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

19. Inertia

Ack! Sorry for the wait! D: I actually had some family issues and then college issues and then just general writer's block with this :/ Sorry again! But I hope you enjoy and remember to review! :D Your reviews literally keep me going guys and I love hearing from you so keep it up! ^^

Disclaimer: I own nothing TWD related.

Warnings: Language and racial slurs

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Chapter 19: Inertia

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I knew this boy once, a very long time ago. His name was Adam Keene and he was thirteen years old. He had this bright red hair that refused to be tamed and a galaxy of freckles across the bridge of his nose and the arches of his cheeks. He was tall for his age and thin; arms like toothpicks and legs like twigs. Quiet and reserved, he barely said a word to me for the first few months that I knew him.

But he was the first one to come to me when my first taste of blood still clung to the backs of my teeth, like old copper pennies, and I remember the words he had said to me till this day, though it's been over a decade since he said them. He didn't wipe my tears and he didn't press a tissue to the split in my lip. He offered no kind words or empty platitudes. Instead, he had wrapped his thin fingers around the curve of my elbow and gently pulled me to my feet, out of the corner I had been crouched in crying for who knows how long. He had asked if I could walk. Not if I was ok, not if I was hurt because he knew that I wasn't and he could see that I was. He asked if I could walk. Bewildered and still reeling, all I could do was nod my head.

Adam had pursed his lips, thin as the rest of him and just as pale, and said good. Just good. Then he told me to stop crying and to go up to my room; to stay there for the rest of the night unless I was specifically called down. He told me to be quiet, to make not a single sound. I was five years old and scared out of my mind, my cheek still burning hot and pennies sliding down my tongue. I'd like to say that I simply nodded and did as I was told. In reality, I just started to cry again. Adam had let it go on for a few minutes but when my less than soft sobs began to draw attention, shifting furniture in another room, muffled words and the sound of shattering glass, he had dropped into a crouch in front of me, grabbed my chin, and ordered me to stop crying. He didn't shout nor were his words threatening. If anything, they were devoid of any emotion, flat and blunt with no inflection. I don't know why, but that time, I listened. My sobs tapered down to soft snuffles and restricted breathing, my nose clogged up and my breaths wheezing out of my throat. I still tasted blood and my lip still stung but my eyes stopped leaking and my shoulders finally stopped hitching around aborted cries.

When I finally drew silent, Adam almost smiled at me. Almost but not quiet. He let go of my chin and repeated his earlier instructions, gave me a little nudge towards the stairs, reminding me to not make a sound as I went to my room. Shy and oh so very lost, confused and hurting in more ways than one, I had reached for Adam's hand, asked him if he would walk me to my room, tears still wet on my cheeks and fear like a living, breathing thing inside of me. I was only five years old; Adam was thirteen. He was practically an adult in my eyes, even if he was way too thin to be healthy, all elbows and knees and ribs. Now that I think about it, Adam really was an adult, but not for the childish reasons I had first assumed. At the time, he just made me feel safe, even if, previously, he had never talked to me, even if he hadn't really offered any words of solace after finding me crying in a corner, horrified at the red liquid spilling from my mouth. He was a big boy and I stupidly believed he would protect me from anything, just because that's what I believed big kids were supposed to do. Be nice and help the younger ones. Well, in a way, Adam did help me. Just not in the way that I had wanted.

At the foot of the stairs, the red haired boy had stopped and turned to face me, bending his knees to squat again. Looking me directly in the eyes, he told me no. No, he would not walk me to my room. He told me that I would go by myself and obey every other thing he had said to the letter. Feeling on the edge of tears again, I had asked why. Pleaded. Whined. Begged. But Adam wasn't moved. There had been nothing behind his wide hazel eyes. Not annoyance. Not pity. Not anything. When my last whine had trailed off, Adam had said that he had chores to do. He had to mow the lawn and take out the trash and he was already behind because of me. He had things to do and couldn't waste any more time. His words had stung but before my sloshing eyes could spill over again, Adam said something I will never forget.

"Listen kiddo. This isn't like those cartoons you like or some movie. Mommy and Daddy aren't here to make it all better. And nobody's going to stop and coddle you when you cry ok?" Adam spoke without tone or heat; he was just telling me the facts. Still too naïve, too innocent, I had reached for Adam's hand again, wanting someone to hold me, wanting to ignore what he was saying. He pulled out of my reach before I could even touch him. I started to cry again, silently this time: big fat tears rolling down my cheeks with my mouth pressed firmly shut. I thought maybe Adam would feel bad, hug me or something, because that's what my Mama used to do: hold me tight and hum wordlessly into my ear. But Adam did nothing. He just stared at me while I cried and said, "Them's the breaks. And crying isn't going do anything. So stiffen that upper lip and pick yourself up off the floor every time you get knocked down cuz the world isn't going to stop for you. The world doesn't care about you. It'll just keep chugging along if you're happy, crying, or hurt. The world never stops moving, not for anything, and neither should you. Remember that kiddo. Remember that and maybe you just might make it."

Adam wasn't heartless. He wasn't cruel. He hadn't said those things to me to be malicious or vindictive. He said them to give me a chance, a fighting chance, some advice for the long years ahead. Ironically, it was the only advice he gave me. Three weeks after that, he took a tumble down the stairs. People came to the house. Men and women in uniforms; flashing lights and loud sirens. They took Adam away. To this day, I don't know what happened to him; I don't know if he lived or died, if the fall from the second floor landing was intentional or accidental, self inflicted or not. I never saw him after that day. All I know is that when they took Adam out of the house, he was strapped down onto a long stretcher. And he wasn't moving. I was five years old and scared out of my mind, confused and oh so very lost, but all I can remember thinking was that Adam wasn't moving and he had told me to never do that.

So, I didn't. From that day on, I never stopped moving. Not when I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing Adam's blood off the foot of the stairs, tears sliding silently down my cheeks and mixing with the pink tinged suds under my palms. Not when I was pushed down time and time again, the taste of pennies and salt at the back of my throat. Not ever. I remembered what Adam Keene told me, a boy of thirteen with a wild red mane and hazel eyes decades too old and too shadowed for his body. Years before Sensei's advice of "Finish the tasks laid out before you; finish them and once you are done, then take the time to let the tears flow. But not before Audrey. Never before"; and more than a decade before the ardent plea of "You must never, ever, give up. No matter the trials, no matter the tribulations, no matter the difficulty, you must endure, you must continue on," whispered frantically in my ear with the dying sounds of Dalton clamoring in the background; I remember what Adam said.

The world isn't going to stop for me. It doesn't give a damn if I'm hurt. If my body is bruised and battered. If my eyes sting with salt and my chest is heavy for reasons other than dented ribs. It's just going to keep chugging along; it's never going to stop moving. And neither am I. There are chores to do and things to get done and I'm not about to waste any time wallowing in self-pity over a few bumps and scrapes, a few angry accusations tossed my way. Nobody else understands this, not a single person. Everyone wants me to sit down and take it easy; they want me to cry and talk it out; they want to wait on me hand and foot and not let me move a single inch.

Well, I can't do that. Not won't but physically can't. I know that it isn't exactly healthy, that some wires in my head got crossed years ago, but when I'm hurt, I don't just stop moving. I don't cry or moan and look for attention. I just work all the harder, all the faster. Keep pushing on and on. I never stop moving.

I don't know what ever happened to Adam Keene but…if I were to ever see him again…I'd thank him for picking me up off the floor and giving me just enough support to stand on, giving me just enough foundation to ground and brace myself for the next five years to come, for the life I now have to endure.

I'd thank him from the bottom of my heart.

"Remember that kiddo. Remember that and maybe you just might make it."

#

It was with a bitter taste in my mouth and something writhing uncomfortably in my chest that I walked away from Daryl. I didn't look back; I didn't hesitate in rounding the side of the van. I walked with my chin held high and my back as straight as I could make it. I walked with dry eyes and a purpose. What that purpose was, I'll never know. I had no destination, no thoughts in my head. I just was walking. Away, away, away.

Amy, god bless her, caught sight of me the instant I was out of the shadow of the van. She was standing a few feet away from the fire pit, like she had stumbled after me a couple steps before coming up short. She was halfway to where Shane and Rick had still been talking but stuck in the little dirt path that wound through camp, stuck in the no man's land of indecisiveness and frustration. I could see in her eyes that she was pissed, that she wanted to scold me for chickening out on telling Shane, and she partially opened her mouth to do so. But I guess she saw something in my eyes that being reprimanded wasn't something I was particularly up for because she didn't say a single word as I limped past her. She didn't say a single word as I staggered all the way back to my tent. She didn't even try to follow.

Contrary to what she probably thought, I didn't go back to my tent to wallow or sleep. The second that I ducked through the zippered opening, I was a flurry of motion. I stripped off my T-shirt first, painstakingly and with a lot of breaks in between. After making sure my bandages were still tight and intact, I pulled one of my last clean shirts on: a grey, thick strapped tank top. More revealing than I would have liked, not in the inappropriate sense but in the sense of it showed more of the bruises and scrapes than a regular T-shirt hid. However, it was easier to get into, no arm holes to navigate or become lost in, so I just dealt with the red scrapes and purple bruises lining my arms and shoulders. My face looked worse anyway.

That done, I stepped out of my basketball shorts and pulled on a pair of khaki ones, but not before I cleaned off the blood from my skinned knee. The small gash didn't hurt all that much but it was still bleeding steadily, crimson lines snaking down my shin from when I fell earlier, racing to reach the women and children. I put some pressure on it and smeared a dollop of antiseptic across the torn skin before moving on to find my shoes.

The entire process had to take about half an hour and in that entire time, I didn't think about a single thing. I was on autopilot. Lift arm, shift leg, breathe. In, out, in, out. Nothing but what I was seeing in front of me. I didn't think about Daryl. I didn't think about Merle. Nothing but clothes and bandages and torn skin.

Now, I'm limping out of my tent, hair brushed, shoes on and it's like I'm waking up for the second time. The world comes back to me, murmuring voices, stabbing pain, and words swirling around and around in my head. I stumble and lean against a tree, close my eyes and take a deep breath.

"Ya left my brother as walker bait! Ya left him to fuckin die!"

Goddamn Daryl. Never can leave me the hell alone. Maybe this is punishment for not listening to reason when it threatened to cut me ear to ear. Fucking figures.

I'm so tired it isn't even funny. Yesterday I risked my life to bring food and supplies back to camp. Yesterday, I was beaten down to a point where I almost couldn't get back up. Today, we had our first walker in the mountains, a sign of something else I don't want to think about. Today…but I can't stop moving. Because stagnation doesn't change anything. In fact, it just leaves more room and time to think about things that go against productivity. So, no stopping. No Daryl or Merle or Glenn or Atlanta. Just things that I can do and change.

The world isn't going to stop moving for me but damn if this isn't the first time I wished it would.

When I finally reach the RV, the cube van is gone. There's no dust swirling in the air, no gravel spitting off of departing tires. They've been gone for a while. The last image of Daryl I have leaps to the forefront of my mind: snarling eyes, a twisted mouth, rage and desperation in every inch of him. It's a belated realization, I've been loath to notice it before, but Daryl and Merle share a cast of nose, shape of mouth, and their mocking expressions eerily mirror each other if you know what to look for. It's like a sucker punch to the gut and I'm gasping without air, a hot brand twisting in my chest. And all I can think is…I asked for this. Everyone warned me against the Dixons, both Merle and Daryl. I was too stubborn to freaking listen. Too stubborn and too caught up in a memory that's long gone and an urge to try and prove myself worthy of Sensei's words. It was idiotic and nobody's fault but mine.

Funnily enough, I think Daryl's words hurt more than his brother's fingers around my neck, his fist against my teeth. I expected nothing better from Merle. But from Daryl…

Shaking my head, I spare the empty spot on the road half a glance before I tear my gaze away and limp towards the gathering of women crowded around the door of the Winnebago. Things I can do. Things I can change. The past is over and I have to keep moving.

Andrea is the first one to see me. There's a basket of clothes at her feet and a bottle of detergent in her hands. She's pulled her hair back into a messy bun and rolled the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows. The smile she casts me is bright but strained.

"Hey Audrey. We were just heading down to the quarry to do some laundry." She nods to the basket on the ground, shakes the soap in her hands. I tilt my head in slight confusion because it feels like yesterday was laundry day but then I remember the piles of dirty clothes in my tent and after some calculations, I realize it must have been a week or just about since the last time we went down to the lake. Time seems really distorted nowadays. Or maybe I'm just losing the ability to track it.

Clearing my throat, I do my best to make my voice resemble my normal pitch, not the painful rasp that now resides in my vocal chords, making me sound like I'm a habitual smoker. "Need some help?" I ask and my voice is scratchy at the very least, the bruises in my neck smarting in retaliation. But I can do some laundry. That's something I can actually do. Not Atlanta. Not a rescue mission. But laundry…that's easy enough. I try not to think of Glenn or walkers or dangerous things.

Andrea is standing under the RV's awning, leaning into the meager shade it offers but even through the shadows I can see something shift in her eyes, a quicksilver flash, and I wait for the rejection, the oh no we got it why don't you rest, but, amazingly, it never comes. Instead, Andrea's gaze drops to my feet and drags back up again, clicking onto my face with a thoughtful expression. My cheeks burn with an irrational self-consciousness because I know how I must look.

"Sure," she says lightly and I blink at her in shock, not expecting this response, thinking my question would have been nothing but rhetorical. "Do you have any clothes to wash? We're gonna load up Carol's car and—"

"Andrea!"

The two of us turn to see Amy gazing at her sister with nothing short of a scandalized expression. Amy's hair is pulled into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck and there's a light sweat on her brow as she steps out of the RV. Her eyes dance over to meet mine but I avert my gaze back to her sister, not wanting to see the question, the accusation, in her face.

"What?" the older blonde asks with big innocent eyes and I've seen that expression enough times on her sister to know it's nothing but bullshit. Amy frowns and I can see the argument building behind her teeth but Jacqui beats her to it.

"Let the poor girl rest Andrea." I turn to see Jacqui extract herself from where she had been talking to Abby and Rebecca, Simon's wife, and walk over to the three of us. Her tone is light and admonishing but her deep brown eyes say she means business. She walks up to me and lays a hand on my elbow, right above the line where the bandage on my wrist ends. Rubbing in a rhythm that is meant to me soothing, Jacqui gives me a small smile and says, "We got this honey. Why don't you just relax for a little while?"

I can't help the small chuckle that slips past my lips because, really, where have I heard that before?

Shifting slightly to take some pressure off my right ankle, my whole body is this machine of accommodations, compromises of pain now, I pat Jacqui's hand and do my best to give her a reassuring smile. It's fake as can be but I hope that the twisting bruises and cuts on my face will mask the fault lines in my smile.

"I'm fine Jacqui," I tell her and when she scoffs I roll my eyes and huff out a short laugh. "Ok, maybe not fine but I'm functional. I can do some menial things. Honest."

The older woman narrows her eyes at me skeptically and I hear Amy mutter something petulantly at my back. I can practically hear the wheels in Jacqui's head turning, weighing options, like what she says really matters in the end because whether she likes it or not, I'm heading down to the quarry anyway. I wince at the sudden harsh thought and instantly feel cowed. I don't mean to be antagonistic, especially since I know Jacqui means well, but something in me feels raw and flayed. Before I can find it, shut it up and shut it out, Andrea is speaking again.

"Hey if she wants to help, that means it'll take less time to get it all done. The less time it takes to get done, the faster we can head back up here," she points out. The other women cringe minutely at her implication, at the words she left unsaid.

The faster we can get back to safety.

Andrea shrugs and bends down to pick up her clothes. "I say let her come."

Jacqui sighs and drops her hand from my arm. She doesn't look the least bit convinced, still glances at me in this careful way, like I'm fragile and should be put into a glass box until I'm all healed up and one hundred percent fine. But we don't have that luxury anymore; if you can move you need to get up off your ass because sitting back and being coddled isn't the way of the world anymore. I wonder what Jacqui would say to me if I told her that was never the way of my world, not for many long years, a goddamn lifetime.

I wonder what they would all say if I imparted on them Adam's wisdom.

Smiling, I turn to Andrea to thank her for vouching for me but she's already gone, walking side by side with Carol toward the latter woman's yellow station wagon. Her younger sister stands in her place with a frown and furrowed brow. Amy stares at me for an immeasurable moment, not saying a word and the pale blue of her eyes is clouded and disapproving. I try to smile at her but quickly drop it when she doesn't reciprocate. I know she wants to talk about what happened with Daryl, why I chickened out on Shane, but I can't answer her. Not now. I just need to keep moving, occupy my mind with other things, and I hope she can understand that.

By the way she sighs and steps around me, I don't think she does.

"I'll help you get your clothes."

I nod in thanks and silently follow her back to my tent but not before thinking that I'm going to grab my katana on the way out. Just in case.

As Amy and I walk past the fire pit, my gaze wanders from the ground to the sky and levels off in between. There are trees and scattered tents, meandering people and a line of mostly useless cars. Unbidden, my eyes click back to that empty spot of road where the cube van used to be and then land on a beaten up blue truck, not very far away. It's a dated number, a Ford or a Chevy because I'm not very good with cars. The blue hood is faded; the white lower half of the door and section around the tire is chipped and dinged. It's an old hunk of metal…and I know that it's Daryl's. Not Merle's. Merle's vehicle is the huge black bike with an embossed SS on the side, unsurprisingly, a few feet to the right. (1) No. It's Daryl's. I've seen him tinker with the thing myself, just a passing glance as I walk to and fro across camp, never talking to him because I fucking couldn't at the time, his brother's eyes like knives on my skin. The sight forces a lump to the back of my throat and I snap my gaze away, staring down at my shoes like they are the most interesting items in the world. Amy says something beside me but I don't hear a word. All I can hear are these words in my head, thrumming in my blood, making my head ache.

"Yer just like every other asshole here! 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!"

For the second time, I can't help but laugh under my breath at those words, even as they cut deep, even as my eyes sting because…Daryl really had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

If Rick hadn't stepped up to the plate…I would have gone back to Atlanta with Daryl. I would have, honest to God. Even if it was just him and me. Even if it meant being along with only the Dixon brothers because Merle was Daryl's brother, his last living family member, and I know what it's like to lose your family. It's happened to me more than once. So I understood Daryl's desperation, his fervor, even if I personally believe Merle Dixon didn't deserve an ounce of the loyalty his brother gave to him. And I wanted to help Daryl; I didn't want to see another family ripped apart. Not when I could do something about it.

And yes Rick went back. Yes, Glen and T-Dog went with him. All three witnesses to what happened in the city that last time we were all there. But…it wasn't the same. Merle hadn't tried to kill them. He beat T-Dog sure, but that was a show of power. He tried to murder me, in cold blood, out of hatred.

And still I felt guilty for leaving him to die.

Still…I would have helped to retrieve him.

---

The back of the van is hot and dusty. There's a tickle in the back of Daryl's throat and sweat beadin on his brow. Every bump on the road sends him bouncin and his legs tingle with the urge to fall asleep. He's spent damn near an eternity trapped in this stuffy box and he half wonders if he should of just walked to Atlanta cuz damn the chink drives like an old fuckin lady.

He still doesn't know why any of them came with him and he sure as hell didn't want them to: the stupid chink Merle liked to jeer at, the fuckin cop that handcuffed him in the first place and the nigger that dropped the damn key. Daryl tells himself he hates every single one of them and not for the first time wishes that someone had just told him where Merle was and that he had come alone.

"I'll show you. I was on the trip. I can show you the building where…where Merle's at."

Daryl grits his teeth and there's a metallic taste in the back of his throat. Like blood and rust and pennies. He's irritated, aggravated, pissed all to hell and it simmers in his bones as he gnaws angrily on the split skin around his nails. No. He hasn't thought about the kid since he got into this stupid van and he ain't about to start now. He's gotta concentrate on Merle and what he's gonna say to him when they finally get on that roof. Maybe he should of brought that bottle of Daniels with him; a peace offering cuz just thinking bout what his brother's gonna say...Daryl really knows he should of come alone. Merle ain't gonna be happy to see any of these assholes.

If…if he's even there.

He balks at the thought but there's no escapin it. So far, Daryl's done his best to ignore that possibility but with every mile that they draw closer to the city, the fact that his brother might not be waitin on that roof begins to loom over him, a crushin weight on his chest. Instead of a pissed off, sunburned, dehydrated cursin son of a bitch, Daryl thinks of findin blood soaked gravel and pieces of flesh, a bared skeleton and shreds of clothes in place of Merle. He thinks of ear shatterin moans and his brother as worse off than dead, a walker, a geek, just another dumb, dead, bastard and Daryl's all alone. The thoughts make him nauseous, make this yawnin pit open up in his chest cuz Merle's an asshole but he can't be dead cuz then Daryl has nothing left. His eyes start to sting again, traitorous, and he lifts his head to find somethin to catch his attention. Anythin to stave off the pressure buildin in his bones.

Across from him, the nigger cradles a pair of bolt cutters to his chest and eyes him warily, gaze not leavin the cross bow in Daryl's lap. A bruise sits high on his cheek and Daryl frowns at the color, the shadowed imprint of knuckles. Somethin nudges at the back of his mind, insistent, flashes of black and blue skin and sharp green eyes, but he shoves the thoughts away and settles on snarlin. Daryl tells himself it's all this nigger's fault and he makes himself believe it.

"He'd better be ok," he spits, referrin to his brother, the man this son of a bitch left to die to save his own worthless ass. He puts as much of a threat as he can into his words and leaves it unveiled. "That's my only word on the matter."

He doesn't know what he'll do if Merle isn't. He can't even think that far. It's this black hole of what if and he just keeps thinkin Merle's fine; he's gotta be because he can't face the alternative.

A spark of fear lights up in the other man's eyes but when he speaks, his tone is measured, calm, almost exasperated. Daryl wants to deck him. "I told you the geeks can't get at him. The only thing that's gonna get through that door is us."

Daryl scowls and shifts the crossbow, feelin a dull satisfaction when the nigger's eyes click from his face to the weapon, another flash of fear in their depths. With some effort he unclenches his jaw and growls, "Yeah well the geeks wouldn't have a damn chance to get at him if ya wouldn't have dropped the damn key ya sonva—"

"Hey!" the other man exclaims and out of the corner of his eye, Daryl can see the chink and cop shift in their seats. Daryl ignores them and glares his best at the dark skinned man who's scowlin right back now, no fear in his eyes, only anger. "It was a goddamn accident alright? You weren't there! There were hundreds of geeks comin down on us and—"

"So what?" Daryl snaps and tries to ignore the hundreds of geeks part of the man's rant. Merle's fine; he's gotta be.

"Ya lose the ability to fuckin work your fingers? Ya left my brother for dead just cuz ya were too stupid to hold a key!"

"You're lucky we're even going back for that asshole! We should just leave him to rot!"

"T-Dog," the chink suddenly whines in warnin from the front seat but Daryl doesn't let him say another word. Barin his teeth, his shifts in his seat and flashes the knife at his hip. He ain't above stabbing this man. Not now. He better shut his mouth.

But the nigger, T-Dog—and what kind of damn name is that?—just sneers in response to the movement. The expression is ugly and cruel and Daryl's seen it on too many people to count over the years, this look that shows him that people think he's less than dirt, less than shit. He hates that goddamn look.

"What?" T-Dog asks mockingly, juttin his chin at Daryl. "You gonna beat my ass too? Tch. You're no better than your meth head brother."

Anger burns through Daryl's veins at the dig on Merle but there's confusion there too and somethin like a realization bloomin in the back of his mind. It's a welter of thoughts and emotions in his head and they all start to blend into one big headache.

"What the hell ya talkin bout?"

The other man snorts in disgust and turns his face, gesturin at the bruise sittin high on his cheek. Daryl can't keep his eyes from tracin the individual curve of one, two, three, knuckles stamped onto dark skin. "You think I did this to myself?" T-Dog continues. He faces Daryl again and there's this dark hate in his eyes as they lock gazes. "You think Audrey just fell down a couple of stairs and got all fucked up?"

The words reverberate in Daryl's head and it's like God's kicked his in the fuckin teeth.

"W…what?"

The anger is startled right out of Daryl, sudden and abrupt, leavin him feelin hollowed out and dry. He blinks and stares at the man across from him, tries to find the lie in the minute details of his face, cuz Daryl's been lied to enough to know when it's happenin, but all he sees is naked honesty and a cruel sneering. Confusion threads through him and all he can see in his mind's eye are bandaged arms and a busted eye and a split that ran right down the center of a lower lip.

T-Dog rolls his eyes. "Come on man. I know you can't be that stupid."

"Speak damn clearly or I swear to God—"

"I can't be much clearer Dixon." T-Dog screws up his face and spits to the side, like he's disgusted with how the words taste in his mouth. "Your crazy, cracker ass brother nearly killed us all and when we tried to stop him, he beat the crap out of us. Decked me in the face a good dozen times; pistol whipped me, kicked me in the ribs and that was all before he set in on Audrey."

There it was, all out in the open and clear as freakin day.

"And that was all before he set in on Audrey."

Like a damn light bulb goin off, it all makes sense now and Daryl realizes that's the thing that's been writhin at the back of his mind; this thought, this suspicion, this knowledge, ever since she called out his name. It's the one thing he refused to admit, even to himself, cuz if he really thought about it, what else was gonna hurt the kid 'sides his brother? What else, who else, was gonna make her look like that?

Suddenly, without tryin, without wantin to, Daryl's seein her all over again, standin before him, barefoot and in a shirt three sizes too damn big on her, her face ten kinds of fucked up, bandages on her arm, her leg which she can't put weight on, hiked up behind her like a damn flamingo, and hidden beneath the fabric of her shirt, wound tight for god knows what kinda injuries. He sees the pain in every inch of her, the barely concealed flinches that he hadn't noticed before, too blinded by anger and rage and desperation to save his brother. He sees the smile she tried to give him and the guilt in her bottle glass green eyes, sincere when he thought she was as fake as can be.

Above all else, he hears her words as if she's right there next to him in the van.

"You don't know fucking anything Daryl."

"You have no idea."

"You wouldn't even begin to understand…"

Daryl hadn't known what she was talkin bout; he hadn't gave a shit. All he was focused on was his brother and the feelin akin to betrayal wound tight in his chest. He told the kid to shut up; he told the kid to fuck off. He screamed and cursed at her, almost spat in her face as he accused her of all this shit and all the while…Merle's the one that did that to her. Merle's the one that battered her skin and bruised her muscles and by the way she moved, tentative and unsure, like an eighty year old woman afraid of fallin, he's also the one that might of broken her bones. And the worst thing about it? Worse than the kid just takin everythin Daryl said and not sayin a word; worse than Daryl ignorin what was right in front of him, etched into Audrey's goddamn skin?

The worst of it was…Daryl's not even that surprised. He knew his brother; knew him better than anyone left livin, even before the end of the world. Merle was the meanest asshole he ever met. His first stint in juvie was when he was only twelve. He was in and out for the rest of his youth and each time he went back, it was for somethin worse. Then he moved on to prison and hard core drugs and the bastard in Merle was only exacerbated until there were times when Daryl could swear he hated his older brother. Explodin like this was nothin new for Merle; even with a woman. In fact, the most surprisin thing was how long it took Merle to reach his boilin point. Daryl had been on eggshells since they first arrived in camp, waitin for Merle to go of like a hastily loaded gun. But Merle's been amazinly calm for the most part, for bein him. Even when Daryl decked him he was only bein his normal, antagonistic son of a bitch self. Daryl doesn't understand how Merle went from that to nuclear, went from drinkin with him to beatin…beatin Audrey like tha—

And then he abruptly remembers the stretch of his brother's grin and the gravel rumble of his laugh, the taste of whiskey and sharp unease on the back of Daryl's tongue.

"Knew I taught ya to be smart baby bro."

It's like a punch to the gut when Daryl remembers that gleam in Merle's eye, that calculatin expression that Daryl had written off as imagination, the haze of liquor, a slant of light. He hadn't understood what Merle meant then but hindsight is fuckin 20/20 and Daryl realizes his brother hadn't been calm all this time. He had just been bidin his time; waitin for an openin. And he got it in the form of Daryl stalkin off into the woods, fit to be tied, and a trip to the city where Walsh hadn't been there to stop him, cop's authority and loaded gun. Daryl tastes bile in the back of his throat and when he opens his mouth his voice is no more than a raspy drawl.

"What he do?"

T-Dog glares at him warily, eyes narrowed into slits and lips a firm, thin line. Daryl gnashes his teeth and suddenly feels a hot pain, a shootin flare in the knuckles of his right hand, clenched tight as he can manage round the handle of his crossbow. The swollen joint of his middle finger protests the abusin grip but he ignores the deep ache.

"Merle," he repeats from behind a workin jaw. "What did he do?"

Scowlin, the other man shifts the bolt cutters in his lap and leans forward. "I just told you—"

"To the kid! You ain't look as bad as she does! What he do to her!"

He doesn't give two shits bout the nigger. The asshole can still walk and besides a couple of bruises on his face, he ain't worse for wear. But the kid…that motherfuckin kid. Daryl had said he was done with her, swore it cuz he doesn't need the trouble of all those other bastards lookin at him like he's shit or worse; cuz he doesn't need the tension between him and Merle; cuz he convinced himself it was partially her fault his brother was trapped in the city, maybe dead. Now though…his skin feels tight and head bout to explode cuz every damn smile the kid had sent him is replayin in his mind and he remembers the way she came to him when they were runnin out of food, on the brink of starvation, the way she sat in the dirt and whispered that burden to him and then looked up with wide, trustin eyes. Above all else, he remembers the way she defended him, against Walsh, against that bitch he sleeps with, against the whole of fuckin camp…and he feels like crap. He shouldn't feel like that. She was just some stupid kid he found in the woods, just another loud-mouthed city dweller. He shouldn't give a damn. He tells himself he doesn't, that he just wants to know the damage Merle caused so he can clean it up, like he always does. He tells himself that and he tries to believe it.

There's too much silence and the nigger won't answer, but he doesn't need to cuz Daryl gets his answer either way.

"He tried to kill her."

Daryl snaps his gaze to the side but the chink won't look at him. His eyes are glued to the road in front of him but Daryl can see the white knuckled grip he has on the steering wheel and he can see the tick in his jaw.

"Come again?" Daryl asks. He's well aware his voice is even worse now. But did he hear wrong? Cuz Merle was an asshole, through and through, but he ain't a murderer.

At least…Daryl thinks he ain't.

The chink exhales shakily and his shoulders go rigid with tension. "We were almost done with the scavenge when Rick started shooting a few blocks over. He had almost walked into a horde and basically emptied a whole clip into the crowd. I managed to pull him into our building but it was too late. The geeks were already surroundin the building."

"The hell does that have to do with—?"

"Let the man finish," T-Dog barks. Daryl cuts him a glare but purses his lips and shuts up.

Unperturbed, Chinaman keeps goin. "That's when Merle started shooting. He was on the roof, look out position. The noise was deafening so we raced up the stairs and tried to get him to stop. It was only making matters worse you know? Bringing more walkers toward us. Anyway, Merle laughed at first but then…then he got violent." Chinaman clears his throat and adjusts the brim of his cap. For a moment the van is silent; all Daryl can hear is the gravel underneath the tires and the way Grimes shifts uncomfortably in his chair. When the chink picks up his story again, there's an edge to his voice even though it has become two octaves quieter.

"T-Dog's the first one he went after. Cracked him in the face with the rifle. He got Rick next. It was like Merle was unstoppable." Daryl knows what Chinaman means. His brother was tough on any given day but if he was high, like Daryl assumes he was, he takes on a whole new ferociousness that's frightenin. "That's when Audrey stepped up. She rushed Merle, knocked the gun out of his hands, pushed him back a few feet. She didn't use her sword though," he says, like he's tryin to defend her or some shit. Daryl doesn't understand but he keeps listenin. "She just tried to talk to him; she tried to get him to back down but…he wouldn't listen." The chink lapses into silence again and Daryl uses it to think bout what he's been told.

So Merle did somethin stupid and reckless and caused a bunch of shit? Sounds like him. Beatin heads in? Definitely sounds like him. But Daryl knows that can't be the end of the story. Once he gets goin, Merle doesn't stop for nothin. Not until the other guy is unconscious and bleedin or the cops show up. Daryl feels sick when he wonders which one happened first in Atlanta.

In the front of the truck, Grimes reaches out and lays a hand on Chinaman's shoulder but the younger man shrugs him off. All Daryl can see of his face is a slim profile at an awkward angle but the skin he can see is pale and taunt and the knob of his Adam's bobs sharply.

"He blindsided her," he starts up again and Daryl gets a knot in his stomach. "Threw gravel in her face while she was trying to reason with him. She couldn't see anything and while she was incapacitated…Merle decked her. The punch only threw her slightly off balance and Audrey tried to get away before he could land another hit but Merle was smart. He…he kicked her in the ankle, hard enough that we could hear the impact ten feet away. Audrey had twisted it earlier in the day, nothing too serious but enough to slow her down, provide a weak spot I guess. She went down hard but kept trying to fight. Merle stomped on her wrist when she went for her tanto, punched her in the face again, kicked her in the ribs. She nearly passed out."

Everythin Chinaman is sayin Daryl can picture crystal clear in his head. Every punch and kick; he can even imagine the blood on the kid's lip when Merle's fist split it down the middle. It makes him feel sick and pissed off cuz all he can think bout is Lilah Dixon crouched on the floor of the bathroom, nursin black eyes and purple bruises while her husband knocked back another beer and stumbled into his old recliner to pass out. Ya would think Merle would know better but Daryl's always known his brother's more like their father than either of them would ever admit.

The thought suddenly makes him so angry he's spittin out words he hasn't even processed.

"And what? The rest of ya just stood back and watched?" he snarls. He thinks about the way the kid couldn't walk on her right foot properly, the way she didn't even use her right hand. Bones could be broken in both and these sons of bitches did nothin? Somethin in Daryl's head points out how he's not angry bout what they did to Merle now but bout what Merle did to Audrey. The same somethin points out that feelin this way is a betrayal to Merle but Daryl snarls at the thought cuz if what Chinaman says is true—and what else can it be but the truth with the kid all fucked up?—then Merle's done this shit to himself again, made another bed he has to lie in. Daryl still doesn't think they should have left his brother to die…but…but he'll be havin some words for Merle when they reach the goddamn city. He swears it.

"Oh screw you Dixon," T-Dog spits at him and Daryl whirls on him with a scowl. "Don't act like you care what your fucked up brother did to her! Have enough balls to at least be honest and admit you don't give a shit instead of fakin it!"

"Shut the fuck up and don' act like yer sorry when I know ya fuckin ain't."

Daryl's breathin is sharp and irregular and he doesn't know what the pressure in his head is, the ache in his chest, he can't name the burnin in his veins or the way he's twitchin like he's been electrocuted, but he doesn't like it one damn bit. He tries to shove it all away but no matter how hard he tries, it doesn't work. Nothin works. And it just makes him angrier and angrier cuz what the hell is this feelin in every inch of him and—

"Wait T-Dog. Just…just let me finish. He wants to know."

The nigger doesn't look very inclined to listen to Chinaman, he's still glowerin hotly at Daryl to which the hunter bares his teeth in kind, but the kid drivin just starts talkin again and Daryl forces himself to look at the chink, to listen to what he's sayin cuz…he needs to know. All of it. Everything. Every fucked up thing Merle had done so Daryl can beat him twice as bad for being an idiotic son of a bitch.

Chinaman takes a deep breath and cuts a glance at Daryl out of the corner of his eye. The two men lock gazes for only a second before the younger man turns away but Daryl saw what was in his eye and it makes him inhale sharply and hold it, bracin himself.

It's haltin when the chink says, "We tried to help. T-Dog yanked Merle off of her but he wasn't exactly willing to listen then either. No matter how one of us went at him, Merle was already two steps ahead and shoving us back. It was only when he pulled the gun that we froze."

"Gun?" Daryl hears himself ask and Chinaman nods, his breathin shallow.

"Yeah some handgun he had stowed God knows where. Started waving it around. Had it in all our faces. Audrey…I tried to keep her down, away from Merle, but she wouldn't have it. She snuck up behind him and pulled her sword, I think just to scare him, get him to stop, but he turned at the last minute and had the gun in her face before we could blink. Audrey still tried to reason with him but he ignored her, punched her in the face again, broke her nose. She set it herself though, later. I couldn't freaking believe it. She just snapped it into place but…um never mind. Where was I?"

Daryl thinks back to the tape sittin high on the bridge of the kid's face and has to bite his tongue at the thought of her wrappin those slim fingers of hers round broken cartilage and jerkin it back into place. Daryl's done it before and he knows how much it fuckin hurts.

"Oh yeah," the chink says, answerin his own question. "Right. Uh…the punch knocked Audrey against the edge of the roof. I…I tried to go to her but Merle…he pointed a gun at me. I couldn't move. He went to her instead and before she could see straight again, he had his hand around her throat and had hauled her off the floor."

That explains the unusual spots on the kid's neck, Daryl thinks. He wonders at how tight his brother must of have clenched his hand to leave such clear impressions, to have wrecked Audrey's voice so much. Daryl distantly imagines that he'd be able to see Merle's fuckin fingerprints if he looked hard enough.

"Then what?" Daryl needs to know and he can't take Chinaman's pauses anymore, his goddamn silence. Daryl wants him to spit it all out, to just let him fuckin hear it.

The other man must realize how Daryl feels cuz he stutters the rest out in a frantic breath. He sounds scared and angry, like he's right there seein it all over again. "Merle said somethin to her. I…none of us could hear what. And then…then he started to push her over the edge. We were ten stories up. There was no way…if she fell…even without the walkers…" he trails off, shakes his head. He starts again a moment later but there's enough emotion in his voice to warp his words. "He had her leg pinned and his hand was still around her throat and she was almost unconscious but…I don't know what happened. One second I'm sure she's going to go over and the next, she's shoved Merle back. The momentum almost sent her off the roof anyway but I grabbed her at the last second. And Rick got Merle before he could shoot us. Hooked him to a piece of metal and well…I guess you can figure out the rest."

Daryl could. Then the walkers got in and the rest of them somehow got out but forgot good ole Merle Dixon up on the roof. Before, the knowledge had sent him into a rage. They left his brother to die. They left him as walker bait. The bastards tried to kill his last of goddamn kin.

But now…Daryl can see why and a part of him doesn't blame them anymore. It's like a part of him, the part that's always been loyal to his brother—cuz that's what ya did with family, ya stood by them no matter what they do—breaks cuz…Merle didn't just cause some shit. He almost killed people, directly, with his own hands.

He…he almost killed the kid.

Daryl told himself that he didn't want nothin to do with her; that he didn't want to be her friend of anythin else. But the stupid…she never stopped tryin. Not when he snapped at her those first few days in camp; not when he acted like as ass; when that weasel almost tore her eyes out; when he listened to her defend him and then spat in her face. Not even when his own brother tried to goddamn murder her. She kept tryin to be his friend through all that shit and Daryl doesn't understand her at all.

But what he does understand, what he does know, what he's tried to ignore but no longer can, is that she's the first person in a long time that's looked at him with anythin but disdain and condescendin. She's the first person to actually thank him and believe he was useful and, not only that, that he was worthy enough to be a friend. She's the first damn person that's just…tried and she even tried to save his fuckin brother, her would be murderer, and Daryl only spat in her face again.

Somethin nasty in his head whispers that maybe all these assholes are right to look at him like they do. Like trash. Like dirt. Like shit. He tries to ignore it, he really damn does, but it's hard when he can feel that protein bar the kid gave him pressed against his thigh in his pocket, when he remembers the look in her eye when he screamed at her, the hurt clear as day in bottle green orbs.

It's fuckin hard as hell when he can hear her words right at his ear and know she somehow meant them.

"I hope you find your brother Daryl."

But when the chink eventually slows the car to a stop, says, "We walk from here," Daryl can't help but think, distantly, at the back of his mind in the most abstract of ways, that maybe he really doesn't want to.

---

To say the ride down to the lake is excruciating is an understatement. And that doesn't even include the physical pain I was in.

Once Amy and I had gotten all my laundry together, and I had painstakingly strapped on my katana again, people started to load up. I don't know why but we were using Carol's wagon to get to the quarry which meant that her oh so charming son of a bitch husband was along for the ride as well. When Jacqui, Andrea, and Amy had slid into the back seat of the station wagon and I had seen there was no room left, a small part of me was relieved because ever since the day that I realized what Ed truly was, I avoided him like bubonic plague. In the last few weeks, I don't think I've been within a hundred yards of the bastard. Being stuck in a fucking car with him? Yeah…don't think that would have gone over well.

So feeling slightly guilty, I was about to resign myself to doing other chores around camp, washing dishes from the quick lunch we had or foraging for some nuts, berries, mushrooms—the deer that Daryl caught had been hauled off to the side and even though some people kept sparing glances at it, looking at me, I wouldn't even peek in it's direction—when Shane came up and told me he was taking Carl down to the quarry to catch some frogs and if I needed a ride, I could come.

If I was any kind of smart, I would of said no. I should of said no. But, I didn't. Instead, I thanked him and took him up on his offer and hauled myself into his Jeep, Carl climbing into the back among nets and buckets and what I assumed were other frog catching items.

From camp to lake, it's only a five-minute ride. But it was the longest five minutes of my freaking life. I swear Shane's eyes were on me longer than they were on the road. And the Jeep might be an open vehicle but I felt almost claustrophobic with the way he stared at me, the oppressive weight of unsaid words between us. I knew Shane wanted to know more about Atlanta; I knew that he knew I was hiding something. But he wasn't about to ask, not in front of Carl, and I wasn't about to tell. Not even with Amy's semi-threat still cycling in my head. So we both stayed silent; awkwardly, uncomfortably silent. Add to that fact that every bump in the dirt road had me hissing in pain, I was considering walking back up to camp when the laundry was all done.

Thankfully, Shane and Carl split off from the rest of us once we reached the water's edge, sliding off to the left near a small outcropping of rocks while the rest of us started to spread out the laundry supplies. Or well, as everyone else did. Amy sat me down on a crate the moment there was one unpacked and every time I tried to move or help, she was pushing me back down with a frown. I think she even snapped at me once, like I was a dog. I rolled my eyes at her but complied.

Now I'm sitting next to Carol, shin deep in water with buckets in front of each of us. My right leg is propped up in front of me on another crate so as not to get wet and I'm bent over at an awkward, somewhat painful angle, but I keep my mouth shut as the two of us wash clothes. To the right, in the corner of my eye, my usual boulder juts out into the water, solid and reassuringly there as always. Now, the sight makes knots twist in my stomach and the acidic taste of bile to burn on the back of my tongue.

There's a clatter of gravel behind me and suddenly, Amy plops down on my right, another load of clothes in her hands. She huffs quietly and dumps the heap of fabric into the bucket between my knees. Sudsy water slops over the sides and splashes up into my face.

"Amy!" I cry out in protest. Soap stings my eyes and when I whip around to glare at her, tears blur her face. "The hell?"

The blonde shrugs and turns to her own bucket but not before I catch the small smile on her lips or the glint in her eye. I grumble at her and try to seem angry but the effect is ruined by the grin threatening to break across my face. I guess we're ok again.

"Jerk," I mutter, leaning over to nudge her with my shoulder. She snorts but doesn't reply and we fall into a compatible silence.

I'm no novice at washing clothes but usually there's some machinery involved. At least in this century. Scrubbing clothes on a washboard—and where did someone find these anyway?—makes things a little difficult. Subtract the use of one arm and the task goes from difficult to headache inducing. For every item of fabric I wash, I have to use my left hand to scrub the article against the washboard and since my right hand is out of commission, I have to bend over even farther to get my elbow to pin the washboard to the side of the bucket. My ribs scream in protest and more than once I hold my breath so as not to make a sound but I've gotten a good portion of my own clothes washed, and some others, so I say I'm doing a pretty good damn job.

"Damn Audrey," Andrea suddenly laughs. I look up to see her standing on the other side of Amy, a teasing glint in her eye. "Leave some for the rest of us huh? Or you'll make us look bad."

I roll my eyes at her but feel a slight flush crawl up my neck. "Please," I snort back. "Carol's done like three times as much as I have and she hasn't even broken a sweat. Amy on the other hand…" I cluck my tongue and shake my head slightly. "Well…"

The younger blonde squawks indignantly and turns to me with a scandalized expression. I start grinning like an idiot and can't help but laugh, even with the slight pain it causes, when she flicks soap off her fingers at me.

"I'm helping," Amy whines petulantly and her sister nods with a mock serious expression.

"Uh huh. Sure you are Ames. It shows in the three shirts you've washed."

Amy blushes red and grumbles something along the lines of "hate all of you" and "shut up". Andrea and I share a smile over her head before we set back to work again. If Amy suddenly picks up the pace between us, scrubbing furiously on her washboard and handing shirt after shirt to Jacqui for drying well…none of us say anything.

A few minutes pass in calm silence before a sudden splash draws our attention, followed by laughter and cajoling shouts. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I look up to see Shane splashing around in the shallows, soaked from head to toe, shoving water at Carl as he sang something about "catch them frogs!" The boy laughs at his antics, grinning from ear to ear, a thin net in his hands digging around in the water. Beside me, Carol and Amy chuckle at the spectacle and I can't help but do the same.

"I'm beginning to question the division of labor here," Jacqui suddenly says from behind us. I glance over my shoulder to see her frowning at Shane, who's still making a show of himself in the water. Amy clicks her tongue at my right and I see her toss back her head to address the other woman.

"Oh come on Jacqui. They're just having a bit of fun."

Jacqui purses her lips and remains quiet. I can still see the disapproving light in her eyes though and I get up to hand her an armful of clothes, wrung out but still damp. She blinks at my approach, albeit slow and stumbling, but I smile at her around the twinge in my side and leg. "Shane's just trying to keep Carl occupied. You know, keep his mind off of Rick in the city and that…that walker this morning." Flinching at the reminder, Jacqui sighs and accepts the clothes from me.

"I know honey. I know," she says. Turning away from me, she lays out the shirts along the edge of the small boat that's beached along the shore. "Just seems a bit unfair is all I'm saying."

"Preaching to the choir," I laugh. "But I don't think Shane would be of much help anyway." Pointedly, I look over at where the older man is waist deep in the lake, the metal bucket on his head like some kind of helmet as he playfully grapples with Carl over the fishing net. Jacqui follows my gaze and rolls her eyes again. I grin and walk back with her to the water's edge, slowly easing myself back down to sit on the crate I had vacated.

"All I'm wondering is why the women got stuck with the Hattie McDaniel work?" Jacqui continues as she goes about sorting out clothes, dirty and clean, handing the former to us and gathering the latter to her.

Amy snorts beside me and a smirk pulls at her lips. "The world ended. Didn't you get the memo?"

I jostle her shoulder again but she just laughs and pushes me back. I turn to say something to Jacqui but Carol catches my eye. She's looking back over her shoulder, where Ed stands lounging against the car, a pinched look to her features and when she speaks, it's quiet and reserved. "That's just the way it is."

Frowning, Jacqui shakes her head but says nothing and I have to bite my tongue and duck my head so I don't either. Things I can do. Things I can change. The list seems to be shrinking nowadays and it's hard to keep moving if I have nothing to do.

A few minutes pass in which there's only the scrub of the washboard and the splash of water to break the silence. Shane and Carl have quieted down and when I sneak a glance at them, Carl has his hands cupped in front of him and Shane's poking at something in his palms. The young boy looks awed and happy, a smile so big on his face I swear I can see every tooth in his head. A warmth blooms in my chest and for a moment, just a moment, the hole that Daryl punched through me is filled up and soothed over and I can breathe easy for the first time in over an hour.

Carol suddenly sighs next to me. She doesn't stop washing but her pace slows down, loses some intensity. "I do miss my Maytag," she says. I blink at her abrupt statement, confused as to what she's getting at, but Andrea seems to get it because she picks up the conversation with ease.

"I miss my Benz," she says, absentmindedly scrubbing a brush over a pair of jeans draped across her knees. "My sat nav. Dinner in four inch heels and a nice wine."

I can't help the short huff of disbelief that falls out of my mouth. Amy had said her sister was a lawyer before; civil though, not criminal. Either way, that means Andrea wasn't exactly wanting for anything. A woman of privilege.

"My computer," Amy laments. Her voice draws out into a long whine, her lips curved into a pout. "And texting."

And, not surprisingly, so was her sister.

The short huff from before turns into a full on chuckle. Amy turns to me with a bemused smile. "What?"

"Nothing, nothing."

She rolls her eyes and snaps a wet shirt at me. The sting of the wet fabric makes a small welt appear on my upper arm. "Liar. Come on. What about you Dree? What do you miss?"

Four pairs of eyes turn to me and I'm the center of attention once more. I wrinkle my nose at the heat in my cheeks and duck my head with a shrug. "I don't know," I mumble. It's a lie, a big one, because I know the exact answer to that question and it rattles behind my teeth, caught in my throat. "A lot of things I guess."

"Like what?" Amy asks. Always the persistent one.

I know I'm not going to get out of this gossip circle and it's going to take too much energy to say no to Amy and frankly, I just don't have the will to fight her. So, with a sigh, I say the first thing that comes to my mind. "Books, for one. Libraries and bookstores. Just to sit down somewhere quiet and read."

Amy blinks at me. "Books," she repeats slowly. I nod and she immediately shakes her head with a sigh. "Why am I not surprised? You were one of those nerdy kids weren't you Dree? Only a nerd would miss books at the end of the world," she teases. I shrug and smile and let her believe what she wants. I'll let her believe I mourn the loss of paper and ink and worlds trapped between the covers of books but what I won't say, what I'll keep to myself because this is meant to be a light conversation, teasing and joking, is that I'd burn every book in the world just to see my family again. Just to hear Manny laugh and feel Irina tug at my leg, looking up with big blue eyes and pressing a bedtime story into my hands with a question in her face. Just to see my mother smile and Sensei open the door for me with a warm shake of his head because I'm late yet again. Just to have Mathias, Annie Marie, and Kaleigh close again and know that they are breathing.

The thought of them, the things I truly miss, makes me frown and a dull throb pulses in my chest. I'm so caught up in breathing through the pain, through the memories, that I almost miss Andrea's next statement.

"I miss my vibrator."

My hand skids down the washboard and I land elbow deep in water with surprise. Fire crawls up my cheeks as Jacqui makes a teasing, humming noise, and the rest of the women begin to chuckle. Amy cries out something scolding but I don't hear it because Carol suddenly adds her two cents in beside me.

"Me too," she almost whispers and then everyone else explodes into laughter. Except for me. I'm too busy trying not to swallow my tongue or burst into flames.

It's not that I'm completely innocent or naïve or…whatever. I mean…I know about things. I had a few boyfriends before. Emphasis on a few as in…about three. So I know. Enough. Still I um…I wasn't expecting this to turn into a sexual history discussion. And as embarrassment burns through me I can only pray that Amy doesn't rope me into this conversation as well because I'm not going to have exactly a lot to offer.

Thankfully, everyone is still cackling over Carol's admission so I'm out of the line of fire for now. The older woman is pink in the cheeks but there's a smile on her face as she nonchalantly keeps washing and I can't stop the grin that threatens to pull at my own lips. She doesn't smile a lot so it's good to see her let loose a little. Jacqui must think so too because she leans over, still bent over with laughter, and shoves Carol good naturedly, making the other woman chuckle. Amy catches my eye over the two laughing women. Her face is flushed with emotion and there's a glint in her pale blue orbs. A glint I know too well. Doing my best to scowl at her, I shake my head and will her to be silent but that mischievous look has taken over her whole face now and she opens her mouth to ask the question—

"What's so funny?"

...that's not Amy's voice.

Craning to look over my shoulder, I see Ed strolling towards the bank, scowl on his lips and smoke curling out from behind his teeth. His irritated gaze sweeps over the five of us and suddenly lands on me. All laughter bleeds out of me and the smile drops of my face. I hold his gaze for only an instant before I turn back around and blindly grab for another shirt to start scrubbing.

"Just swapping war stories, Ed," Andrea says in response to his question. I can tell she is trying to keep her tone light and airy but an edge has crept into her words and I can also sense the disdain she holds for the man. Good. Seems I'm not the only one.

From behind us, I still hear the crunch of gravel, slow measured steps approaching us. There's a sudden hint of smoke in the air and I hear Ed take a deep drag off of his latest cigarette before the butt suddenly sails past my ear and drops with a sizzle into the water lapping at my shins. Carol flinches to my left and I have to grit my teeth and hold my breath in order not to say anything. God I want to. I so fucking want to but I remember Carol's ardent plea from before to just leave it alone and while every fiber in me balks at the idea, I like Carol enough to respect her wishes. For now.

Andrea, on the other hand, does not seem so inclined. "Problem, Ed?" she asks after a few tense moments of silence. The man is standing only a few feet behind us and his proximity makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, sets my bones shifting beneath my skin.

"Nothin that concerns you," he snaps back at her and now I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath to control the cresting irritation building inside of me. "And you ought to focus on your work," he suddenly says. By the way that Carol flinches, we both know he's talking to her. "This ain't no comedy club."

Somebody huffs angrily to my right and I can't tell if it's Amy or Andrea. I'm thinking the latter though. Honestly, I'm really starting to like the older blonde. She doesn't like to take shit from assholes either.

Ed is still standing behind us and he gives no indication of leaving any time soon. We have all fallen silent and where it had once been compatible and peaceful, it's now tense and uncomfortable, like we're waiting for the other shoe to drop. I shift ever so slightly in my seat and the brush of the katana along my spine is a reassuring weight, the clench of the tanto's belt on my hip familiar as breathing. It puts me somewhat at ease even as I listen to Ed light up behind me.

A few minutes later I see a sudden flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and I turn to investigate. Lori strides purposefully along the shore towards where Carl and Shane are sitting on some rocks and, by the set of her shoulders, the march of her feet, I can tell she is anything but happy. My brow furrows in confusion at the sight and I unconsciously stop washing. I watch as she reaches the two males and shares a quick few words before Carl is suddenly getting up and trudging away from Shane, a combination of a pout and a scowl on his face. Lori turns to follow him but I see Shane call out to her, get up to follow, and the look on her face, even from this distance, is livid. She whirls on Shane and the two of them start to argue. It looks heated and angry, at least on Lori's part, even if I can't hear what they are saying. Carl marches away from the two of them, oblivious, and I thank whoever is listening out there for small mercies when Lori suddenly gets up in Shane's face and slaps him. The former cop just takes it and doesn't say a word when Lori spins around and stalks after her son; he just stares after her with this expression that looks equal parts pissed and heartbroken.

I have to say, even after the animosity and butting heads between Shane and I, I feel sorry for him. I think about the way he looks at Carl, the way he and Lori acted around each other before, and it would take a blind, deaf, and dumb person to not see that he cared tremendously about the two of them. I know Shane is happy that Rick is back, I had seen the two embrace yesterday, tears in both their eyes, but perhaps it's just a little bit more complicated than that.

But isn't that the fact of life.

Quietly, I watch as Lori wraps an arm around Carl and steers him towards the road that leads back up to camp. The boy looks upset and he shrugs away from his mother, opting to march a few feet in front of her instead. The action seems to upset Lori, gives her pause, but she doesn't say anything and the two of them start the trek up the long gravel road. When i lose sight of them, my eyes flicker back to find Shane slowly picking up the buckets and nets he and Carl had been using and I can't help but remember the way he tried so hard to make Carl laugh, make him smile. I really do feel sorry for him.

However, I don't have anymore time to dwell on Shane because Andrea suddenly growls, honest to God growls, to my right and then she's standing with a huff and walking barefoot across the pebbles of the shore, right to where Ed is lighting up yet another cigarette. Her expression is pissed and fed up and even though I think to myself that I'm really starting to like Andrea, I can't help but think that thud that's resounding in my head is the echo of the other shoe dropping.

"Ed, tell you what," she starts off, sauntering up to the other man. Amy shifts uncomfortably next to me and when I spare her a glance, her face is worried and scared. "If you don't like how your laundry is done, you are welcome to pitch in and do it yourself," Andrea finishes with a flourish, tossing Ed's shirt at him with a snap of her wrist. A smirk is just starting to form on my lips when I see Ed scowl and throw the shirt right back at Andrea. The fabric makes a wet slapping noise as it collides with her face. The retaliation sends an energy crackling through the air and Amy is suddenly on her feet, shifting anxiously in the water. I find myself not all that far behind, balancing precariously on one leg as I watch Andrea and Ed square off.

"Ain't my job missy," Ed spits at her and Amy can tell just as well as I can that Andrea is not about to take that shit. The younger blonde scrambles from my side and tries to grab her sister.

"Andrea, don't!"

The other woman shrugs her off and ignores her words and there's this burning in my blood that tells me…this isn't going to end peacefully. My ankle throbs, followed by my wrist, my ribs, as if to warn me that I'm not exactly in my fighting prime but I ignore the signs, shifting my weight to gain better balance on the slick pebbles beneath my bare foot.

"What is your job Ed?" Andrea snarls. "Sitting on your ass smoking cigarettes?"

"Well, it sure as hell ain't listening to some uppity smart-mouthed bitch, I'll tell you that. Come on; let's go!" Ed barks and I look down to where Carol is still silently perched on her crate, cringing into her bucket. I scowl at the sight, at the way Carol immediately tries to scramble up, and before I can think it through, I step in front of her, blocking her from her fucking bastard of a husband. Carol looks up at me with watery blue eyes and she shakes her head, pleading with me to move. A part of me tries to, remembers her begging me not to interfere, but it's a small part, a very small part, and I don't move an inch.

"I don't think she needs to go anywhere with you, Ed," Andrea says firmly and I am really considering hugging her or something because damn.

"And I say it's none of your business. Come on now. Move!"

Carol whimpers quietly, knowing that the last two sentences are directed at her, and tries to move around me. I block her again and reach out gently, trying to stop her. She refuses to meet my eyes and dodges my hands, moving too quickly for me to get my footing and stop her as she carefully hops over a crate. I curse my immobility and hop idiotically to turn my body around but Andrea's already got Carol, two hands on her shoulders and looking her right in the face, telling her she doesn't have to go. Carol shakes her head and I hear her whisper that it doesn't matter and the irritation that's been building in me starts to flicker into real flames of anger at the defeated quality of her voice as she tries to slip past Andrea too.

"Hey," Ed growls when Andrea refuses to let Carol pass. "Don't think I won't knock you on your ass just cuz you're some college educated cooze. All right?"

Andrea gasps in outrage but he ignores her and reaches for Carol. The sight of his hands on Carol's skin taints the edges of my vision red and I move forward, ignoring Amy's hands and pleas to stop. Ed is saying something else, something about Carol regretting her decision later, and I'm just imagining more bruises on her pale skin, bracelets and necklaces of them, when Jacqui, sweet, kind hearted Jacqui, snarls something at the asshole, calling him out on the monster he really is.

I owe her and Andrea a fruit basket or something.

Ed bares his teeth at Jacqui's words and literally spits at her feet. "This ain't none of ya'lls business. And I am done talking. Come here!"

Prior to this point, I haven't said a word. Not a single one. But not because I don't feel the same disgust that Andrea does, that Jacqui does. On the contrary, my loathing is probably more fathomless than either one of them could imagine. I've kept my silence because I know that talking is useless. Arguing is useless. Men like Ed Peletier don't respond to words; they respond to action. And previous to this point, I've kept myself at bay. Because Carol asked me to. Because I respected her wishes.

But the instant that Ed grabs her, the second she actually tries to fight back, the exact moment that he smacks her, clear across the face, the crack of bone on bone, all mother fucking bets are off.

Now, when I was really young, I vaguely remember having a sweet disposition. There are these snatches of memory, still frames, like old, yellowed polaroids of fuzzy featured people smiling down at me and I remember the skin of my lips stretching in a grin as I said something funny and childishly cute, which made those people, mere nameless ghosts that were dead to me long before the end of the world, just smile all the brighter.

Additionally, I distantly recall the faint echoes of "Oh isn't she just lovely?" and "She's the sweetest little thing I've ever laid eyes on." I know people say things like that all the time to kids, about kids; I heard these platitudes plenty of times in supermarkets when people came up to gush about Irina's crystal blue eyes or Manny's deeply carved dimples, about how well mannered they were and how my mother must be so proud. But, honestly, I think people were sincere when they told my parents those things, all those years ago. I have no recollection of being truly angry or upset in those early years, save the seldom occasions of childhood tantrums but I don't really count those since every child wants candy for breakfast or to stay up longer at night and when a parent says no it is almost an obligation to the young mind to pitch a fit. So, I don't count those instances and without them, my early childhood seems happy and placid, young Audrey all gap toothed grins and easy smiles, melodic laughter and sticky fingers grasped in my parent's.

Perhaps this is a lie, a delusion. Maybe I was a difficult, sour child even then and I just don't remember it, blocked it out if only to make myself believe that I was happy once, before everything. I don't think that's the case but anything is possible.

However, that was a long time ago, that time frame not extending past my kindergarten year. That Audrey is long fucking gone. I like to think that I retain something of her, manners and principles that my parents had time to instill in me, things like yes sirs and no ma'ams, please and thank yous. I'm kind when shown kindness, sometimes even when I'm not; I try not to be selfish; I respect my elders and do my best to stay level headed. All the markers of a sweet and well rounded disposition, the girl I might have grown fully into if I only had the chance.

But, the fact of the matter is, I never had that chance. It was taken from me, stolen by a freak accident and the crumbling of a concrete road. The majority of young Audrey is lost to me now. Her innocence, her naivety but, most of all, her ability to be saccharine and always amiable, to never get angry past vaguely upset and to always forgive, kind and understanding. I can't find those lost parts of me; I believe they are gone for good, not even a vestige remaining, not even an echo or a vague impression.

Because right now… I don't feel the least bit forgiving. I don't fucking feel anything in the damn realm of sweet or understanding. I am fucking livid. Pissed beyond all imagining. All the holes in me, the pieces of young Audrey that I lost, are being filled by the me that I am today. The me that I became in order to survive the years after kindergarten, a Gollum to the Sméagol I used to be: a rough and tumble bitch who is quick to bare teeth and even quicker to lash out; who, when she gets pissed, wants nothing more than to fight. (2) Since I met Mom and Sensei, that me has been toned down, been dormant, put to sleep by placid domesticity, like an alley cat who is taken in and fed milk for years but still remembers how to scrap and claw and wrestle. But now, all of those repressed feelings, all those instincts, come raging to the surface, called forth by the feelings of disgust and fury and so many other burning things coursing through my veins. I can't control it, don't think I want to, and it consumes me.

Andrea tries to shove Ed back after the last echo of his slap fades, smacking at his chest, his shoulders, his face. Jacqui jumps in too, grabbing at his arms so he can't reach Carol; so he can't hit her again. Even Amy, soft and quiet Amy who is too innocent to know anything about fighting or what it feels like to be hit, shoves herself between the Peletiers, wrapping her arms around Carol and shielding her from the blows Ed is managing to land. And all the while, everyone is screaming, yelling, cursing, clamoring to fight and be heard.

From there, everything happens really fast. I'm vaguely aware of a cold and wet sensation on my leg as I drop my bandaged foot into the water below me but I don't feel the pain as I lung forward. All I feel is Amy's arm between my fingers as I yank her and Carol deeper into the water, away from Ed; all I feel is my hand shoving Andrea to the side, pushing Jacqui out of the way.

All I feel is the warm hilt of my katana as I rip it out of it's sheathe and swing it around to land smack dab on Ed's collarbone.

Everything grinds to a halt. Ed stops fighting. Andrea and Jacqui stop trying to shove past me. I can hear Carol whimpering at my back and Amy shushing her but they do not move either. The only movement in the world is the rushing in my ear, the sharp bursts of my controlled breaths, and the stream of blood curling down Ed's chest

"Enough," I say into the silence and I don't recognize my voice. It's too low, too gravelly, too much like an animal's growl.

Ed stares at me and, for the first time, the arrogant, cocky air is gone from him. There's shock in his eyes now, and something akin to fear, as he drops his gaze below his chin and sees the way the tip of my katana has dug into his skin.

"Wh…what the hell are you doing? Get…get the fuck offa me!" Ed tries to scramble back, shove the sword away, but I press just a little harder on the steel in my grasp and he goes still with a grunt when the keen edge cuts a deeper, longer line into his skin. When I'm sure he's not going to move again, I let a smile creep onto my lips. Even if I can't see it, I know the expression looks crazed.

Good. Cuz that's exactly how I feel in this moment.

There's no process to my words as I begin to talk; there's no filter. Pure fury is driving me and I'm just as surprised as anyone at the words that slide off my tongue. "Eddie," I start. The word is a condescending croon and I love the hate that spark's in Ed's eyes when he hears it. "Can I call you Eddie? No, no. That's a rhetorical question. Don't answer," I say when he opens his mouth to speak. "I'm gonna call you Eddie cuz Eddie is a good little bitch's name and right now, you are my obedient little bitch."

Ed jerks at my words but I bare my teeth and drag the katana a little bit further down his chest, carving a bleeding line about six inches from his collarbone. "Ah, ah, ah Eddie. I didn't fucking say you could move now did I? Move again and I'll carve your fucking little heart out and don't think I goddamn won't."

Someone gasps behind me but no one says a word. Even Ed remains quiet and I think good. Seems I've got this bastard's attention. Unadulterated hate has replaced the blood in my veins and I don't feel like myself. I feel wild and unhinged and I swear to God, I will keep my promise if Ed so much as sneezes right now because the echo of his hand snapping Carol's head to the side is still pulsing in my head and below that simmers a shit ton of memories, both recent and non, that I just don't want to think about.

"Now then. Since I have your attention, why don't you listen closely? I know your brain isn't exactly a prime specimen here Eddie, so I'll try to keep this as concise and easy to understand as possible."

Taking a step forward, I get as close to Ed as I can possibly stand. The entire length of my katana stretches against his chest and abdomen, light enough that I'm not cutting him anymore, but with enough pressure that Ed gets the message that if he so much as spits at me, I'm going to gut him like a pig.

"I've had a really trying day here, Peletier," I begin slowly. My voice has jumped a few octaves and now it's light and high pitched, a little girl's voice. "Well a trying few days anyway. I mean, yesterday, I go into the city to grab some meager supplies and I almost die!" I widen my eyes emphatically and put a fake tremble in my lip. "That's some serious crap for a little girl my size ya know? And then, on top of that, I have to deal with crazy ass Merle Dixon kicking my ass from Timbuktu and back and then trying to throw me off a roof! Someone's really pissing on me here Eddie."

Somewhere, in a distant part of my mind, I realize what I've just admitted out loud, the part about Merle killing me, but in this instant, I don't give a flying shit.

Ed swallows sharply, and he tries to scowl at me, glare, but I can see in his eyes he's scared shitless at this moment because I seem a bit deranged. I am but it's nice to know he's realized it. Still, I'm tired of being this close to such fucking trash. Time to wrap this up. Licking my chapped lips, I tilt my head at the man in front of me and drop the simpering façade. My jaw clenches tight, my lips thin into a dangerous line, and I would bet money that my eyes are as hard and sharp as glass.

"So, long story short, I've run out of patience. I've run out of compassion. And I sure as hell have run out of mercy. I'm done playing nice because all that's gotten me is being bruised and battered and I am tired of taking shit from pieces of crap like you," I snarl. Ed's jaw works, like he's going to say something, but I press the sword into his chest again and he shuts up real quick.

"A few weeks ago, you wanted to know what I had to say to you. Back then, I kept quiet but I am done sitting on the sidelines." Reaching up, I use my right hand, feeling no pain at all, to jerk Ed towards my face, fingers wound tight in his shirt. "I will say this once Eddie. I will say it this one fucking time as not a warning but a promise and if you ignore me, I will kill you without a second's hesitation." Worming my left hand up Ed's chest, I lay the edge of the katana against his cheek, pressing just that much harder with each of my following words. "You will not touch Carol or Sophia ever again. If I see so much as a scrape on either of them, I'm coming for you Eddie. I will fucking cut off your hands and then chop off that small dick between your legs and really make you the bitch we both know you always were. Then, and I don't give a damn if the whole camp is watching, I will gut you like the fat ass, disgusting, pig you are." Blood starts to run down Ed's cheek and I grin widely at the sight.

"Do we have an understanding?" I ask quietly. When Ed doesn't even blink, I pull the sword down his cheek, slicing a red line into his face. "I asked you a question Eddie. You'd best answer it."

Breathing sharp and irregular, sour breath ghosting across my face, eyes full up to the brim with hate, Ed slowly nods. I turn my head and lean in close. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

"Yes," Ed growls.

I pull back with a tight-lipped smile. "Good little bitch," I croon at him in mock praise. "Now get the fuck out of my sight."

Shoving him away, I turn to check on Carol, katana still clenched at my side, body still thrumming with anger. The four women stare at me in varying levels of shock and fear and, surprisingly, admiration. Their faces are still pale though and I open my mouth to say something, I don't know what but something reassuring, when I hear a shout of rage behind me and I whirl around just in time to see Shane grab Ed's first before it can connect with my face.

Disappointment wells in me because damn. That would have given me the perfect excuse to cut his hand off.

Ed snarls and kicks at Shane, and Ed might be bigger than Shane, wider, taller, but the other man is a former police officer, packed with muscle and an ingrained sense of putting assholes in their places. He drags Ed twenty feet away by the scuff of his neck like it's nothing. And when he's tired of carrying the son of a bitch, he bodily tosses him into the dirt, stalks up to his prone form, squats down, and decks Ed right in the face.

Carol starts crying and I hear Amy and Andrea trying to calm her down. Something in me says I should turn and try to comfort the woman too but I'm transfixed by the way Shane is literally beating Ed into the ground. Each punch is precise and controlled: curl fist, cock back, rocket forward, connect. Again and again and again. It's not the wild, untamed struggle of unleashed anger, like a bar fight brawl. It's the type of fighting you can only be trained to do. And damn is Shane good at it.

With each square hit, Ed's face starts to swell. I've long ago lost the ability to see the details of it, eyes, nose and mouth. It's just a mess of blood now, slick and shiny. But Shane doesn't stop, just keeps punching and punching and punching. Carol's cries grow louder behind me and the other women start screaming for Shane to stop. A part of me, the angry, dark part that just threatened to kill Ed myself, sits back and stares at the spectacle with satisfaction. Good, it thinks. Let the fucker get a taste of his own medicine.

But that angry part is slowly receding from me. The red haze is draining from my eyes. Pain starts to come back to me and with it, the parts of myself that my mom and Sensei had time to hone in the last years. The parts that are softer, more refined, and that realize letting a woman watch her husband get beaten to death right before her eyes, even if that husband deserves it, is wrong on more than one level. I don't feel guilty about watching Ed's blood stain the sand and dirt beneath him but I feel bad for Carol's heartbreaking cries behind me. Wincing at the sound of her sobs, I take a few steps forward and call out loudly for Shane to stop.

I don't know if it's my voice or the fact that Shane's worn himself out but the man finally comes to a halt. He crouches, panting, over Ed's prone form and what I can see from his profile is livid and wild. I watch as Shane bends down one last time and grabs Ed's face forcefully, fingers digging into the spilt meat on his cheeks.

"You put your hands on your wife, your little girl, or anybody else in this camp one more time, I will not stop next time. Do you hear me? Do you hear me?" Shane snarls in Ed's face.

The other man is near unconscious but he has enough sense to slur out a "Yes."

Shane bares his teeth and puts his finger in Ed's face as a promise. "I'll beat you to death, Ed." Craning his fist back for a final blow, he connects with Ed's cheek with the sound of breaking concrete. Shane shoves to his feet, kicks Ed in the ribs, and stumbles back a few steps, rage in his eyes as he swipes the flecks of blood off his mouth with the back of his hand.

Suddenly, there's a cry behind me, louder, sharper, than the other's and Carol is shoving past me before I can turn, collapsing at her husband's side with sobbed apologies and fluttering, unsure hands. Looking over my shoulder, I see Amy, Andrea, and Jacqui gazing between Ed's prone form and Shane, disgust and terror in their faces as Carol's cries echo out over the quarry. But when I look at Shane, when our eyes meet, there's this mutual understanding, this mutual admiration, and I can see clear in his eyes, as he can probably see clear in mine…

Neither of us is sorry.

---

The journey from van to the buildin where Merle was at took an eternity and passed in the blink of an eye. On the one hand, Daryl knew that with every passin minute, every time they had to duck into an alley and wait for a geek to pass, was another minute his brother was in danger, another minute his brother had left to stew and get furious. But, on the other hand, every step they took brought them all that much closer to Merle…and Daryl still had no idea what he was going to say to him.

He wants to just unlock his brother and laugh at the sunburn Daryl knows is gonna be stretched across his face, maybe cuff him over the head for bein so stupid, but let all this shit just pass. But Daryl knows he can't. Not with what he knows now. Merle tried to kill the kid and he ain't no fan of the rest of the people in camp neither. His brother hates the lot of them and Daryl realizes…they can't stay. Walsh and now Grimes too will probably kick them out, guns at the ready just in case. And Daryl, knowin what he now knows, can't blame them. He wishes he could say he was happy bout the fact. Just yesterday Daryl would have been delighted with the aspect of leavin. He had never wanted to stay with those assholes in the first place.

But now…now…

Daryl tries not to think bout the kid. He really does. But she has this damn quality bout her, somethin that won't let him go, and it's this constant cycle in his head of green eyes and white smiles and the lilt of her words, frustrated, teasing, as she read from that goddamn book of hers.

He remembers what he said to her. He remembers how he promised he'd leave the second he and Merle got back to camp. But that was said in the heat of the moment and things are different now and Daryl doesn't know if he even meant it in the first place.

But he can't think bout that now. Cuz he has to focus on Merle. He has to focus on gettin in the buildin and up to the roof. His brother was gonna be a force to be reckoned with when they reached him. He'd be dehydrated and tried and just a mean son of a bitch. Daryl had to figure out how to get Merle out of the store and into the van without tryin to deck one of the other men. He would worry bout all the other shit later.

The chink is leadin the way with Grimes right on his ass, gun out and cocked just in case somethin jumped out at them. Daryl wants to tell him to put the damn thing away cuz that gun is what apparently started the whole shit fest last time but he keeps his mouth shut cuz there ain't no use explainin that shit to some cop. He just holds his crossbow at the ready and hopes that if some geek stumbles into their path that he can get a bolt in their skull before some idiot pulls a trigger.

As the four of them slide quietly down back alleys and side streets, Daryl can't help the uneasy feelin that's settled in his gut. He doesn't like the city. Even before he hated it. Too many people and cars and noise; too many idiots. Now though…it's too silent. Sounds echo loudly and cast strange reverberations. Daryl hates it. It makes him twitchy, on edge, and he wants out of this concrete death trap, wants to head back to the woods and the country that he's got in his bones, in his blood. Silently, he picks up his pace and the others follow suite, dealin with their own discomfort.

They reach the building without incident. Chinaman is twitchy as he leads 'em, crouched and quiet, down a main street and to a bus-blocked alley. He motions for Daryl to go first and nods at crossbow in his hands. Daryl frowns at him but doesn't hesitate to slip past, peeking into the alley and slippin past the bus where there are no geeks close enough to pose an immediate threat. The squeeze is tight and Daryl grunts as the concrete scrapes painfully across his back, his chest, but he lands in the alley soundlessly, on his feet and poised.

There are three geeks at the end of the alley, near the door, and Daryl quickly brings them down with three well-placed arrows. The rest of the men slip in behind him and after a quick final sweep, in which Daryl collects his arrows, they move safely into the building, alert and on edge.

Surprisingly, the main floor is empty, save one walker. Rick spots it first and turns to Daryl but the hunter is already movin past him, puttin the geek in his sights and sneerin when it lunges for him.

"Damn. You are one ugly skank," he mutters to himself. He releases the arrow with a twitch of his finger and it tumbles to the ground, black blood oozing around the bolt protrudin from its forehed. Daryl tries not to notice that the walker is female, young, with short brown hair and pale skin but he does and even though the geek doesn't look very much like the kid back at camp, it makes his stomach clench regardless. Merle first he tells himself. Merle first.

The sprint up ten stories does a good job in snarin Daryl's senses. He has to keep his eyes on the next landin to make sure a geek ain't waitin for them. He has to keep an ear out to listenin for moans below them, above them. He has to keep his mind focused on the steps his mountin and to make sure one of the idiots don't fall or run into his crossbow. But when they reach the last landin, when the door to the roof looms before him, no obstacles in between, it all slams into Daryl with the force of a freight train and he loses his breath.

The sight of the chain, still intact and locked tight with a rusty old padlock, makes Daryl feel light headed and energized and relieved as fuck cuz no matter how pissed he is at Merle, he doesn't want his brother dead. And that had been a distinct possibility till now. But Merle's waitin on the other side of this steel door. He's waitin there and he's pissed and he's alive. Now Daryl can kick his ass for being such an idiot and he swears he's gonna do it, right after he claps his brother on the back and confirms that he is flesh and bone and thrummin blood

Grimes meets his eye when he sees the padlock and he nods at Daryl as if to say See? It's all fine. Daryl scowls at him and shifts anxiously in his spot, twitchy and with sparks in his veins as the nigger steps up and cuts the chain, yankin it out of the handle with a jerky movement.

Daryl doesn't waste a second after that. He shoves the nigger back and kicks down the door, burstin out into the afternoon sun with his brother's name on his lips. "Merle!" he calls out. No one answers but that doesn't mean nothin. The bastard might be sleepin or just fuckin with Daryl and the hunter calls out again as he runs out across a rickety metal walkway. "Merle! I ain't playin! Ya better—"

He jumps off the walkway and lands with a crunch in the gravel on the roof just as his words die on his tongue. Disbelief cuts through him, sudden, sharp and serrated, and he stumbles mid-step, not believin what he's seenin. The world grinds to a halt and tilts on its side; nausea rises in Daryl's throat and the air burns out of his lungs. The words, "It can't be real. It can't be," fly through Daryl's mind and he rocks back on his heels, spots dancin before his eyes. But no matter how he looks at it, how long he stares without blinkin, the sight doesn't change and Daryl doesn't realize he's talkin till his voice echoes out across the rooftop.

"No!" he screams out and the effort tears his throat and he tastes blood on his tongue. He takes half a step forward and then skitters back, all the while keepin up that continuos loop of denial. "No! No! Nononono!"

Tears blur his vision and Daryl can't stop them from fallin and they feel like acid on his skin, corrosive and strippin flesh from bone cuz he hasn't cried since they stuck his mother in the ground. Dixon's don't cry. It's a goddamn sin and Daryl hasn't done it in over two decades but he can't control it now cuz in the spot where his brother is supposed to be, whole and sunburned and livid, is a crimson streaked hacksaw, a scarlet soaked handcuff danglin limply from an iron pipe, and a disembodied hand, lyin in a pool of coagulated blood.

Daryl can't breathe and he stares and stares and stares, thinks that maybe if he looks hard enough, Merle will just appear out of thin air, alive and unharmed, a scowl on his face and insult on his tongue. "Ya just gonna stand there boy? Get me the hell outta these things!"

But minutes pass and nothin happens and Daryl feels sick to his stomach, too many things burnin through him to identify, cuz this is his worst fear come to life: the end of the world and he's all alone.

Abruptly, someone shifts behind him, and the despair in Daryl turns to rage so hot he's sure he's gonna burst into flames. Cuz all he can think is that his brother's not here but that's his blood, that's his fuckin hand, and it's all that nigger's fault. That godddam fuckin nigger. He's whirlin without realizin it and there's an arrow just about to be released into that bastard's skull when Daryl hears the click of a hammer in his ear and feels the cool metal of a gun barrel pressed right up against his temple.

"I won't hesitate," Grimes snarls at him, low and controlled and Daryl contemplates shootin him instead. "I don't care if every walker in the city hears it."

Daryl wants to say fuck it, let the asshole shoot him but he's taken the nigger with him. He almost does it too; finger on the trigger and last breath in his lungs. But, out of all the damn things to stop him, out of all the fuckin things, it has to be that stupid kid. Her face jumps to the forefront of his mind and it's all green eyes and soft smiles and the fact that she can't track for shit, none of the assholes in camp can, and if he just bites the bullet here, she's gonna die and it's gonna be his fault.

And then he recalls the looks everyone's been givin him since before he can remember. The words of his grandmother on the grave of her daughter. Daryl Dixon's been equated with dirt and shit and trash and he's always shrugged the names off like he doesn't give a crap what people thought of him cuz he knew what he was and he knew what he ain't and that was enough for him. But now he thinks that if he just lets that kid die, and those other kids back in camp even if they think him a monster, he'll be deservin of all the labels people have slapped him with over the years.

It's that thought that has him droppin the crossbow and takin a deep breath. It's that thought that has him stampin down the rage and thinkin logically again; that makes him notice there's not enough blood for Merle to be dead and there's no body so his brother was still alive somewhere. It's that thought that has him tuckin Merle's hand away and followin the trail of blood, calm and cool and collected, as much as he could be anyway.

And even when they find the broken out window and realize Merle's left the buildin, Daryl let's that thought push him forward. Out into the city, out onto the street, backup for Chinaman as they plan to grab a bag of guns and ammo and other life alterin necessities that Daryl tells himself they need to find Merle. And when the chink gets snatched right in front of him, takin by some fuckin dickhead spics, Daryl lets that thought fuel his rage and his motivation to get Chinaman back.

Cuz Daryl might be an asshole and he might be a bastard, but he ain't garbage and he ain't shit. He's not gonna leave the chink to die cuz the idiot came back with him for Merle, though he still doesn't know why, and…also…

Chinaman was Audrey's friend and Daryl would be damned if he lost him to the city after everythin the kid has done for him. After all the ways he's wronged her in return.

Daryl would return with the chink or he wouldn't return at all.

---

(1) It's a racist, Nazi thing. :P

(2) LOTR reference :) Sméagol is this creature thing that develops an alternate personality, a tougher one, in order to survive horrific events.

AUTHORS NOTE BELOW AND SHAMELESS PROMOTING!

First order of business, 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!

Now about this chapter:

Volia? Idk. :P I hope you guys liked this and, again, sorry about the wait DX Please drop some comments in the box below though :) I adore your feedback!

Until next time!

~Shadows

PS: Has anyone seen the season 3 trailer? Cuz i died when i did. Go watch if you havent. It...i have no words. :)

PPS: I also named each chapter now...idk why but I felt a creative flourish today xD just something new. Ignore it if you like!