice is pink. Lolling my head to the side, I drowsily open my eyes and glance at my friend who sits two feet away from me, perched lightly on the edge of the opposite bed, Dale's bed. The blinds are pulled over the windows but the setting sun still glows through behind her, coloring the edges of her hair a dull orange. Her pale face is cast into contrasting shadows and all I can really see is the bright color of her wide eyes. I struggle to focus on that icy color as I try to find the words to respond.

"Because," I eventually say and I don't miss the way the word slurs off my tongue. "He'd either bitch at me some more for getting hurt or…or be all broody and guilty, like this shit is his fault. I don't wanna deal with that."

Amy purses her full lips and still looks uncertain. She tugs at the loose strands of hair that have escaped the bun hanging lopsidedly on one side of her head and her lips alternate from being blanched with pressure or red from being gnawed on. "Ok but what about Dale or Jacqui? They won't get angry."

I roll my eyes tiredly. "True but they'd mother hen me to death. You should of seen Jacqui in the city." I furrow my brow when I realize how I sound. "Not…not that I'm ungrateful for her help. But I just…this will go a lot smoother if I'm not having to answer a million questions and can bandage myself."

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Shuffling forward, Amy looks kind of lost and frustrated, her delicate features scrunched up. She has my bag, the smaller one, clutched between her fingers like a lifeline. The fabric is dusty and dingy but I can see the clothes I had asked Amy to grab sticking out of the top. I probably could have just worn the clothes that were already in it, new ones from the city, but I wanted something comfortable and worn, something familiar, and the ratty black basketball shorts and dark green T-shirt that I usually slept in would do the trick. I smile gently at her and gesture vaguely to the pack.

"Grabbing my things was a good start." Amy blinks down at her lap like she just realized she was still holding the bag. A light flush crawls across her cheeks and she sets it down beside her. My head swims as I track the movement and I can't help how my eyes flutter shut again. "And besides," I add. "I'll need help with some things. Like I can't see my face to fix it and I don't really want to get up to look in the mirror. That's where you come in."

It's quiet for a few seconds and I listen to the air wheeze out of my damaged throat, the cicadas humming just outside. "I don't want to hurt you," Amy suddenly whispers and when I blearily open my eyes, her own blue orbs are moist and a distressed frown mars her face. Funnily enough, even though I'm the one that's hurt, I'm the one that feels like I should comfort her. Mindful of my precarious position, I reach across the small space between us and brush the back of her hand. Amy starts at the soft gesture and looks at me with wide, wide eyes.

"You won't," I tell her with a smile. "I'll tell you what to do. It'll be fine."

Amy exhales shakily but nods in assent and I pat her hand. "Alright. Now we just have to wait for Glenn to get back with the—"

"Water? Way ahead of you."

I blink at the sudden voice and look up to see Glenn standing in the doorway, brow furrowed and tongue sticking out in concentration as he cradles a large bucket of water in his hands. Carefully, he shuffles out of the narrow hallway and into the bedroom unit, setting the bucket at Amy's feet. "One bucket of boiled, sanitized water. As requested," he says with a groan, straightening up from his hunched over position. There's sweat lining his brow and trickling down his cheeks, his black hair plastered down with it but when he meets my eyes, he's smiling. I find myself tiredly grinning back in response.

"Thanks Glenn. You're the best."

He nods solemnly in response and walks over to sit plop down next to Amy on the bed. "I know," he says in all seriousness but bursts out into laughter when Amy elbows him in the side. "I'm kidding. I'm kidding! Jeeze." I roll me eyes at their antics and shift over to the edge of the bed, glancing down at the rippling water Glenn's just brought in.

It's still warm from the fire when I trail my fingers across the surface but not to the point of discomfort. Actually, it's the perfect temperature and I find myself wishing with all my might that I could just soak in it, head to toe, and relax. "Do you have a rag or something?" I ask Glenn. I'm suddenly aware of the blood and grime coating my skin and I'm itching to scrub it all off, wash clean of this day, the city, the walkers…Merle. I'm half contemplating just using the shirt I have on now because it has to be splattered with blood by now, unsalvageable. I'm not all too worried about it; it's just a crappy tee. If I can get Glenn to rip it into shreds...oh no wait. If I use the shirt as a rag Glenn's gonna have to leave cuz while I find him a good friend, I'm not exactly about to start stripping in front of him. I narrow my eyes as I try to think of another course of action but my head's pounding steadily and I can't seem to think straight. Fuck.

"Um sorry," Glenn says. "I got the bandages and stuff from Dale but I didn't think—"

I wave him off, the motion uncoordinated and sluggish. "No, no. It's fine. I'll just—"

"I have one."

Glenn and I blink at the quiet admission and turn to Amy. She blushes and reaches for my bag that she had set aside before. "Well actually, you have one Dree. I saw it when I was grabbing your clothes."

What the hell? I don't remember…I know every single item of clothing I still own. Nothing comes close to a rag. Brow furrowed, I watch her dig around my pack for a minute before she makes something of a triumphant noise and retracts her hand, flash of blue clenched tight in her fingers. "Here," she says and offers the scrap of fabric to me. I take it with numb fingers.

It's the remains of what used to be a shirt, dark blue and plaid. Probably a button down, stiff and starched. Now, though, it's worn and soft, holes in some places, the dark stain of blood in others. Unconsciously, I find myself winding my fingers through the rips and tears. There's an echo of quiet laughter in my head and the flash of mirth filled blue orbs. "Yer face is all kinds of fucked up."

The memory brings an exasperated smile to my lips but the expression is gone as quickly as it had come. I sigh and clench my fingers, crumbling the rag in my fist, trying to ignore the ache in my chest that has nothing to do with bruised ribs.

"Audrey?"

I blink and lift my head to find Glenn and Amy staring at me with concern. "You ok?" Glenn continues and I dizzily realize that I've been silent for god knows how long. I try to smile and it comes out stilted.

"Uh yeah," I mutter. "Sorry."

Shaking my thoughts away, I painstakingly shift so I'm sitting on the edge of the bed instead of lounging across it; slowly swinging my legs around so I can somewhat straddle the bucket between the beds. Amy and Glenn make half aborted moves to steady me, fingers gently brushing my right knee, my left wrist. I wince at the pain in my ribs and the rush of blood that makes my ankle throb and my head swim but I manage to get situated without too much damage.

"Need help?"

I shake my head at Amy, breath a little labored. "Nah. I'm…I'm good. Just gonna get some of the dirt off first." I wasn't exactly looking forward to this bit. I have to scrub most of the injuries like road rash to get all the dust and grit out, so I don't get an infection. Which means…this was going to hurt like a bitch. Excellent.

The water is cooler than before when I dip the rag in, edging closer to cold than tepid. I mourn the loss silently as I squeeze the excess water out. For a moment, I pause, not knowing where to begin. The discolored and swollen skin of my right wrist calls to me but I remember the last time I messed with it, just lightly trying to rotate the joint. I don't have any more food in my gut but dry heaving and dribbling out bile and water doesn't sound all to appealing. I know I'll have to deal with it eventually but I decide to leave it for last.

Instead, I bring the wet fabric up to my face, hovering over my left cheek. "Do you think…you could tell me where the cuts are?" I ask suddenly, unable to distinguish the pains of bruises and the ones of gashes. Amy blinks at me but bobs her head, remembering our earlier discussion.

"Y…yeah," she stutters and then her eyes skip around my face before landing on my right cheek. She lifts a slightly shaking finger and points. "Um there. There are uh…scratches and scrapes." Scratches? I'm confused for a second because I don't remember Merle scratching me but Glenn speaks up, quiet and subdued.

"It's from the rooftop," he murmurs. His eyes are dark but blank. "The gravel." Extending my index finger, I probe at the area lightly and hiss when I come into contact with gritty sand and dirt, wet with what I assume is blood. The memory of sharp rocks digging into my skin comes back to me and I remember that, when Merle kicked my leg out from under me, I went sprawling face first into the rooftop. Fuck. Road rash indeed. God this is going to suck.

I'm just about to press the rag against the smarting area when Glenn suddenly reaches out and wraps his hand around mine. I tilt my head in confusion but don't stop him when he extracts the wet rag from my grasp. As he shifts closer, I can see a flush stretched across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a bright streak of red. The thought that it's a little warm in here flits across my mind and I try to reach behind me to turn on the small fan that's latched onto the window but the first firm press against my cheeks makes me freeze with a pained grunt. The pressure immediately retracts and Glenn's muttering apologies.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing! You're hurting her," Amy cries out and it's only when I hear her voice, and a flash of pink sears across my eyelids, do I realize I've clenched my eyes shut. Squinting open my eyes, I see Glenn warding off blows from Amy, hand still half outstretched towards me.

"Amy! Stop! I'm trying to help," he argues, ducking another slap. Amy scowls at him and settles for smacking his shoulder.

"That didn't look like helping." She looks like she wants to berate him more but I cut her off.

"No, he was," I say and when Amy shoots me a skeptical look I nod at her, nausea roiling at the back of my throat. My eyes have a hard time focusing and the word concussion flares to life at the back of my skull. I ignore it and try to concentrate on the girl in front of me. "I'm serious. Look. Let me see your hand." She hesitates for a moment, eyes narrowed at me, but relents, scooting forward so she's almost sliding off the bed. Her hand is warm and smooth in mine and I try not to compare the flawless expanse of skin to my scarred and calloused one. Tentatively, I lift our hands to my cheek and rest her fingers against the torn skin. I wince and she gasps, trying to tug away, but I keep her still, fingertips dug into the scrapes.

"Wait, wait. Hold still for a second."

Amy is wan and wide-eyed but after a second's worth of struggle, she subsides. "Do you feel that?" I ask her when she's grown still. "The grit and dirt?" Amy's jaw clenches and I watch her swallow thickly but she nods, fingertips twitching against the dust and grime in my cuts. Slowly, I pry her hand away and guide it down to the bucket of water, dipping her hand in. "I have to get all that out. Scrub it. Like road rash. It's gonna hurt." I glance over at Glenn and lock eyes with him. "But I'd rather have it done fast and firmly, despite the pain, than draw it out."

Glenn purses his lips and half extends his hand to me, rag dangling limply from his fingers in silent question. I bite my lip but quickly stop when the split in it stings. "Could you do it?" I ask. "I can't see where exactly to scrub and won't know when all the gravel's out." He hesitates, a flicker in his dark brown eyes, and I smile to reassure him.

He considers me for a moment but then sighs. "Fine," he agrees, slipping off the bed. I watch curiously as he picks up the bucket and shifts it to the side, towards the back wall. Amy glances down at it, the bucket at her feet, and furrows her brow in confusion. Glenn doesn't offer any explanation as he squirms in the small space between the beds, pulling his legs under him and kneeling on the floor. I start in surprise when he shuffles closer, between my knees, careful of my right ankle, and reaches for my head with his free hand. It's not until he dips the rag again and has it poised inches from my face that I realize he's trying to brace me. Oh. Gritting my teeth, I nod in permission and Glenn's fingers fumble along my jaw line before reaching around and palming the back of my head, caught in the tangles of my hair.

I take a deep breath and my eyes slip closed. "Do it," I tell him. "And please, just get it over with the first time."

There's a moments grace period, in which I imagine Glenn squaring his jaw and nodding, before the grip on the back of my head tightens slightly and the wet press is against my cheek again, firm and unwavering, just before it starts to drag harshly across my skin. My body seizes at the pain and I try to breathe through it but the soft fabric suddenly feels like steel wool and Glenn's hand scrubs vigorously. A whine rises in the back of my throat despite my efforts to jam it back down into my chest. Distantly, I think I hear Amy say something but I can't distinguish the words, lost in darkness and the flashes of red behind my eyes.

It takes what feels like an eternity but eventually the rag is peeled away from my face and I hear the splash of it as it sinks into the bucket. Panting slightly, I open my watery eyes to see the blurry image of Glenn, inches away. My face feels raw and shredded, worse than the initial injury, and the only comforts I have are Glenn's fingers kneading the back of my neck and the drip of cold water against the overheated skin of my brow.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Glenn's murmuring more to himself than to me. His touch in gentle now as it sooths across my forehead, trailing down my temple, and ghosting over my nose, lip, chin. I flinch each time he brushes a new injury but it's not nearly as bad as the burning in my cheek, or the constant pulsing of my ankle and wrist so I deal. Every so often, Glenn will dip the rag again, wash it off, and then he'll be right back to cleansing the blood of my skin. At one point, he murmurs for me to close my eyes and when I do, the cold compress is laid against the swollen heat of my left one. Despite all the pain, I sigh in relief. A few minutes go by and then Glenn's touch trails lower, down the curve of my jaw. His hand becomes firmer again when I tip my head back slightly and I can feel each individual indent Merle's fingers left in my skin, each furrow his nails carved when I shoved him back. After the dirt is cleared, Glenn lingers slightly on my neck, stroking the bruised skin and when I crack open my eyes and glance down, there is guilt heavy in his features, a black shadow flitting through his eyes.

Reaching up, I wrap my fingers over his own, gently pulling the rag from his grasp when he glances up in question and concern. I set the rag against my knees. "Thank you," I say quietly, aware of the way my voice sounds like a smoker's rasp, harsh and grating. I'm hoping he realizes that I'm not just thanking for this but for the roof as well, for pulling me back over the edge. By the smile he gives me, a flicker of a frown along its edges, I can tell he does.

With everything cleansed, Amy grabs the bag of bandages and medical supplies from where Glenn had dropped them on the bed before he left to get water. I hear the crinkle of plastic and glance over at her. She holds out a tube of antiseptic ointment and a box of gauze to me. I smile at her and then nudge Glenn with my left knee, silently asking him to sit back up on the bed because I can't reach Amy with my left hand since he's in the way. With a small flush, he scrambles back and Amy rolls his eyes at him before leaning forward to hand me the ointment.

"This is the only tube," she tells me and I frown at the half empty container until I realize that it's the same one that Dale had let me use when I got attacked by that weasel. I guess the rest of the supplies from the city haven't been unloaded because I distinctly remember more tubes and sprays of disinfectant stuffed in the sides of one of those packs. I still feel guilty that I might use the rest of this tube on a few scrapes and small cuts. However, as I reach to take it anyway, Amy suddenly frowns at me and draws her hand back.

"Oh," she says softly. She bites her lip and looks apologetic. "S…sorry. Would you…I mean…do want me to help?" I cock my head at her in question but then I see how her eyes flicker to my lap, my wrist that's tucked tightly out of the way, black and blue and I'm starting to think broken. There's pity in her gaze and I suddenly realize she doesn't think I can fix up the wounds on my face, doesn't think I have the dexterity. I try to think back and remember if I had told her I was ambidextrous or not. I vaguely recall me saying something to that effect before, but I think it was my first day at camp. I'm not surprised that Amy's forgotten.

I go to remind her but then I see the tentative question in her eyes, bright and begging, and I realize that she wants to help. Like Glenn. Gentle fingers and concerned eyes. A part of me wants to refuse, ingrained reflex of wanting to lick my wounds in privacy, but I asked Glenn and Amy to accompany me in here and I remember how I told Amy she could do this not fifteen minutes ago. In the end, I relent.

"Sure," I tell her. She smiles at me and I chuckle, biting back a cringe as I start to shift to sit more in front of her. Before I get an inch over though, Amy stars waving frantically.

"No! Don't move. Hold on."

Scooping up all the supplies, she cradles them awkwardly to her chest and does this combination of a shuffle and a jump to land on the bed beside me, bouncing on the thin mattress. I wince as my arm is jarred but turn my face away sharply so she doesn't see. Glenn spares me a concerned glance but I shake my head and once the pain subsides, turn back to Amy. Ready to help, she already as a dollop of ointment on her finger and a crease between her eyes as she concentrates on my face. I lean back so I don't stare at her cross eyed and giggle when she follows.

"Amy, back up a bit. Personal space."

Even if her face is slightly out of focus, I can still see the slight frown of…hurt?...that pulls at her lips. "Sorry," she says and shifts back a few inches. Her hand still hovers between us, the ointment starting to slip across her skin so I turn my head to bare my scraped cheek at her.

"Just rub it in. It can't hurt anymore so just coat the whole cheek. Then we'll put some gauze on it. Oh, and please dab some on the other open cuts you see as well," I add as an afterthought.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Amy bite her lip but take a deep breath to calm herself. "Ok. L…like this?" There are suddenly ginger fingers probing against my cheek and ok I was wrong. It could hurt more. Clenching my fingers in the fabric of my cargo pants, I breathe through the smarting stings. Come on Audrey. You've had worse. I nod tightly. "Yeah. Just like that."

Amy's generous with the ointment and her fingers glide across my cheek, trace the bridge of my nose where I know there must be a split, crawling up to a burning gash on my temple, before finally dropping to the cut in the center of my lower lip.

"Ow!" I cry out when she pushes a bit too harshly on the swollen skin. It doesn't really hurt all that bad but for some reason, the silence of the RV has started to grate on my nerves. Amy draws back like she's been burned and she stares at me with wide apologetic eyes.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm sorry! Dree I'm so sor—"

Half way through her frantic apology I start to grin and it isn't long before I break down in laughter, half gasping in pain and half in mirth. "S…sorry Amy," I pant out, wincing as my side berates me for laughing. "I…I couldn't help it."

Amy gapes at me incredulously, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, before she suddenly realizes I was joking and her fair skin flames red. Shrieking in indignation, she goes to hit me but halts mid motion, not knowing where I'm hurt and where I'm not. After a moment, she drops her hand back into her lap. Her lips are twisted into a dirty scowl and she glares at me.

"Dree that wasn't fucking funny! I thought I hurt you." She goes to move away, probably to sit on the other bed with Glenn again, but I twist my body and reach out with my left hand, tugging at her elbow before she can get fully upright.

"I know, I know," I say. Regret burns quick through my veins and already the split second's amusement I had found slips away. "I'm sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood. It feels like a funeral in here."

Amy's glare doesn't lessen but she slowly sits back down. "Well what do you expect? You almost died Audrey." I grimace at her use of my full name. "If Glenn hadn't pulled you back over the edge—"

"Wait," I interrupt, eyes wide. "How…how do you know about that?"

Outside the group that went to Atlanta, no one else knows the extent of what Merle did. Not for lack of trying though. After the fiasco with the Grimes family died down, people had suddenly remembered that, oh yeah, Audrey looks like she just went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. Unfortunately, with my ankle screwed to hell I couldn't exactly run anywhere so I ended up plopped down in front of the fire pit, feet propped up with about ten other people yelling back and forth over me. Accusations had flown left and right, mostly from Shane, which was surprising because I had thought he was going to go off with Rick and Lori and Carl but then I remembered glimpses of him and Lori in the grass and suddenly it wasn't the surprising at all but I wasn't about to touch the topic with a ten foot pole. Still, Shane had been in rare form, demanding to know what happened from Morales, from T-Dog, even setting in on Jacqui when the other two men could only stutter out responses under his wrath. Eventually, after screaming myself hoarse, the gag inducing sensation of blood trickling down the back of my throat, I managed to get him, and Dale and Amy even, to shut up long enough to I could get a word in edgewise. Still, Shane had been all rapid-fire questions and I had tried to answer them as quickly and concisely as possible. Yes, the trip was a success; the supplies were in the van. No, none of us got bit. No, Merle wasn't with us and yes there was a reason for that. He was high on something. No I don't know what it was. Yes, I'm sure he was high. He and T-Dog got in an argument, but only after Merle put us in danger, shooting from the rooftop and drawing walkers to us. Yes, we asked him to stop it. Yes, he's the one that caused all my injuries. He was riled up and pissed off. You know he's not my biggest fan. No, he didn't shoot at me, though he did try. Which is why we had to subdue him. No, no one else is badly injured; a few bruises on T-Dog, one or two on Morales. Yes, I'm aware of what I look like. Yes, I'll be fine. No, there's nothing more to tell.

Shane didn't look all that convinced, eyes glued to the finger shaped bruises creating a perverse necklace around my throat but, when Morales looked like he wanted to speak up, add something more, I cut him off effectively, pinning him with a pointed stare that kindly said to shut the fuck up. Merle trying to murder me is my business and while half of camp already saw it I didn't want an instant replay on pay-per-view. This wasn't sports commentary. It might have been the steel in my wrecked voice or the flint in my narrowed eyes but Morales seemed to get the message. He pursed his lips and didn't look happy but, thankfully, remained silent all the same. A handful of spared glances at each of the other members of the scavenge group revealed them all to be varying levels of confused and upset but no one said a word to contradict me. Thus, my being almost tossed off a ten-story roof remained a semi-secret; probably not for long but hopefully long enough so Shane wouldn't physically handcuff me to the RV like a damn child.

But, apparently, it hadn't even remained a secret for a full hour. If Shane knows already…I am so fucked.

Amy purses her lips, like she's physically going to sew her mouth shut and not tell me, but her eyes do this miniscule click across the room and she doesn't even have to finish the look before I'm whirling on Glenn.

"You told her?"

Glenn winces at the pitch and intensity of my voice but Amy's the one to respond, and her words have me spinning back to face her, head spinning from the abrupt movements, vision graying around the edges.

"Yeah he told me," she says. Her face is pinched, creases dug into the normally smooth expanse of her brow. "I mean come on Dree, you thought you could keep you almost being murdered a secret?"

I frown at her and duck my head, kicking absentmindedly at the bucket of murky water at my feet. "Well, I was hoping," I mutter petulantly.

"Why?" Amy asks incredulously. I lift one shoulder in a shrug. There are a million reasons why I didn't say anything. I don't want Shane on my ass. I don't want that pity in everyone's eyes. The oh look at that poor abused little girl who almost got killed look. Yeah. Been there. Done that. Burned that T-shirt. And, on top of all those reasons, I just don't like broadcasting my shit. If somehow, I had been alone with Merle when he tried to shove me off the roof and, by some miracle, lived to tell the tale…I wouldn't have fucking told it. It would have been just another secret I bore with me to the grave. I wouldn't have told Glenn. I wouldn't have told Amy. It would have been between Merle and me and God, if that third party even exists.

"I…I don't know," I mutter. "Just…didn't want to make a big deal out of it."

Amy snorts and when I look up at her she's gazing at me like I have too heads. "What?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "I just…just don't get you. First that thing with Daryl and now Merle?" Amy tilts her head, as if she's trying to make sense of a difficult puzzle or translate a foreign, far off language. "Merle tried to kill you. And Daryl…I don't see that much of a difference. Every time you go off with a Dixon you end up bloody and fucked up." I bristle at the last comment but she keeps going. "Why are you defending them?"

A headache thrums in my temples, behind my eyes, pulsing like a living thing. I clench my eyes shut against the aggravating pain, more of a nuance then anything else compared to the swollen joints of ankle and wrist. I'm tired. So very fucking tired. I feel like an eternity has passed since I was sitting in the dark of my tent, staring at the faces of ghosts and phantoms, and it hasn't even been a full day. I want nothing more than to just flop down on this bed, even if it isn't mine, turn my back on this day and sleep. But I know I can't; not yet. Amy's not going to let this go and maybe if I just explain this to her now I'll be able to rest sooner rather than later.

Sighing, I drop my gaze, the pulse in my temples becoming harsher. Daryl's rag is still lying limply in my lap, wet and almost purple now, my blood staining nearly every inch. I reach out and pick it up, turning it in my grasp as I consider what I'm about to say, how I can phrase my thoughts to make sense. I curse the way my eyes slip out of focus, tired and worn as I lean forward to dip the rag again. Water drips through my fingers as I squeeze.

"Did you know that Daryl gave me this rag? The day I showed up with all those scratches, blood everywhere." Not looking up, I drag the wet cloth down the length of my right arm, cutting through dirt and sweat and blood. The skin beneath is lightly scraped, not enough to break skin though, and somewhat sunburned. "We had been clearing the traps he's set up around camp, came across this weasel that was strung up in a tree. I wasn't paying attention and it dropped down on me." I chuckle lightly at the memory and stop right at the edge of my bruised wrist, tilting my head and really looking at the injury. Something at the back of my mind points out that I'm avoiding the real topic, avoiding Glenn and Amy, but fixing my injuries is practical right? I'm getting to the point and if I can't meet their eyes because I'm taking care of my wrist well…that's neither here nor there.

"I was so stupid," I continue, distinctly aware of the confusion permeating the air, the bewildered shifting of Glenn and Amy's shadows as the sunset continues to leak through the weak 70s blinds that we've drawn across the window. "That demon weasel almost clawed the eyes out of my skull. Probably would have if Daryl hadn't yanked it off of me. The bastard wouldn't accept any blame for what happened, not out loud, but I know he felt bad. Gave me this clean rag—well it was clean before—to stop the bleeding; even offered some first aid when we made it back to camp."

Setting Daryl's rag to the side, I prod along my wrist, teeth gritted so hard my jaw aches. But, I continue with my exploration nonetheless, tentative ghost fingers searching for the broken jut of a bone, as I keep talking, almost babbling. "Kind of surprised me ya know? I didn't expect him to be so…nice? I don't know. But that's why I went back to him, later, to help skin what we found in the traps. God, it was disgusting at first. But it got better. A little bit. I'm actually pretty good with a knife now; can cut up a squirrel in nothing flat. Daryl didn't teach me how to skin them though so I'm not really sure—"

A sudden hand on my knee startles me and I snap my head up, hissing when my fingers press too harshly on swollen skin. Amy doesn't remove her hand, just continues to stare at me with this throw for a loop gaze and I bite my lip, letting the slight pain calm me down. Fuck. Rambling.

"Dree," she starts and I take a deep breath to calm down. "What the hell are you talking about?" She doesn't sound upset but I think that's just because she's so puzzled as to why I'm blathering about some stupid rag when we had previously been discussing Merle almost killing me and my defending of apparent horrible people. Funnily enough, all of it's connected. I just have to show her that.

Just say it, I think. Just blurt it all out.

My tongue lifts off the bottom of my mouth and I part my dry lips.

"Can you hand me the medical supplies?"

Chicken shit.

Amy stares at me, looking like she wants to argue.

"The ointment too," I add before dropping my eyes again to my wrist.

The RV's bedroom takes on an exasperated tension and even know I don't look I know Glenn and Amy are sharing glances. After a few moments, there's the rustle of plastic and fabric and then Amy's slim hand presses the items to my side, lying them against the outside of my thigh. I fumble for them as I turn my arm ever so slowly, tears blurring my vision as I look down at the pale underbelly of my forearm.

Fortunately, the skin isn't broken. It's swollen and tight but intact. Grasping the antiseptic, I bring the tube to my mouth and twist the cap off with my teeth, letting the small piece of plastic fall into my lap. There's only a little ointment left but I manage to get the last of it out onto my wrist, three large dollops, warm and slick and slightly stinging.

"I'm not defending them. Well not Merle," I amend when I finally find the words. "He…he did what he did. I'm not lying about that but…"

Slowly, I begin to rub the ointment into my skin, being as careful as I can but my breaths come shallowly as pain replaces the blood in my veins. It hurts, god it fucking hurts, but even as tears burn the back of my eyes I dimly note that the pain isn't as agonizing as before. I can move it, not very much, but I can bear it without throwing up again. Silently, I'm grateful for small mercies.

Done with the ointment, I continue my mostly monologue as I cast my eyes about for some bracing material for the makeshift splint I'm about to make. "The truth is, if you haven't already deduced, I kind of have this trust issue. But, more than that, I just don't like attention." My brow furrows because I don't see anything I can use for the splint. "If nobody needs to know, if I can deal with something or if…well if it's just nobody's business than mine I tend to not say anything. This isn't just with you either; so don't think that. It's…it's just how I am."

Who I am too, I think, but I don't say that part out loud.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Glenn's feet shift along the floor, shuffling to the side as he leans off the bed towards the hallway. A second later, he's sitting back down and nudging at my shin, a wooden ruler grazing the fabric of my cargo pants. I look up at him in surprise but he shrugs and presses the stick into my still ointment slick fingers. I cast him a small smile of thanks. The ruler is old and worn, half faded tick marks and the stray grey lines of pencil lead. I feel a moments guilt because this is Dale's and I didn't ask for it but then I tell myself I'll give it back when my wrist is healed, just as it was. Satisfied, I turn back to the medical bag to look for an ace bandage.

"So you really just…rather not talk about it? That's it?" Amy says slowly, as if she's struggling to understand. I try to remember that Amy's an 'Amy' and how suffering in silence is more of an 'Audrey' thing.

I nod and focus on the beige bandage I've uncovered, unwinding it as I lay my arm flat across my thigh. "Yeah. Exactly," I reply and slowly wind the bandage around my wrist.

No one says anything for what feels like a full minute. I keep my eyes firmly glued to my lap, jaw clenched tight and breath coming in pants as the pressure from the bandage squeezes my swollen skin. I've just laid the ruler along the inside of my wrist, over one layer of bandage, curling my fingers to press one end into my palm when Glenn speaks up.

"But…but don't you think Shane should at least know?" he asks. "About Merle.

My fingers still and my splint lies half finished as I close my eyes and sigh. "Why? What good will that accomplish? It's over, done. I'm alive and relatively fine. Unless," I frown, opening my eyes to lock gazes with Glenn. "You've already told him too."

Glenn blushes and looks down sheepishly. He rubs at the back of his head and I suddenly realize his hat is still on the bed beside me, having been dropped there when I first stumbled into the bedroom. "Uh no. I…only told Amy. And…and that's because she made me!"

Amy makes a scandalized noise beside me and gropes for something along the bed, flinging her arm out when her fingers fumble along a wayward item. Glenn barely ducks the roll of medical tape.

"Hey! It's the truth!"

I can't help but laugh at their antics as I pick at the end of the ace bandage and absentmindedly finishing the homemade splint. I dig the little metal clip, sharp teeth on either end, into the end of the ace bandage and pin it to my wrist. The clip holds and the splint, haphazard and nowhere near hospital standards, is done. "She twist your arm Glenn?" I tease and he turns to me with a pout.

"I did no such thing," Amy huffs. "I merely asked to know what happened."

I glance askance at the blonde at my side and see the way her blue eyes twinkle with mirth. "Why do I not believe you?" I muse.

Amy rolls her eyes and looks like she's going to quip back but a sudden knock at the doorway cuts her off. There's a smile on Dale's face as he stands framed in the hallway but the edges look tired and strained.

"Hey Dale," Amy greets. Her voice is friendly and calm, at ease with the older man. Beside her, I squirm awkwardly on the bed, aware of the haphazardly thrown medical supplies sprawled across the bed, the wet ends of my hair and the gleam of ointment against the plane of my brow and arcs of my cheeks. "What's up?"

Dale's smile widens ever so slightly at the cheerful lilt to Amy's words. "Dinner's almost ready. I just wanted to come check on you guys, see if you're all right." Blinking at his words, I look past Glenn's head to the window, noticing how the light bleeding through the old, worn blinds is deeper and redder than before, the last colors of a dying sunset. When I glance back at Dale, I don't miss the way his eyes flicker in my direction and all I can do is plaster on a stilted grin.

"We're fine. Just finishing up Audrey's bandages." Amy says, holding up a stray piece of gauze and waving it lazily through the air. Dale tracks the motion before tilting his head at her.

"Don't you think that would be better put to use on Audrey's cheek?" he laughs quietly, gesturing vaguely in my direction. I barely refrain from bring my fingertips up to brush my cheek. Amy wrinkles her nose at him.

"We were getting there!" she protests but the attempt is half-hearted. "Glenn was distracting us though. I think you should take him with you." She points towards the door, brow furrowed and face serious.

Glenn sputters and lifts up his hands in an innocent gesture. He looks to Dale with a wounded expression: wide eyes and gaping mouth. "W…what? N…no I…I wasn't…"

Amy explodes into giggles and I feel the warm press of her as she leans into my side. Turning my neck slightly, I catch a glance of pale blue eyes squinted in laughter and the golden flash of long blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders. "I was just kidding," she says. Shooting Glenn a grin, she leans over and nudges his knee. "Glenda's been a real help."

Dale rolls his eyes good-naturedly and shakes his head with a chuckle. "Don't be too hard on him Amy. Instead of busting his chops, why don't you help Audrey finish cleaning up huh? You don't want to miss tonight's dinner."

Perking up at the mention of food, Amy leans against me even harder, warm breath tickling my cheek. "Oooh," she coos in interest as I shove her a few inches back. "What did you guys cook?"

"Well if you want do know, better come on out," Dale teases. Amy sticks her tongue out at him but ends up grinning.

"Alright, alright. We'll be right out." She waves her hand dismissively. "But really, take Glenn with you."

"Why do I have to leave?" Glenn complains. In response, Amy leans back and reaches behind me, fumbling for something and when he straightens, Glenn's red hat is clenched in her fingers. Stretching across the small space between us, Amy jams the hat on his head, pulling the brim so it dips below his eyes. Glenn tries half heartedly to twist away.

"Because," Amy says, tugging one last time on the brim. "Dree needs to change and I don't think she wants you ogling her as she strips."

"Amy!" I cry out, cheeks pooling with blood, making the cuts sting and burn. She turns to me with wide and innocent eyes that I don't buy for a second.

"What?"

I shake my head at her, trying to quell the embarrassed flush to my cheeks, the tips of my ears. However, when I look up, I'm afraid Glenn might burst a blood vessel. He's crimson from the roots of his hair to the ridges of his collarbones and his eyes are darting everywhere but towards Amy and I, like I've already started changing or something. Amy giggles in my ear and Glenn stumbles to his feet, nearly kicking over the water bucket in his frantic haste.

"Oh shi—"

He snags the bucket before it tips over and fumbles to pick it up. "I…uh…I'm just gonna," he gestures helplessly at the door, still not meeting our eyes. "I'll see you guys at dinner." Without another word, he slides past Dale, bumping into the doorway on his way out and sloshing water onto the floor as well as the front of his shirt. Dale watches Glenn go by with a fond shake of his head and he actually chuckles as we all hear the RV door open and fall shut.

"You really should let up on him," Dale admonishes and Amy snickers in response.

"But where's the fun in that?"

#

It takes another fifteen minutes for Amy and I to finish up in the RV. After Dale left, I had to wrestle off my clothes and wipe off with another bucket of water Amy quickly ran outside to grab, all before finally cleaning the rest of my injuries, which were a fair few. It took a little maneuvering, and a lot of luck, but I managed to peel off my ruined shirt and somewhat salvageable cargo pants while Amy stood guard in the hallway, back turned but there in case I fell on my ass. Thankfully, I didn't, and, with some pain, I pulled my worn, oversized dark green t-shirt on before slipping on the pair of basketball shorts. As the hem of my shirt slipped past my bust, I looked down to see my ribs were a molten shade of blending purples and reds but nothing seemed broken when I prodded the area, a sore ache instead of splintering pain. Either way, I wrapped another ace bandage around my ribs a few times to brace myself just in case there was another fracture. Amy came back in not long after and helped me inspect my ankle and while it didn't hurt as bad as my wrist, it was still pretty tender and somewhat swollen. Also, it had to be braced just as much if not more since I had to put weight on that joint. Ankle wrapped thickly with the last ace bandage, a patch of gauze on my cheek, and a few butterfly stitches later along my temple and brow, and Amy was finally helping me out of the RV and into the bruised shadow of twilight.

Dinner is mostly a quiet little affair. We all crowd around the campfire and eat a full, good meal: sweet corn, dirty rice and a whole canned chicken. To earlier standards, it's a meal left wanting but for us, after weeks of beans and lean squirrel, it's practically a five-course delicacy. The tension has gone out of the air and there's laughter and some jokes, smiles as T-Dog breaks out a case of beer that I had no idea we even brought back. By the time the sun has completely set and the fire is our only source of light, only a few have turned in for the night and the rest of us are all leant against each other in the glow of flickering flames, full and tired and for once, content. It's not perfect, my arm still pulses in time to my heart, my ankle an echo, and my skin is more broken than intact but…it's close enough to feel really damn good.

Lazily, I let my gaze trail across the faces around the fire. The smoke vaguely stings my eyes and takes the edges off of everything, faces blurred and wavering. Amy leans against Andrea across from me, the two propping each other up as they sit curled on the dirt. Every so often, Amy will lift her head from her sister's shoulder and cast a quick glance at her face before dropping her head again, as if making sure she's still there. I feel a tired smile pull at my lips and the content feeling, for a time, overrides the pain.

The night air is cooler than I anticipated, taking on a hint of fall, and I find myself sprawled as close to the smoldering warmth of the fire as possible. Beneath me, the ground is hard packed, naked dirt with no cushion of grass. My back curves against the side of one of camp's improvised log benches and I let my bare toes wiggle as close to the fire as they can be without blistering. I'm drowsy and hazy; every so often I'll feel Glenn, who's sitting on the log I'm resting against, brush my shoulder of the ends of my hair and I'll turn into the movement slightly to show that I'm awake. Glenn had wanted to help me back to my tent after dinner was over but despite the fact that I was ready to drop, I hadn't wanted to be alone just yet. My friend seemed dubious at best but I assured him that if I started to nod off, I'd head to bed. He hadn't exactly liked the idea and he also didn't like my decision to sit on the ground either, stubbornly trying to convince me to sit in a chair, on a crate, anything but the cold ground. While it was admittedly more difficult to lower myself all the way to the dirt, I also knew there was arguably less chance of me falling over and exacerbating my injuries. And it's not all that uncomfortable. I have no doubt that, if I let myself, I could fall fast asleep like this.

Idle conversation flows around me but I don't try very hard to track it, just let it slide past me and meld into a calming hum of noise. On occasion, I'll catch a spare word or make a comment here and there but for the most part I'm silent, observing with half lidded eyes. More often than not, I find my eyes drawn back to the Grimes family, curled up together directly to my left. Even hours after the fact, the miracle of them finding each other still amazes me. There's this hard pit in my stomach, small but there nonetheless, weighing me down and I try not to let that kernel of bitter envy affect me. For the most part, it doesn't. Not when I see the perpetual, watery smile etched onto Carl's face, the adoring light in his eyes, so like his father's, that never leave Rick, even for a moment. Rick has him seated between his legs, drawn back tight against his chest. His right arm rests against Carl's collarbone and his left is looped around Lori who has plastered herself to his side as if to make them into one entity. Seeing the whole unit together, I can't help but notice small nuances about them, like how Carl has his father's eyes but his mother's nose, Rick's smile and Lori's rounded cheeks. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, even with everything else that went down, I'm glad Rick fired off those shots in Atlanta.

I shift slightly in my spot, bending my left leg at the knee and draping my arm across it. The fire had burned down low by now, small flickering flames that cast a weak orange light and contrasting deep shadows. Absentmindedly, I twirl a small twig in my fingers, tapping it to an off rhythm beat against my knee. The weak wood cracks beneath my fingertips and I toss it into the fire, watching tiny sparks that flare for just an instant before going dark. My eyelids feel heavy and I let them flutter close for a moment, unconsciously leaning against Glenn's leg as I tilt my head back, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into the bruised skin of my throat.

When I blink my eyes open, I feel slightly disoriented. The fire is dimmer than it had been a few moments before, barely more than embers. However, despite the lack of flames, I feel warmer than I had previously and when I look down, there's a jacket draped across my torso, folded over my arms and lap, my legs sticking out incongruously from the hem. I tilt my head in confusion at the sight but wince when a stinging pain flares through my temple, followed by the sensation of knobby resistance. Turning my head, my nose brushes against warm, stiff denim and when I pull back a few inches I realize I had been resting my head on the side of Glenn's knee. Oh. I must have dozed off. Blinking, I crane my neck up to look at Glenn, who's the owner of the jacket lying in my lap I realize, but he's looking off towards the right, past T-Dog who shares the small log he's perched on. My vision is still blurry and I have to squint in the low light but it looks like there's a small frown etched on his features.

Trying not to draw attention to myself, I sit the slightest bit forward, feeling the ace bandage around my ribs constrict tighter at the movement. Rubbing at my eyes to clear them, I peek around Glenn's knees and peer into the direction he, and everyone, is looking in. About twenty yards away, a swath of abject darkness, I see another set of flames, bigger, brighter, and can hear the low pitched rumble of male voices. It's too dark for me to tell for certain but the silhouette crouched at the other fire looks like Shane and the former cop is missing from his spot between Amy and T-Dog so I just assume it's him. Then, when my gaze travels a few feet farther and I see Ed Peletier I know for a fact that it is.

I'm suddenly completely alert. A sickened knot twists in my gut at the sight of the disgusting man, sprawled in a camping chair with Sophia and Carol across from him. Usually, everyone eats around one fire, save fuel and matches, but occasionally smaller fires will crop up and people will crowd around those as they please. Tonight, with all the extra supplies we brought in, is one of those few instances. From this distance, I can't hear what Shane is saying to Ed but before long the other man gestures vaguely at the fire and Carol gets up to pull a log out. Their fire dies down to low flames again as Shane stomps out the still smoldering branch and I realize the two men must have been arguing about the amount of light the fire was giving off. Shane is adamant about keeping the fires low at night so as not to be beacons in the dark to anybody that would look our direction, walker and strangers alike. I'm not surprised he and Ed butted heads about this; it wouldn't be the first time. My lip curls at the mere sight of the bastard Peletier and I can't help but remember my hatred for him, as dark and numerous as the bruises along Carol's arms. Unconsciously, my fists clench in repressed anger and I have to look away, staring back into the depths of our own fire, tracing patterns in the dancing flames.

I must be squirming or something because all of the sudden Glenn leans forward and dips his head, peering at the side of my face. I turn to him, showing him that I'm awake, and make face to which he smiles. There's a question in his eyes and he tilts his head behind him, towards the line of tents, but I just shake my head. "I'm good," I mouth and he purses his lips but shrugs all the same. Like me, I guess he doesn't really feel up to moving right now.

All of the sudden there's a flicker of shadow in my peripherals and when I turn to look, Shane's just folding himself back down to the ground, dropping his cap beside him and replacing it with a brown beer bottle. He lifts the glass to his mouth and takes a healthy swig, upending it and draining the last dregs. As he sets the empty bottle down, he catches my eyes through the smoke and blinks in almost surprise. I see his eyes unconsciously click from injury to injury, almost cataloguing, expression growing almost imperceptibly darker with each bruise he sees. I try to smile reassuringly at him but at that moment a twinge runs up my leg and I can't help the painful grimace or the quiet hiss that worms between my teeth. Shane's eyes lock onto my face but then immediately flicker down to my leg where I'm absentmindedly rubbing at the bulky bandages, as if to ease the pain. The rubbing doesn't exactly help, and being hunched over basically trying to touch my toes makes it harder to breathe with the ace bandage on, but soon enough the pain dissipates and I'm able to sit back, a light sweat beaded on my brow.

"You alright there Audrey?" Shane suddenly inquires. His voice is quiet since we aren't sitting very far from each other, separated by a mere two people, not even six feet of space, but his voice carries. The second his words hit the air, everyone around the fire is zeroed in on me. Their gazes feel hotter than the flames.

I blush and am glad for the fire to explain away the color in my face, the darkness that probably masks it anyway. "Just peachy Shane," I reply. "Fat and full and fine."

The skepticism in the air, not just from Shane either, is as thick as the smoke. I try not to fidget but end up ducking my head slightly anyway, hoping to hide the bruises along my cheek and neck in the twisting shadows the fire cast upon me. I think Glenn must notice I feel uncomfortable because he presses the line of his leg firmly into my side and I lean my head against his knee again, letting my hair fall into my face, covering the still swollen skin of my left eye.

It's quiet for a few moments but I can still tell people are staring at me. Feeling awkward, I keep my gaze oscillating from the slowly dying fire to the worn tops of Glenn's shoes, fiddling idly with the hem of his jacket, still draped across my lap. After a small silent lapse, I hear someone shift in their spot, feet sliding in the dirt followed by the muffled clink of glass being set down on stone. By the way the person clears their throat, I can tell Dale is getting ready to speak. I can only silently pray that his words have nothing to do with me.

"Has anyone given any thought to Daryl Dixon?"

My body freezes, fingers going stock still, a wayward strand of thread wound around my index finger and digging into the skin. Around me, I hear tight inhales and harsh exhales; I feel Glenn's body go rigid, his leg shaking with the strain of it. I could almost laugh because, just as I had prayed for, this particular conversation is not about me. Now, I wish it were.

Dale sighs and out of the corner of my eye I see him rub tiredly at his face. When I look up fully, he's staring at Shane but I hadn't missed the minute flicker he sent my way. "He's not gonna be happy to hear his brother was left behind," he continues.

Again, the image of rotten teeth and jagged claws and Merle's flesh being rent in two flashes in my mind's eye and my stomach does this vicious flip, my dinner threatening to make a reappearance. I grit my teeth against the sensation and stare resolutely into the fire, opening the wavering colors of orange and red and yellow will sear the ghostly image of crystal blue orbs out from behind my eyelids.

T-Dog shifts in his seat on the other side of Glenn and I feel the log behind me roll ever so slightly backwards. "I'll tell him," he suddenly declares and I whip around to stare at him, even around Glenn, because I was not expecting that. His profile is solemn and serious. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "I dropped the key. It's on me. I'll tell him." He repeats the final sentence as if to convince himself and if it weren't for the slight guilt in his tone I would think he was lying.

"I cuffed Merle," Rick interjects. I turn to look at him in surprise as well. "That makes him mine." And I thought we were going to have to draw straws to decide who would tell Daryl. Yet, here we are, two volunteers ready to go. I can't shut up the voice in the back of my mind that's saying neither T-Dog nor Rick should be the one to address Daryl. But I refuse to acknowledge the alternative. No. I…I said I was done with Daryl; he was certainly done with me.

Glenn abruptly laughs above me, dry and without humor, but I don't bother to look up at him, instead settling for letting his words rumble right through me. "Guys, this isn't a competition," he points out. "And I don't mean to bring race into this T-Dog but it might sound better coming from a white guy."

Rick sits up a little straighter, as if that means he's won by default, but Glenn's shaking his head at him too. "Preferably not the white guy who cuffed Merle to the roof in the first place," he amends and Rick settles back with a frown.

Shane sighs off to my left and rubs a hand agitatedly through his hair. The former cop looks like hell: dark circles under his eyes, unruly stubble along his jaw, skin tight and pale. One would think he's the one that's had taken a beating instead of witnessing the resurrection, a good kind, of his best friend. "Guess that leaves me," he says tonelessly. I can tell by the look on his face he'd rather chop off a finger.

"That's not the best idea either."

Everyone turns to stare at me again and it takes me a moment to realize I had been the one to speak. I purse my lips and berate myself mentally for being an idiot.

"Well none of this is exactly ideal," Shane drawls and I roll my eyes at him.

"I'm not saying it's supposed to be but…D…Daryl isn't exactly your biggest fan Shane," I tell him, only stuttering slightly on the other man's name. I think back to yesterday—holy crap has it only been a day?—and remember the rage in Daryl's face, the words Shane spat at him. He's liable to actually shoot Shane if he approaches with this information.

"So who's gonna tell him then huh?" Shane asks. His gaze is expectant; I know what he wants me to say. And a part of me wants to say it. Volunteer. Be the saint; the martyr. But I'm not. I won't. I've done fucking enough today thank you very much. This isn't my responsibility too. I clamp my mouth shut and drop my gaze.

"I did what I did," T-Dog speaks up again and there's a firm, adamant note in his voice. "Hell if I'm gonna run from it." Despite everything, I have to give T-Dog props here. Volunteering to do this takes courage. And I'm a fucking coward.

"We could lie," Amy suddenly suggests and I find myself unconsciously shaking my head even though no one is looking at me, even though Andrea is already verbally shooting down the idea.

"Or we could tell the truth," Andrea sighs. "Merle was out of control." Her eyes find mine over the fire and she gives me a sad, pitying smile. I frown in response and mentally urge her to stay quiet. "Something had to be done or Merle would have succeeded in killing us all." The implications of her words are not lost on anyone and I want nothing more than to pull Glenn's jacket over my face and hide from their stares.

"Your husband did what was necessary," Andrea continues, shifting her eyes over to Lori. "And if Merle got left behind…that's nobody's fault but his own.

"Nobody's fault but his own."

I repeat that line over and over to myself, trying to engrave it in my brain. Merle getting left behind is his fault. Not T-Dog's; not Rick's; not mine. There's no reason to feel guilty I tell myself.

And yet, the churning feeling in my stomach doesn't lessen or fade; I wonder how many times do I have to repeat the idea before I believe it, before it becomes true.

Off to the side, Dale scoffs. His eyes are wide and disbelieving and he almost laughs as he asks, "And that's what we tell Daryl?" No one answers his rhetorical question and he shakes his head. "I don't see a rational discussion to be had from that."

"When does Dixon ever have a rational discussion?" Shane mutters under his breath. Unbidden, a scowl twists my features but I maintain my silence. It isn't worth the trouble.

Dale glances at all of us but I feel like his gaze lingers on me the longest. "A word to the wise: we're gonna have our hands full when he gets back from his hunt."

I flinch under the scrutiny of his dark brown orbs and duck my head, staring resolutely down at my lap. I don't want to think about what Dale's mentioning but it's impossible not too. Daryl's gone for the moment but he's going to be back eventually. He's going to stroll back into camp, more likely than not with a good kill on his back, and since I'm not worth the goddamn trouble to deal with, he's going to look to Merle to help him clean and skin and carve. He's going to look for his brother but Merle won't be here. He won't be anywhere in sight. And then someone is going to have to tell him that Merle is dead, left in Atlanta, chained like a fucking cow awaiting slaughter and how can Dale be so nonchalant about this? 'We're gonna have our hands full'? Merle was an asshole, arguably a monster, but he was Daryl's brother, last of kin, and Daryl was loyal to him to a fault; I've seen it. I don't know exactly how Daryl will react but I know it's going to be explosive. I just want to find a hole and bury myself in it, swim to the bottom of the quarry and stay there forever. Anything…anything to not see the realization dawn in Daryl's eyes that his brother is dead and never coming ba—

"I stopped long enough to chain that door."

I blink as I realize T-Dog had started talking again, sometime when I was lost in my head. His words have something in me stilling, like the blood in my veins is turning to molasses, ice. I'm just thinking I must have missed a turn into the conversation and am just about to ask Glenn where we are at when T-Dog keeps going.

"The staircase to the roof is narrow," he says slowly, as if explaining something rather difficult to us. I don't like his tone. It's ominous. "Maybe half a dozen geeks can squeeze against it at any one time." The ice in my veins turns to glue. Something like understanding digs into my brain as I process T-Dog's words.

No.

"But that's not enough to break through," T-Dog says. "Not that chain, not that padlock."

No.

"What's your point?" Andrea asks and I almost want to shove the question back into her mouth as something akin to horror starts to swell in me.

No, no, no.

"My point is…Dixon's alive. And he's still up there, handcuffed to that roof. That's on us," T-Dog says roughly and then he's standing up, lines of his face harsh in the smoky shadowed haze. He casts us all one last grim faced look, made more gruesome by the shifting bruises on his face, the blood on his collar, before he mutters a quick goodnight and stalks away into the darkness, ready to turn his back on this long, fucked up day.

The glue inside me turns to cement and I feel leaden, heavy, immobile.

Because apparently…Merle isn't dead. Not yet. Oh my fucking god.

I remember the sickening feeling I had before, when I thought of Merle being ripped to pieces by walkers. Somehow…this seems almost worse. No. It is worse. If the walkers had gotten to him, death would take no more than…five minutes. At the most. But if the door was locked, as T-Dog said? How long can the human body go without food? Without water? Without shade, under the baking Georgia sun?

Days? Weeks? And all that time spent, handcuffed to a foot of solid metal, the growls and moans of frantic geeks scrambling at the door ten feet away; spent realizing…you can't escape…and that no one is coming for you. Because no one is going to go back for Merle Dixon. Not with me standing in front of them, a clear case in point of every reason why they shouldn't lift a damn finger to help him. Daryl will go back though, if they even tell him about the chain. Whoever is the bearer of bad news might just bend the truth a little bit, say Merle died and we left his body behind. It's the truth isn't it? If only a little out of order.

But if they do tell him about the padlock, the narrow staircase that only half a dozen geeks can squeeze through at any one time, Daryl's going back into Atlanta. More than likely alone, no guide and no idea where the fuck he is going. And if they don't tell him, say Merle was just taken down, there was nothing we could do and he was dead, dead and gone? Than Merle is going to starve to death, or become so dehydrated his heart gives out, all while we sit here back at camp, eating and enjoying our spoils, smiling as Daryl mourns a man who's not yet dead.

Merle might have tried to kill. He might have broken my arm and beaten the ever-living hell out of me…but goddamn. I don't know if I can condemn him to something like that. I don't know if I have the right.

And I definitely don't know if I can look Daryl right in the face and lie if that is the group's decision.

I just don't fucking know.

#

The next morning dawns pale and cloudy. I wake to the sound of murmuring voices, the distant clang of metal, and Abby slipping out of our tent, laughing with someone who waits just outside. There's a faint smell of food in the air but I turn away from it and bury my nose in the cheap material of my sleeping bag. But sleep eludes me, as it eluded me most of the night, and I find myself staring listlessly at the wall of the tent, six inches away. I frown at the sight and slowly turn over on my side. My ribs protest the movement and I can't help the grimace that contorts my features.

I hadn't thought it was possible but my body feels worse today than it did yesterday. Perhaps it had been some vestiges of adrenaline or fear that staved off the worst of the pain; maybe it was just that the bruises hadn't had time to fully sink in yet. Whatever it is, it's certainly gone now because every atom of me feels raw. Even the ends of my fucking hair ache. My head throbs like someone is hammering away inside my skull; the skin of my face pulses with each heartbeat and I can feel each bruise thrum in time; my throat feels half caved in, every breath a scrape of glass beneath the skin that burns as if a thousand fire ants have lain siege to it; my ribs make each breath shallow and painful; my wrist feels like…well it feels mother fucking broken and my ankle feels only a smidge better. I kind of wish I had fallen into some sort of coma during the night. Being conscious is torture.

I don't know how long I wallow in agony but eventually I'm struggling upright and getting ready for the day. It takes three times as long as usual and after many failed attempts at trying to change, and of numerous instances where I almost fell on my face and or ass, I decided fuck it and just stayed in the clothes I had slept in. The oversized green T-shirt and black shorts weren't dirty anyway. They aren't very attractive but I really couldn't be bothered to give a fuck. Having succeeded in brushing my teeth and half running a brush through the tangled mess of my hair, I limp out of my tent bare foot since no shoe could fit around the bandages incasing my right leg and I just didn't have the energy to wrestle on the other one. On my way out, I dig through my hiking pack, the bigger one, in search of a bottle of Tylenol I thought I had seen at the very bottom a few days ago. I turn up lint and a protein bar and I pocket the bar just so I don't have to put it back where I found it, under everything else. Sighing, I just accept that pain is going to be my new best friend and suck it up. God this is just a stellar start.

Carol is the first one to notice me. She's standing near the fire pit, ironing some clothes. A small pile has already accumulated beside her, stack haphazardly on a chair. "Good morning Audrey," she says. Her eyes do a little skip jump over me and I try not to frown at the pitying light in her eyes. I can't be mad at Carol though. She, out of anyone, will probably know exactly how I'm feeling.

"Morning," I respond with a small smile. Looking past her, I see the fire pit is cold, ashes and dust with no glowing embers. "Though I guess it's closer to good afternoon huh?" I hadn't realized I had lain in bed so long. It must be almost noon.

Smiling gently, Carol finishes up what I realize must be one of her husband's shirts and starts to fold it. "We thought you'd need the rest," she explains. "But if you're hungry I could fix you something real quick." Her blue eyes gaze at me in sincere kindness and I know that if I said yes, Carol would do just as she said. I shake my head at her.

"No, no. I'm fine. Lunch can't be too far off right? I'll just wait till then. But thank you."

Carol drops her head as if she's not used to gratitude and I feel a flare of anger in me when I realize she's really not. Before I can say anything else, the older woman gives me one last smile and then turns away, gathering the stack of clothes she's ironed and walking them back towards her tent. I look after her with a frown but then a loud clang of metal off to my left draws my attention.

Glenn's standing about ten yards away with his back turned towards me. His shoulders are hunched and I can tell he has his arms crossed in front of him. Painstakingly, I walk up to his side and lean against his arm. He doesn't even spare me a glance, staring mournfully at the group of men five feet in front of us as they quickly and efficiently dismantle the red Charger he had driven yesterday.

"I woke up and they already had the tires off," he finally says and his voice is sulky, put out. I can't help but roll my eyes and hip check him slightly.

"Goodness. Sounds like you have it hard."

Glenn frowns and turns to probably retort but the second he sees my face he flinches and goes pale with guilt. I make a face at him and turn back to watch Jim tinker with something in the engine. The former mechanic is smeared in oil up to his elbows and looks more at ease than I've seen him in weeks, forearms buried in the guts of this car.

"Oh don't look at me like that Glenda," I sigh. "You know that's not what I meant."

He doesn't say anything in response but Morales finally looks up from where he's been leaning into the driver's seat and catches sight of me. His smile, though mostly fake, is wide.

"Morning niña," he calls and I lift a hand to wave at him.

"Hey Morales. Seems like you guys have been busy bees this morning." I gesture at the car, now without tires, probably without gas, and soon to be without any engine parts. "What? Early bird gets the gasoline?

The older man chuckles and shakes his head. He straightens up and I realize he has the car's radio in his grasp. Really? What use is that?

"Something like that. Almost done though. Sorry Glenn."

The young man at my side mutters something vulgar under his breath and I laugh. He turns to me with wounded eyes and I reach up to tug on the brim of his cap. He opens his mouth to say something but then his gaze clicks over my shoulder and he frowns.

"What?" I ask. I turn and glance in the same direction and see nothing but Amy and Andrea hanging clothes, Lori and Rick talking beside them.

He blinks and shakes his head. "Nothing. You just look…different without the katana sticking over your shoulder. It's like you're missing a limb," he says.

I stare at him with incredibility before laughing, head thrown back and everything. "It's nice to know I'm thought of as having an extra appendage growing out of my back." Glenn flushes and waves his hands but I cut him off before he can start stuttering apologies. "It's ok Glenn. I get it." Still chuckling, I reach down and pull the tanto out of its sheath, strapped against my right hip instead of my left. The motion feels awkward, I'm used to doing this in a mirrored fashion, but the hilt is warm and smooth and familiar in my palm.

"The katana was too much of a hassle to get on," I tell him truthfully. "But I do feel kind of naked with only this." I twirl tanto in my grasp for a moment, the blade catching the weak light that filters through the clouds. "Plus the no shoes deal."

Glenn drops his eyes to my feet and I wiggle my toes in the dirt. He tilts his head at the sight. "Why are both your feet bare?" he asks. I open my mouth to tell him about my laziness, and also the fact that having one shoe on would throw me off balance, when a blood-curdling scream rents the air in two.

The sound has everyone whirling to stare at the tree line. It's like the air has frozen, time has stopped, but then everyone is moving at once, flurries of motion and fear. We all know that scream. Even if it hasn't ever sounded in this camp, we all know that scream down in our bones.

Walker.

On reflex, my right arm tries to reach up, grabble for leather and steel, but my wrist flares in agony and my brain suddenly reminds me that I'm not wearing the sword, recalling the conversation I just had with Glenn. But when another scream of terror sounds off in the trees, Carl, I no longer care if I only have a rock to fight with. Before I know what I'm doing, I try to start forward but someone grabs my arm and yanks me back. The tanto tumbles from my hand and into the dirt. I whirl to find Glenn's wide eyes staring straight at me.

"Stay here!" he yells. I open my mouth to argue, I twist my arm to get free, but he's no longer at my side. He's already sprinting away from my side, scrambling for a crowbar that's half propped against the Charger, following Shane and Rick into the trees with Morales, Jim and Dale right on his heels. I'm left alone and panting for a moment but then I stoop low and snatch the tanto off the ground, already stumbling into a stuttering run. Pain flares in my ankle, white hot and molten, but I ignore it, pushing myself faster, through the brush and tree line, not even feeling my feet touch the ground. I stumble again and again and once I go down hard, right onto my knee, but I get up not a second later, blood trickling down my shin.

I find Lori, Carol, Jacqui and Miranda huddled around the children, fear stark in their faces. Lori has Carl's face jammed into her neck and she keeps repeating the words, "Nothing bit you? Nothing scratched you?" over and over and over, even as Carl responds no every time. Sophia is crying into her mother's shoulder and Miranda already has Eliza on her hip, scrambling to get Louis in her arms as well. Bile roils in my throat, and I snap my head up, looking in the direction where Jacqui's gazing in terror and everything in me wants to run that way, go help, but I stamp it down and instead hurry over to the other women.

"Get up," I pant. No one seems to hear me; they all stare wide-eyed and transfixed in the direction the men just disappeared in. Gritting my teeth, I switch my tanto to my right hand, wrist howling as I clumsily clench my fingers around the hilt, and reach down to yank Lori to her feet. The older woman cries out in fear, instinctively drawing Carl closer to her, before she finally sees that it's me.

"Come on! Get up and follow me," I say again, turning to make sure the other women heard me. They scramble to their feet, Miranda passing Louis to Jacqui so that none of the children are on their own two legs. Even Sophia is huddled in the circle of her mother's thin arms. "We have to get back to the RV. Come on."

Lori frowns in distress and casts a look over her shoulder, where grunts and the sound of blunt objects hitting flesh can be heard, but my hand is still clenched around her upper arm and I pull her firmly forward. "Rick will be fine but we need to get back to the RV," I growl, fear and pain like blood in my veins. "Quickly!"

Finally, the women heed my words because they turn back to camp and start jogging as quickly as they can in that direction. I look one last time behind me, before switching my tanto to my left hand again and running after them. Before long, we're all crowded around the doorway of the Winnebago, random members of camp grasping the odd weapon here and there: a bat, a branch, a pan. I stand slightly in front with my tanto brandished before me, eyes wild and chest heaving. My right leg threatens to give, I can no longer put any weight on it, but I remain standing as the children whimper softly behind me, their mother's trying to soothe and stave their tears. People murmur spare words, fear laced and toxic, and as I listen to them, ears also trained for that moan or growl that I fear is just out of sight in the tree line, I can only pray for one thing.

Please. Let there only be one.

---

Daryl can't believe his goddamn luck. He really fuckin can't. He's waitin for some kind of lightnin strike or for him to tumble off a cliff or somethin because there's no way in hell he can have such good luck and the world still stay spinnin.

For a full day he tracked that fawn. From night to day and into the dark of a second night. And finally, long after the sun had set last night, he realizes that the damn thing has done this huge loop in the woods, curvin back around towards the quarry. He was just startin to think the deer was an orphan, Bambi's mama already killed and just wanderin aimlessly, when the doe came out of nowhere, fat and full and fuckin just beggin for Daryl to shoot it. Except he didn't. Cuz the doe turned its body and all but marched itself back to camp, the fawn at its side as they both made Daryl's life easier than it's ever been. Four hours after sunrise, the doe was only a hundred yards out of camp and Daryl couldn't think of anythin better, feared that if he waited the doe would somehow freak and just sprint in the other direction and just be gone, so he shot it. First arrow went straight into the flank and the doe's legs buckled, a frightened bleat expelling from its throat. The fawn beside it freaked and tried to high tail it in the opposite direction but a well-placed shot to the neck had the baby deer tumbling into a patch of long grass, not twenty yards away. Daryl let the fawn be while he quickly made his way over to the doe. It was trying to get up and it succeeded in frantically fumbling a few feet before Daryl got a hold of it and broke its neck. The body went limp in his grasp and he set it on the ground, tired, worn out, and completely fuckin floored.

That was bout half an hour ago. He was gonna just drag both the doe and deer back to camp but at the last second, decided to check the traps first. It had been a few days and Daryl doubted Merle had gotten off his ass to empty them. So far, he's found a dozen squirrels and one rabbit, all just waitin for him, like goddamn presents. As he ties the last squirrel from the last trap onto the length of rope he has slung across his back, a part of him wants to celebrate. Drink half the whiskey that he still has tied off at his hip. But the rest of him is wary, cautious, waitin for a shoe to drop because Daryl's a Dixon and shit is never this good. Ever.

So when a few screams echo out into the forest, comin from the direction of camp, Daryl can't help but feel the world is right again.

Daryl finds himself runnin before he realizes it, crossbow cocked and loaded as he winds his way through the trees. He can hear shouts now, frantic voices, and they're all comin from the small clearing he left the doe in. Grittin his teeth, he hopes that the dumb fucks aren't freakin out over a damn deer carcass. Fuckin city folk.

There's a fallen tree that he has to step over to get to the clearing and the obstacle takes some maneuverin. The wood is mostly rotten through and not many places can hold his weight. It's cuz he's keeping his eyes on his feet, tryin not to twist his ankle, that he doesn't see them until he's on solid dirt again, steppin out from around a crop of boulders and straight into the clearing.

The first thing he sees is Walsh's shotgun aimed straight at his head, a silent snarl on the other man's face. Daryl blinks at it and then scowls, ready to tell the bastard off, before he notices the deer Walsh is standing over.

"Son of a bitch." The words snarl themselves out of his mouth and he's moving forward as Walsh drops his gun with a roll of his eyes. Daryl ignores him and shoves past the mechanic standing in his way. "That's my deer!"

Or was. Now the thing is missing its neck and half of its chest, blood spilled across the ground, staining the dirt red. A foot away, a walker's body lays headless and Daryl has to curb the urge to laugh because of fuckin course.

Rage spirals through him and before he knows it, he's standin above the dead geek, cursin and snappin out words he doesn't even process as he kicks the body over and over again, feeling the give of rotten flesh and the snap of bones. Motherfucker. All that goddamn time and effort. Days and nights that he hasn't slept a second of. Without thinkin, he snaps his eyes to where the fawn had gone down, bracin himself to see more red and bits of flesh, but the grass looks undisturbed, the only visible part of the small deer being a hoof and part of its flank. Daryl grits his teeth and does a quick calculation in his head. The fawn can't be more than a hundred pounds, half the size of its mother, but a hundred pounds was a hundred pounds. With the amount of people in camp, that should keep them fed for a week at the very least, two if they ration. Daryl really wants to shoot something because damn it. He should have dragged the doe back to camp before.

Something at the back of his mind points out that if the walker hadn't been distracted by the deer carcass that he would have kept going, in search of other meat, but Daryl just wants to be mad so he doesn't think about that. He's still kicking the geek when the old man speaks up.

"Calm down son. That's not helping," the man sighs.

Daryl scowls at him and steps over the headless body. "What do you know about it old man?" he growls. The man backs up a few steps and half raises him arms to ward him off. Walsh steps up and sticks the butt of Daryl's gun in his chest, pushin him back a few inches. Daryl shoves it away, aggravated. "Why don't you take that stuid hat and go back to 'On Golden Pond' cuz you don't know jack shit!"

"Back the hell up Dixon," Walsh says, eyes hard and voice authoritative. Daryl wants to fuckin punch him. "We got enough problems." He nods to the geek's body and Daryl rolls his eyes but moves away, stalkin back over to the ruined doe.

"Been trackin this deer for miles," he grumbles under his breath, feeling the ache of exhaustion in him, the burnin behind his eyes and the sweat on his brow. "Gonna drag it back to camp; cook us some venison since ya can't seem to keep fuckin food on the goddamn table." He rips his arrows out of the doe's body and half considers suggestin cuttin around the area the walker gnawed on but thinks against it, not willin to risk the danger of infection. He spits on the useless carcass and straightens up, turnin to look Walsh in the eye.

"Got bout a dozen squirrels," he tells the bastard, adjustin the strap on his back. "That'll have to do." The other man's lip curls and Daryl just dares him to say shit because he isn't in the damn mood for Walsh's fuckin superiority trip. However, before the asshole cop can say a word, a gurglin noise at Daryl's feet has him lookin down in confusion.

The geek's head lays about two feet away, decapitated and writhing slowly, jaws clacking and eyes roving mindlessly over the group of men surroundin it. Daryl scoffs under his breath and hefts up his crossbow. Fuckin city people.

He steadies his arm and aims, squeezin the trigger and watchin the arrow fly true, right through one milky eye. The head stops moving and Daryl places his foot on the skull, rippin out the arrow in disgust. He looks up at the group and sneers. "Gotta be the brain. Don't ya'll know nothin?"

Most of them just stare at him in revulsion, pussies, but one man gazes at him with an unreadable look on his face. Daryl furrows his brow and glares at the stranger. He's never seen this dumb ass before. Brown hair, blue eyes, high brow, sharp nose, and dark stubble. By the way he stands, length of iron held loosely in between lax fingers, the sweat on his brow so early in the mornin and the fact that he's wearin ratty ass tennis shoes, Daryl deduces he's another dick from the city. Great. Just what he needs.

Shovin past the lot of them, Daryl stalks over to where the fawn lays, hidden by long grass and shrubbery. His arrow still juts from his neck and there's a small pool of blood beneath the wound but the rest of the body remains intact, untouched. The hunter's glad he shot the damn thing on a whim or else he'd have nothin but squirrels to show for a two-day hunt. The loss of the doe still riles him but he shoves the thought away and he stoops down, fingers grappling through fur as he hauls the fawn over his shoulder.

He was wrong before. This thing can't be more than eighty pounds. Daryl can already hear Merle's shit as he starts the hundred-yard trek back to camp.

---

For what feels like an eternity but can only be a handful of minutes, all of stand before the RV, tense and with bated breath. The children have been herded into the Winnebago, their mother's following them, but the rest of us still wait for the other shoe to drop, staring resolutely at the tree line and waiting for either figures to come running or stumbling out. My heart's been beating on the back of my tongue for centuries now and I'm just about to throw the damn thing up to be rid of the insistent frantic pounding ringing through my skull when I see a flash of blonde exit the trees.

Amy and Andrea walk with their arms around each other, looking shaken but whole. There's no blood on their clothes and their pace is unhurried, measured steps as they whisper to one another. All around me, people slump in relief, laughing because the only other response would be to cry. I'm still standing stock still, muscles shaking with the effort to remain upright, when the two sisters reach the RV.

I don't even say a word but Amy must see it in my face because she smiles and shakes her head. "Everyone's fine," she assures, even though her face is blanched. "There was only one."

Jacqui shudders out an exhale to my right and I hear her mutter, "Thank the Lord."

Hearing those words is like someone suddenly snips the strings that have been holding me up. My right leg buckles out from under me and I am forced to drop my tanto again as I scramble out for purchase. Amy lunges forward and catches me before I can hit the floor. I dig my fingers into her upper arm and I slump against her chest, gasping and heaving. Murmuring words I cannot decipher, I feel Amy begin to steer me backwards and somehow, me make it up into the Winnebago and I'm sitting at the small table in the little kitchenette. A cool bottle of water is pressed into my hand and I shakily bring it up to my mouth, taking a healthy swig. Amy's blue eyes and pale face hover above me, worried and concerned.

"You ok Dree?" I hear her ask. She takes the empty canteen from me and sets it on the table. I blink up at her and take a deep breath, adrenaline still dulling the pain that I know is just waiting to cripple me.

"Y…yeah," I manage. My voice is raspier than it had been before. "Just…I just…"

Wasn't expecting that.

Was scared out of my mind.

Was sure someone was going to get hurt.

Was pissed that I am so fucking helpless.

Amy reaches out and squeezes my hand, my fingers limp and trembling. "I know. But it's ok. We're all ok," she murmurs and I have to take another breath, letting those words sink in. I close my eyes and count back from ten. When I open them, the world no longer spins and, already, I can feel the serrated teeth of pain beginning to dig into my skin.

Meeting my friend's gaze, I manage to squeeze her hand back and force my lips to turn upwards at the corners. I don't say anything, I don't think I can, but suddenly Amy's frowning and gazing down at me worriedly and I have just enough time to think about asking her what's wrong when there's a commotion outside and I hear him.

"Merle!"

I stare at Amy in wide-eyed incomprehension for a second. No. That…that's not…oh please don't be—

"Merle! Where the hell are ya? Get yer ugly ass out here!"

Oh god.

Daryl's back.

Ignoring Amy's stilling hands, I haul myself to my feet and stumble to the RV's still open doorway, hearing as Carl and Sophia come out of the back bedroom behind me and start asking questions, their mother's trying to hush them. Jacqui's standing right in front of the Winnebago's steps, Abby at her side, but I look past them, towards the fire pit and lines of drying clothes and I finally see Daryl.

It's been less than forty-eight hours since I last saw him but for some reason, it feels like a goddamn week. He's standing at the ashes of the long dead fire, crossbow lying at his feet in the dirt besides what I realize is a small deer. I blink at the dead animal, dumbly thinking to myself that holy crap Daryl caught a deer, before the man himself draws my attention. He's pacing back and forth across the dirt, irritation in every line of his stride. A line of squirrels swings at his side, limp bodies tossed to and fro as Daryl keeps swinging his eyes about, as if he's searching for something. Realization crashes into me about what he is looking for, more specifically who, and I have to cling to the doorjamb for support, guilt and a thousand other too tangled up emotions roiling in my gut like a nest of snakes.

Shane is walking behind Daryl, keeping his distance, eyes glued to the other man's form as Daryl makes to stalk towards his tent thirty yards away, the lines of his face severe and deep. There's dirt streaked across nearly every inch of him, dark lines curling down his bare arms, around his collarbones, and his face is about two shades darker than I know it to be. More than that, he looks tired as hell, dark circles under his eyes that are bloodshot red and look bleary, even from this distance. When Shane opens his mouth and calls out to the hunter, I almost want to beg him to stop, to just give Daryl a moment's rest before he pulls the rug out from under him, but Daryl's already turning to Shane and I can do nothing but watch this unfold.

"Ya seen my brother Walsh?" Daryl asks and I don't miss the way Shane grimaces a bit before he rubs a hand nervously through his hair.

"I uh…that's what I gotta talk to you about Di…Daryl," he mutters. "Ya stormed off before I could say anything."

Daryl scowls but stops restlessly moving, staring at Shane with an expectant expression. Processing the men's words, I realize that Daryl must have already been back to his tent and found it empty. I look closely at the older man and can see the suspicion laced through the aggravation on his face. He already knows something isn't right.

"Well what? Spit it out."

Shane sighs and then he starts pacing. He slips passed Daryl who steps back a few feet and walks to the end of the RV before swinging around to face the hunter, walking towards him and then backpedaling slowly as if he thinks better of it at the last minute. "There…a group went into the city yesterday," he starts off and I can see the way he struggles with his words. Behind Daryl, the rest of the men walk up and I can see wariness on each one of their faces, blood staining the multitude of weapons they have grasped in their hands. "Merle went with them. There…there was a problem."

Collectively, everyone seems to hold his or her breath as Daryl processes this information. I know the exact moment when he gets what Shane's implying. The anger is startled right off his face, replaced by a stunned disbelief, wide eyed and open mouthed for just a split second, before a more neutral mask slips into place. Reflexive. Ingrained. Like a wall Daryl learned how to build years ago and as spent his whole life perfecting. The knob of his Adam's apple bobs beneath the skin of his throat and he stares resolutely at Shane who is doing his best not to flinch under the intense stare. He starts to pace again, moving in a slow circle opposite to Shane. It's defensive, instinctive, and the movement makes me think of when Brenda Johnson's dog next door broke it's leg somehow but wouldn't let anyone get near it, snarling and snapping at anyone who got too close.

"He dead?" Daryl asks gruffly and I'm floored to hear the tremble in his voice.

"We're not sure."

Shane's response riles Daryl up again because the rage he is known for explodes across his features and he takes half a threatening step towards the former cop. "The hell ya mean ya ain't sure? He either is or he ain't!"

People start to shift uncomfortably as Daryl's voice reaches an enraged pitch. To the right of the RV doorway, Andrea mutters something like, "Here we go" and Jacqui only nods her head in response. A knot forms at the base of my throat because this is it and for all our discussion last night, Shane, just about the worst person possible for the job, is about to break this news to Daryl. Dale's words from last night echo in my mind. "I don't see a rational discussion to be had from that."

Rational? I don't see a bloodless discussion to be had.

Suddenly, from near the fire pit, I see a flicker of movement, a white blob, and I look up just in time to see Rick approach Daryl, stepping quickly and purposefully in his direction. Oh wait. Scratch that. Shane isn't the worst possible person for the job. Here he comes.

"Look," Rick says and Daryl whips around to glare at him, fists clenching at his side. "There's no easy way to say this so I'll just say it." Rick reaches Daryl's side and gets right up in his face. I grimace and have to bite my tongue because that is basically the worst move Rick can make. Daryl hates when people get too close to him. Especially strangers. And especially as aggressively as Rick has done it. I don't think the other man meant to be so forward, just trying to be blunt to get over the biggest hump of this conversation, but I can see the defensive posture Daryl takes, can hear the reflexive snarl in his voice even if I can't see his face.

"Who the hell are you?" he demands.

"Rick Grimes."

Daryl snorts and then sways forward to growl in Rick's face before stepping back. "Tch. Rick Grimes. You got somethin ya wanna tell me?"

Rick purses his lips and mulls over his words for a split second. I pray that he comes up with the right reply. "Your brother was a danger to us all, so I handcuffed him on a roof, hooked him to a piece of metal. He…he's still there."

Blunt and to the point. No tact. No bull shit. In any other situation, I'd commend Rick on his candidness. Right now I wishing he had put on the kid gloves.

Daryl's back goes rigid and I can see his shoulders still as he stops breathing. Five seconds pass. Ten. Twenty. I'm just starting to worry that he might pass out from lack of air when he jerks into motion. Whirling around, Daryl paces three feet angrily, heaving shallow breaths in and out. He's literally five feet away from me and something twists inside my chest as I watch the stoic/angry mask he has on fall, a stunned and broken look shinning through the cracks.

"H…hold on. Let me process this," Daryl snaps but it isn't his usual ire. It's something else, more desperate, more heartfelt. He swipes angrily at his eyes and something in me just gives because out of all the responses I had envisioned for this moment, Daryl crying was never one of them. It feels surreal. It can't be happening. For a wild moment, I think this is just some bizarre damn dream, this whole morning, and I'm actually still sleeping in my tent, waiting for the sun to rise.

But then Daryl's voice is exploding, loud and all too real, and I know I can't be anything but awake.

"You're saying you handcuffed my brother to a roof and you left him there?" he screams, taking two quick steps and getting into Rick's face. The people gathered in front of the RV start to murmur worriedly to each other and I feel Amy's hand on my shoulder, her mouth at my ear but I can't hear a word she's saying. All my attention is diverted five feet in front of me and I can barely breathe.

Rick falls back a step, finally some worry eclipsing his features, and drops his eyes. "Y…yeah," he says lamely because really? What else could he fucking say?

Daryl is almost directly in front of me now, facing Rick, vibrating with the intensity of his emotion. I can only see the profile of his face, the taunt line of his jaw, the left corner of his mouth, pressed thin with anger, but I know what's going to happen a split second before it does just by the way he sways on his feet, one step back, two steps forward, and by the way his chest starts heaving, breaths coming in great gasps.

I had expected the explosion of anger, the wordless yell, but the rope of squirrel Daryl throws at Rick's face was something new. Thankfully, Rick ducks just in time but he doesn't move fast enough to evade Daryl and the hunter is almost upon him before Shane comes out of nowhere and sidelines him to the ground. I gasp as Daryl bounced hard on the dirt and unconsciously I move forward, stumbling out of the RV and barely catching myself on Jacqui's shoulder before I fall on my face. The older woman spins to look at me with wide eyes but I ignore her and try to move past. Amy's suddenly at my side again and the grip she has on my elbow is tight. She shakes her head at me when I try to yank free and I open my mouth to tell her to let me go when Shane's voice suddenly grates upon my ears, loud and worried.

"Watch the knife Dixon!"

Whirling around, I see Daryl pushing himself up, his face twisted in rage as he brandishes the eight-inch knife that I've seen him gut a squirrel with in nothing flat. Rick and Shane stand with their hands raised to ward Daryl off and it seems to come in handy when the hunter lunges at Rick, swinging the knife viciously at his face. Rick manages to shove the knife away seconds before it can reach him and he stumbles away, out of Daryl's reach. I hear Lori call out her husband's name behind me, fearful and distressed, but it's eclipsed by Daryl's howl as he whirls on Shane, murder in his eyes. Shane curses and reaches around, fumbling at the small of his back, and I only have to see a glimpse of his gun's handle before I wrenching out of Amy's grip and shoving through the crowd.

---

There's nothing but rage and hatred fuelin him now. His vision is crimson red and the poundin of his heart sounds like drums of war. He doesn't even think when he slams into the ground, the air knocked clean out of him. He just reaches for his hip and yanks the knife out, jumpin to his feet when his eyes can focus again and turnin to the son of a bitch closest to him.

Fuckin Rick Grimes. Daryl lunges at him without a second's hesitation, wantin to stain that white shirt of his scarlet. He wanted to break his skin, his bones, his teeth because this motherfucker killed his brother! Left him like a damn dog to die and Daryl will be damned if he doesn't return the favor. All he can think is MerleMerleMerle and deaddeaddead and that the last thing he said to his brother, his last of fuckin kin, was fuck you.

Daryl lashes out with a viciousness that would make Merle proud. The keen edge of his blade is inches away from tearin through skin when the bastard ducks out of the way last minute, stumblin out of his reach. Behind him, Daryl hears a curse and he whirls to find Walsh starin at him, mouth open and flappin but Daryl can't hear a word as he charges forward. All he can hear is the blood in his ears and that voice in his head screamin MerleMerle—

"Daryl!"

The sound of his name stops him short and in the haze of his mind it takes him a second to figure out why. Without meanin to, Walsh still feet away, his eyes flicker to the side, to where the kid's voice came from, and the second he sees her, the air burns out of his lungs.

She's standin five feet away from him, wide-eyed and barefoot. Her hair is stickin out at odd angles around her head and she's dressed in an oversized dark green shirt that almost reaches her knees, the bottoms of black shorts peekin out from beneath the hem. But that's not what makes Daryl feel like he's been punched in the chest, lungs bruised and empty.

It's the bandages on her arm, haphazard and amateur, bulky along her wrist and hand. It's the matching mess of first aid on her leg, cloth windin half way up her calf. It's the bruises along her arms, dark and angry looking, spots of black and blue framin her neck like some perverse jewelry. Above everythin, it's her goddamn face. Those green eyes of hers stare out from under swollen and battered skin, the left one half shut and an ugly dark purple color. Tape sits high on the bridge of her nose; butterfly stitches hold the edges of gashes together along her brow and temple; a piece of gauze engulfs the whole of her right cheek and there's a deep split in her lower lip, right down the middle. She looks like she's been beaten to hell in back. She looks like she shouldn't even be fuckin conscious but there she is, standin with her lips parted around the letters of his name and her green eyes bright as damn ever, locked on his face. Daryl feels the knife in his hand lower almost completely to his side because what the fuck happened? He'd been gone for a damn day and—

He doesn't even get to finish his thought before somethin slams into him again and he's bein whirled around. Hands grapple at him and he fights instinctively but one set pins his arms to his side, forcin him to drop the knife, and the other winds around his neck and head, holdin him steady and makin it hard to breathe. He scrabbles at the tight forearm around his neck but the hold is rock solid and he gains no leverage.

"You best let me go!" he shouts at the son of a bitch holdin him.

Walsh chuckles breathlessly at his ear and brings him to the ground. "Nah, I think it's better if I don't."

Daryl tries to struggle again but the effort just leaves him light headed. "Choke hold's illegal," he wheezes out thoughtlessly, still snarlin and kickin though he knows it ain't gonna get him any where.

"Yeah, you can file a complaint."

The bastard's tauntin words rile Daryl up again and he redoubles his efforts to get loose, vision swimmin with black spots as the oxygen in his lungs deplete. Suddenly, a white blur kneels down in front of him and that son of a bitch Grimes is talkin slowly and calmly. Daryl still wants to stab him.

"I'd like to have a calm discussion on this topic," he tells Daryl, bending down to look him in the eye. "Do you think we can manage that?" Daryl doesn't respond, trying to work up enough saliva to spit in his face. Grimes gets even closer and repeats his request. "Do you think we can manage that?"

Fuck you is what Daryl wants to say but he doesn't have enough air to say it and he know the fucker Walsh will choke him out if he gets the chance so he forces himself to nod. Walsh tightens his grip again and Daryl thinks that he might just choke him out anyway before he's tossed in the dirt, Walsh quickly steppin away.

He sits there gaspin as Grimes squats in front of him again and starts talkin. "What I did was not on a whim," he says. Daryl lifts his head and pins the son of a bitch with a watery glare. "Your brother does not work and play well with others. You know that."

Of course he fuckin knew that. He's known Merle all his goddamn life but who was this fucker, who was fuckin Rick Grimes, to tell him about his brother. Daryl's just got enough air back in his lungs to retort when another voice speaks up.

"It's not Rick's fault. I had the key."

Lookin up, Daryl sees one of the niggers standin a few feet away, eyes downcast and jaw workin like he actually feels guilty. He looks up and meets Daryl's eyes. "I dropped it," he confesses.

"You couldn't pick it the fuck up?" Daryl snarls. The image of his brother—tough as shit, the biggest asshole he ever knew, Merle Dixon—chained down and laid out like a buffet for a horde of walkers makes his stomach heave and he fights down the urge to gag, eyes stinging with more than just dirt and sweat.

The nigger looks actually offended by his tone. "Well, I dropped it in a drain," he grinds out and, suddenly, Grimes is not the only one Daryl wants to fuckin stab.

---

At T-Dogs recounting of what happened in Atlanta, I see Daryl's face fall again, a split second crumple, before he drops his head, effectively hiding his face, and takes a deep breath. And then another. And another before he finally starts to shift in the dirt he's kneeling in, fingers digging into the loose soil as he heaves himself up. Shane and Rick hover uncertainly around him, waiting for him to go off again, but Daryl ignores them both. He locks eyes with T-Dog and stalks forward.

"If that's supposed to make me feel better it fuckin don't," he growls, tossing a handful of dirt to the side roughly.

There's a sudden hand on my shoulder, tugging me gently back, and I turn to see Jacqui givin me a tight lipped look as she drags me closer to the RV. When I'm within arms reach, Lori and Andrea slowly ease in front of me, as if to form a barrier of protection. I don't have to hear them say it when they think they need to keep the other Dixon brother as far away from me as possible. I scowl at the back of their heads, but crane my neck to glance at where Daryl is shifting angrily in front of T-Dog.

"I know," says the darker skinned man and I can hear the actual guilt in his tone. "But maybe this will."

My mouth falls open in surprise because this is it, the moment of truth, and T-Dog is actually…is actually going to tell Daryl the full story; I can see it in his eyes.

"I chained the door to the roof so the geeks couldn't get at him, with a padlock. I'm pretty sure that thing could hold them pack."

"Pretty sure?"

T-Dog winces at Daryl's caustic tone but it's Rick who responds, stepping up from behind Daryl, making the hunter flinch away at his proximity. "It's gotta count for something," he says gently, no longer seeing Daryl as a possible lethal threat but as a man who might of lost his brother.

Daryl glares at him hotly, mouth working, but then something flickers in his eyes and his face pinches together, features contorting so extremely that I have this irrational fear that they will get stuck like that. He ducks his head again and I'm just close enough to hear the huff of a breath that would be a sob if Daryl let it, to see the way he scrubs at his eyes again.

"H…hell with all y'all! Just tell me where he is, so's I can go get him," he says and it's this quality of his voice, a vague helplessness and something akin to sorrow that makes me realize…Daryl doesn't know if he's going back for his brother or for a corpse, moving or non.

Two days ago, I told myself I was done with Daryl Dixon. Or at least I tried to. I'm not even sure I came to a consensus on that decision. But, either way, seeing him here, now, with dirt covering every inch of him and drenched in sweat from a hunt he did to make sure we all stay alive just that much longer; with that goddamn tremble is his voice and the way his shoulders are hunched, the way he's almost folded in on himself, the same posture he had the day I first offered a truce between us…I realize I can't fucking follow through with it.

I don't know if that makes me weak or strong.

"I'll show you."

Daryl snaps his up and his eyes find mine, narrowed and guarded, like he just remembered I was here. Lori and Andrea whirl on me, mouths agape, ready to start spewing God only knows what, but I slip past them, doing my best to stand tall as I step out towards the hunter.

Just like everyone else has for almost the past day, his gaze clicks over every injury before settling on my eyes. I swallow sharply and duck my chin ever so slightly, feeling subconscious about his brother's fingerprints that stand out lividly against my neck. "I was on the trip," I tell him. "I can show you the building where…where Merle's at."

I try not to congratulate myself on how my voice is steady when I say his name.

For a moment, Daryl just stares at me. Despite the red rims and the dark purple bags beneath them, his eyes are as bright as ever, irises a fathomless river blue until it clashes with the thin hazel shore just around the pupil. They're clear as any water I've ever seen and yet, in this moment, I can't tell a single thing that is going on behind them. I'm fidgeting and just about to open my mouth and ask if Daryl had heard me when someone else speaks up.

"No. I will."

My brow furrows at the voice and I turn to see Rick a few feet away. There's a determined set to his jaw and I know he's telling the truth. "I'm going back," he says definitively. "I'll go with you Daryl."

And, before I can say a word edgewise, the camp erupts into arguments and I'm lost in a frantic tide of words. Wiggling out of the way, trying to let Andrea get past as she says something rather forcefully at Rick, I cast my eyes about, searching for blue eyes and dirty skin.

But Daryl's already yards away, his rigid back facing me as he strides quickly towards his tent. It might be the distance, or the way that the pain in my limbs, under my skin, has finally caught up with me and made everything just slightly hazy, but I think I see his shoulders hitch and I might just hear the distant, muffled sounds of a sob.

#

"You're fucking insane. You know that?"

I sigh and close my eyes, blinding popping two Advil in my mouth and chasing them with a gulp of water. "I heard you the first fifty times Amy," I respond in exasperation.

There's a harsh exhale of breath and then the gutted car seat I'm sprawled on dips as Amy sits down roughly beside me. "This isn't a joke Audrey," she says and I open my eyes tiredly, flopping my head to the side and meeting her angry gaze.

"I know it's not. But what's done is done all right? Can you just leave it?"

Amy gapes at me incredulously and scoffs. "No! I can't 'just leave it'! Audrey, they're going back for Merle." She gestures vaguely to our right, out towards where the men—Rick, Glenn, T-Dog, and Shane—are speaking in hushed voices near the line of cars. Daryl is nowhere in sight. "You understand that right?"

Rolling my eyes, I sit up with a wince and set the canteen in my hand on the stacked stones of the fire pit. "Yeah I kind of got that when I offered to go with Daryl. Kind of understood what I was suggesting."

"Oh don't even get me started on that. That's a whole other insane marker! Dree…Dree look at me!"

Sighing again, I turn to face Amy with a deadpan look. "What Amy?" I ask tonelessly.

The blond scowls and reaches out suddenly, pressing harshly against the gauze on my cheek. "Ow!" I hiss, pulling away. The abused area throbs with pain. "What the hell is that for?"

Amy shifts so she's completely facing me, pinning me with the full effect of her glower. "That's for being insane Audrey! Because you're fucking insane. You're letting them go fetch that son of a bitch without telling anyone what he did!"

"Amy," I say slowly, patience running thin. Thankfully, no one is within our immediate vicinity to hear her words. "In case you've forgotten, Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog where in Atlanta with me the last time. They kind of witnessed everything first hand. They made the decision to go back on their own."

A finger is suddenly stabbed in my face, inches away from my nose and I go cross-eyed trying to keep it in focus. "That's bullshit and you know it Dree," Amy scowls. "Rick only offered to go back because you brought up the option in the first place. He wasn't about to let you go alone in your condition. He had to say something. And then he pulled Glenn and T-Dog along with him!"

Something akin to truth rings sharply in her words and I force myself to look away. "Rick said something about guns," I mutter to Amy, remembering the spare word or two I heard from the RV a few minutes ago, when I was in there rummaging for pain pills. "It's not like they're solely going back for Merle. With that walker showing up this morning, we need all the weapons we can get." It's a weak excuse at best and Amy knows it. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her open her mouth to argue but I wave her off before she can start.

"Besides, Merle was higher than hell in the city. I'm not defending him but Rick threw a whole bag of drugs over the edge of the roof from what Glenn said. He's probably sobered out by now and I doubt he's going to start shit if and when he does return. Not with Shane and Rick and a fuck ton of guns between him and I. It's fine Amy."

"It is so not fine Dree." Amy stands up and towers over me, making me crane my neck back to look into her face. Her mouth is pinched and there is a fire in her pale blue eyes. "Why are you doing this? I get that you didn't want to talk about it before but that was when we thought Merle was dead. Well, he's alive and he's coming back. Are you really going to keep this silence? Why?"

I don't have an answer for her and end up averting my eyes. T-Dog is up near the RV now and I see him talking to Dale. He looks cowed almost and I tilt my head, trying to decipher the words his lips are framing when Amy steps into my line of view and I'm left staring at the pale yellow expanse of her shirt, faded grey stars stretched across her abdomen.

"Is this because of Daryl?" she asks somewhere above my head. Something in my flinches at the sound of his name and I stare resolutely at Amy's stomach, refusing to meet her eyes. "Because Dree, I don't know what you think you owe the jerk but you don't owe him anything. Fine, sure. He brought you to camp but you've more than made up with it in blood and sweat. Hell, I think he owes you for what his brother pulled yesterday."

I exhale harshly and unconsciously start to pick at the ace bandage around my wrist. "Daryl had no control over what Merle did." My voice is defensive and I'm well aware of that. "And I'm not doing anything because of anything all right? I'm sitting right here, on my ass, while Daryl goes and fetches his brother. It's none of my damn business."

Amy mutters something under her breath and then suddenly kicks me in the shin. She has enough common sense though to kick me in my left leg. Yelping with the pain, I snap my head up to curse at her but her livid expression stops me short. "Do you even hear the BS coming out of your mouth Audrey? No, don't answer that. Look, here's the deal. Either you tell Shane about Merle," she growls. "Or I will."

Staring into her eyes, I know she isn't kidding. I purse my lips at her, defiant, but she points to where Shane and the other men are standing, as if she's my mother, telling me to go to my room. "Amy," I start off, almost at a whine but she takes a step towards the red Charger that Shane is leaning against and I sigh. I know I've lost.

"Ok! All right! I'll go tell him now. Happy?"

By the cast of her face, she's anything but.

It takes some maneuvering, and a lot of fucking willpower, but I manage to get on my feet again, still bare, aching a whole bunch more than they had been an hour ago when I stumbled out of my tent, and start a tentative limp towards Shane. Amy offered to go with me, be my proverbial and literal crutch to lean on, but I shook her off saying if she was making me do this, I'd rather do it alone. She looked a little hurt but relented, stepping aside and letting me by.

Glenn is propped up against the driver's door of the Charger, looking anxious and alone since T-Dog was still near the RV. It still pisses me off that Rick dragged Glenn into his quest for guns/rescue Merle plot but, as I said to Amy, what's done is done. I just which my stomach would get the memo and quit tying itself in knots.

On either side of Glenn stand Rick and Shane and, by the looks of it, the two are in a heated discussion. Rick seems to be begging Shane to listen to him, dramatic gestures and a pleading face but the other man refuses to look at him. Shane has his fingers laced behind his head and glares angrily at the sky, jaw ticking with each one of Rick's ardent words. Every so often, Glenn will try to interject something but Rick always cuts him off so the younger man just subsides against the car. Each line of Shane's body screams angry and I can't help but laugh when I think about just what I'm planning on telling him and the reaction I'm assured to get. I'm betting on Shane exploding and slashing the cube van's tires, handcuffing everyone to the Winnebago for good measure.

Why am I doing this again? Oh right. Amy. I love her and everything, and while I do see her point, that doesn't mean I want to freaking do this. By any stretch of the imagination. God this is going to suck.

I'm only a few yards away from the arguing men, still unseen by either of them or Glenn, when a sound to my right draws my attention. Casting half a glance towards the noise, hand twitching for the tanto at my hip on reflex, I turn to see Daryl stalking around the side of the cube van, eyes glued to the ground as he slips out of sight. Something shoots down my spine at the sight of the older man and I purse my lips, glancing from the direction he just disappeared in back to where Rick and Shane are still arguing. From there, I cast a look over my shoulder and I see Amy watching me. She catches my eye with a confused tilt to her head but then Daryl suddenly curses, very loudly, from somewhere near the van and her eyes go wide, darting to the van and back to me again. Understanding dawns on her face, and she opens her mouth, half rising to stop me, but I whirl around and make for the van as fast as I possibly can, knowing that she won't have the courage, or the stupidity, to follow me. She'll scold my ear off for this later, I know, but right now…I need to talk to Daryl.

---

The moment that damn nigger told him there was a chance Merle was alive, Daryl wanted to jump in a fuckin car and speed towards Atlanta. And yet, here he is, half a damn hour later waitin on all the idiots to get their shit together so they can leave. If Daryl knew where his brother was, he would have been long gone by now. As it is, he might yet just leave everyone else behind and tear Atlanta apart buildin by buildin until he found the right roof. He snarls at nothin in particular and stomps around the side of the van for the hundredth time, kicking at the front tire on the passenger's side for good measure. He tells himself it's to check the pressure; he knows deep down it's to stave off the pressure buildin behind his still stingin eyes.

Angrily, he scrubs at his face again, feelin the grit of dirt and dried sweat rub against his hand. His stomach growls in hunger but he refuses to acknowledge it. His brother is trapped on a roof, has been for twenty-four hours, with no water, no food, no shade and probably a million geeks tryin to get at him. His hunger was fuckin insignificant. Growlin to himself, Daryl glances up and squints at the bright midday light. Fuck. The assholes are takin forever. How long does he have to wait?

Suddenly, there's a muffled crack off to his side, a breaking branch, and Daryl whirls around, reachin for his crossbow out of reflex. He's just considerin yellin at whoever snuck up on him, a stupid damn move, they should have said somethin if they didn't want to get shot in the face, but the figure that stands five feet away stuns him into silence.

The kid offers him a halfhearted smile, the bruises on her face twistin into interestin patterns with the movement. She's leanin against the side of the van and Daryl doesn't miss the way she shifts all her weight onto her left leg, the right one lifted a few inches off the ground. He thinks she looks like a damn flamingo.

"H…hi," she says tentatively and her voice is wrecked, like she's been smokin a pack of cigarettes a day for her entire life and downin a fifth of whiskey every night before bed. Daryl's eyes drop to her neck, remembering the vague bruises he had seen before, but the kid has her chin ducked down, hidin the spots from view. He refuses to acknowledge the part of his brain that is screamin to know what happened and the burnin sensation in his veins that makes him feel a different kind of pissed off than he already was. It's sorta like the fire he felt when Walsh grabbed the kid two days ago, the violent urge to break the asshole's teeth. He shoves all those thoughts away, as well as the sudden images of blonde hair and his own blue eyes, starin back at him as his mama cried, tryin to ice the bruises on her skin.

Bringin his gaze back to her face, Daryl doesn't say a word, just continues to scowl as thick as he can. He hasn't forgotten the decision he made in the woods. He was done with this stupid kid. Look where she had gotten him: standin by a fuckin van, prayin to any power left in the world that Merle ain't dead cuz Daryl's last words to him were fuck you and Daryl might not always like Merle, hell most of the time he don't, but Merle's the last family in the world he's got and he ain't about to let him die. So yeah, he was done.

His thoughts must reflect on his face or somethin cuz the kid grimaces and averts her eyes. A silence falls between 'em and it grates on Daryl's already frayed nerves so he makes to spin around, plannin to walk round the other side of the van just so he doesn't have to look at her any more but he doesn't get more than a step away before she's callin out to him again.

"W…wait! Please!"

Daryl stutters for a moment, a quick hesitation burnin through him, but that's all she needs to reach him, fingers cautiously brushin the bare skin of his shoulder. He wrenches away at the contact and whirls on her.

"Don't fuckin touch me." The kid flinches again but drops her hand, curlin in to cup the elbow of her opposite arm, both crossed protectively in front of her. "Sorry," she murmurs, bitin her lip before wincin as she presses on the split in the skin. She's only bout two feet away now and Daryl can smell the blood on her, metallic underneath the sharp sting of medicine and sweat. She looks up at him from under her lashes and her green eyes, with the dark bruises around them, look sad and apologetic. Daryl wants to scream at her to leave him the fuck alone but the words are stuck in his chest, weighin him down.

"The hell ya want?" is what he does manage and even those words come out stilted and jagged, sharp on their way out of his mouth.

The kid doesn't respond for a moment but then she takes a shallow breath, shoulders risin just barely as she goes to say somethin, liftin her head to look him in the face. Her lips part, she swallows sharply, and just as she is bout to say somethin, a muted growl cuts her off. Confusion flashes in the depths of her green eyes and Daryl mirrors it for a moment before the sound repeats itself and the kid drops her gaze, right to Daryl's stomach. It snarls like it knows it finally has some attention and Daryl clenches his gut, tryin to get it to shut the fuck up.

"O…oh," the kid says softly before she snaps her head up and looks Daryl in the eye again. "You're…you're hungry." It's not a question so Daryl doesn't give an answer but it seems she doesn't need one cuz understandin enters her gaze. "You haven't eaten since you left right?" she asks rhetorically. Her green eyes bore into his and he snarls at the kindness in her gaze. He doesn't want it and he doesn't want her here. He wants to fuckin leave already and go get Merle before any more time is wasted.

"I'm…I'm sorry," she continues and she takes a step back, gesturing vaguely over her shoulder. "Do you want me to grab you something real quick? I think there are some leftovers from breakfast, nothing much but enough to take the edge off until you get back." Daryl remains silent but the kid suddenly cocks her head, brow furrowed, makin the bruises dance again.

"Oh wait. Hold on." She drops her left hand and fumbles with her shirt, tryin to push it out of the way. It keeps fallin back into place every time she tries so finally, she wraps the fingers of her right hand, the only parts that are visible beneath the bandages, and lifts the fabric out of the way slightly. Daryl catches just a glimpse of more bandages beneath the shirt before she drops it and suddenly holds out her hand towards him.

A brightly colored rectangle sits in the palm of her hand, the wrapper shinnin dully in the dim light filterin through the trees their standin under. He stares at it for a moment before lookin back at the kid. She smiles, small and with hints of pain around the edges, but there nonetheless.

"It's a protein bar," she states, pushin her hand closer to him. "I…I had a few left in my pack and well…it has all the nutrients of a full meal so…you know…" She trails off with a shrug and looks at him expectantly, waitin for him to take it. The look in her eyes is soft and open, much like it had been when they were down near the quarry together, blood on their wrists and sweat on their brows and pieces of dryin meats stretched between 'em. Or when she read to him, laughin as he scowled and grumbled over and over bout her stupid poems she loved so much. He's only seen that look once before, when he was five and a little dark skinned boy named Ted said he and Daryl should be friends. And hasn't that what the kid has been sayin all along? That she wanted to be friends?

Merle's face swims before his eyes.

Fuck that. And fuck her.

Sneerin in disgust, Daryl takes a step back and spits at the kid's feet. Green eyes go wide with a bewildered hurt but he doesn't give her the breath to speak. "I don't need yer fuckin food and I don't want ya fuckin anywhere near me. Just leave me the hell alone and go back to yer goddamn diary and yer fuckin friends cuz I sure as hell ain't one of em," he snarls at her.

Audrey gapes at him, mouth soundlessly movin for a minute, before she stutters into sound. "D…Daryl…I…if this is about the other day, I'm s—"

"The other day?" Daryl nearly shouts. There's this itch under her skin and that voice at the back of his head is suddenly chantin MerleMerleMerle again and deaddyingdead. "Ya left my brother as walker bait! Ya left him to fuckin die!"

She flinches at his words and draws back as if she's afraid. Good, Daryl thinks. "I…I didn't…I'm sorry," she says. There's desperation in her tone and when she looks him in the eye again, her green eyes plead with him. "I didn't even know Merle was left behind until everyone had already piled into the van, until we were already driving away."

"And that makes it better?"

The kid swallows sharply and he suddenly realizes the guilt in the lines of her face. "No," she admits, shaking her head. "But I…I'm sorry all right? If I could change it…if I could go back…I—"

Somethin unhinges in Daryl at her remorseful tone and he lashes out violently. The hollow bang the van makes when his fist collides against it echoes in time to the pulsin in his hand, still bruised and slightly swollen from when he decked Merle. Merle, his brother. Who could now be dead. And this kid was part of it. Daryl clenches his eyes shut and leans his forehead against the balled shape of his fist, still pressed into the warm, dented metal of the van. Tears burn the back of his eyes and he bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, anythin to eclipse the wild poundin of his heart.

"Daryl?"

The sound of his name breaks through the haze of his mind again but, unlike before, it doesn't draw him up short; it pushes him into action. Snappin open his eyes, Daryl pushes himself away from the van and whirls on the kid again, takin a step towards her and watchin when she takes an involuntary step back, stumblin on her bandaged foot. She stares at him in wary confusion and Daryl snarls.

"Shut the fuck up," he growls at her, low and as menacin as he can. The kid blinks but doesn't retreat any farther, just stares up at him opening and defiantly. "Shut the fuck up and don' act like yer sorry when I know ya fuckin ain't."

She furrows her brow and narrows her eyes, tries to ask, "What are you—?" but he cuts her off again.

"I know ya ain't sorry bout Merle," he says. "So stop damn fakin it."

"Whoa…wait! You think I'm faking being sorry? What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Yer just like every other asshole here!" He stabs an arm blindly towards camp behind her, arm shakin with the intensity of his anger. He hadn't realized how close he had gotten until now but the kid and he were basically chest to chest, her shaky exhales skatin acoss his chin and neck, the skin of his bicep brushin the shell of her ear. "Ya only care bout yer own damn self. Probably were happy to be rid of a Dixon huh? Well ya know what? Fine! Fuck all of y'all! The second Merle and I get back, we're gone. See how long ya dumb fucks survive then!"

He doesn't know why he says it but he isn't thinkin. He's just so fuckin angry and this damn stupid kid with her smiles and her eyes and her perpetual offers of friendship and he might have…he might have even…before…but she left his brother chained in the city and he can't fuckin look at her, not when the blood on her hands just might be Merle's. There's somethin writhin in his chest and it feels acutely like betrayal.

The kid is stunned into silence and the only sounds left are Daryl's harsh breathing and the sound of his thrashin heart. For an endless moment, Daryl just stands there, glarin into her slack face, shock bleedin out of every pore of her. She's not even breathin; the skin of his neck is only damp with his own sweat.

When she finally remembers how to speak, it's quiet and hushed and toneless. "You…you really think I left Merle there…on purpose?" Daryl scowls at the way her eyes have gone blank and unreadable, the way she's stepped back and it feels like there's a mile between 'em when there's less than five feet. He pinches his lips and continues to glower at her, not sayin a word. He doesn't need to; she can see the response clear as day on his face.

The expressionless mask of hers slips, crumbles piece by piece, and suddenly there's anger and hurt so deep he fuckin swears her bottle glass green eyes are cuttin into him. Her hand scrambles for purchase long the side of the van as she shoves herself away and she's shakin her head back and forth, the ends of her short hair whipin side to side. It takes Daryl a moment to realize she's laughin.

"What the hell ya laughin at?" he snaps, irritation like hives beneath his skin. He feels like she's laughin at him and it pisses him off, a flush that he will swear is due to anger crawlin across his cheeks.

The kid continues to chuckle but the sound is off and when she meets his eyes, they're hard. Her lip curls into a sneer, an impressive one that he last saw directed at Walsh: one of fury and rage and a pain that has nothin to do with her battered body. "You don't know fucking anything Daryl. You have no idea…" Her jaw clicks shut and she shakes her again. "Never mind. You know what? Just forget it. You wouldn't even begin to understand…"

She abruptly turns to leave, unbalanced on her injured leg, but at the last second whirls around and gets right up in his face. Daryl tries to backpedal, get away, but she suddenly grips his wrist as tight as she can, a perverse parallel to what he had done not two days before. He attempts to yank away, she was too fuckin close, the hot line of her body pressed into his arm but then she shoves him away again. Stumblin back, Daryl lifts his head to curse at her but she's already backin away.

The second he locks eyes with her, one last time, he feels disoriented and confused cuz if he didn't know better, by the shattered and surrendered look in her face, he'd say he had time traveled two days in the past, with the words, ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble just rollin off his tongue. The expression nearly stuns the anger out of him because who the hell was she to feel hurt? It wasn't her brother stuck in a death trap! It wasn't her last of kin she was just about to lose! Where the hell does she come off lookin at him like that?

He doesn't know and he doesn't have time to wonder. The kid is already miles gone and getting farther and farther away; the look in her eyes makes it seem like she's not even in camp anymore, not even in Georgia. "I hope you find your brother Daryl," she suddenly says to him and before he can think of a response, before he can process her words and the actual fuckin sincerity in them, she's slippin around the back of the van and he loses sight of her.

Thunder rumbles in the distance and when Daryl looks down, the red wrapper of the protein bar glints up at him from between his fingers.

---

There ya go :) What do you guys think? Let me know please!

Also, I'm sure you guys noticed but I'm going to point it out anyway, any place where there was a # was a shift in scene but NOT in POV. It remained Audrey's. Anyplace where there was a complete line switched over to Daryl's POV. Just a new format. Hope that makes the story a little easier to read :)

Until next time!

~Shadows

PS: AUTHORS NOTE PLEASE READ!

OH! Forgot to mention! I know that TWD series doesnt have a definite timeline but after long consideration, I have decided to put this story in the ending of summer/beginning of fall. So, actually Audrey came into camp in the middle of August and since it's been a month now it's the middle of September by THIS chapter. I also went back and revised her birthday to September 30th instead of June. :) Hope that clarifies things up!

PPS: Also, i wrote a TWD oneshot recently so if you are all so inclined go check it out :D It's called In Memoriam and is a future fic featuring Carl. Hope you guys enjoy it!