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

23. What's So Good About Picking Up the Piec

Holy fuck. I am SO sorry about this long ass wait. This chapter, LITERALLY, kicked me in the ass. Between the major writer's block I was having and college suddenly rearing it's ugly head, I was hard pressed to actually get this written :/ I hope it's still acceptable. And I post in celebration of SEASON 3! :D

BUT! We've exceeded 200 reviews guys! :D That's fucking amazing and I thank every single one of you for staying with this story. I love you all. Seriously. *hugs* Thank you.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the OC and her plot. Some dialogue belongs to the amazing writers of TWD as do most of these phenomenal characters.

Warning: Language and gore.

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Chapter 23: What's So Good About Picking Up the Pieces?

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"Ya stayin or what kid?"

Daryl's voice seems distant, removed and, when I turn towards the sound, he doesn't look much closer. It's like I'm looking through the wrong end of binoculars: everything is miles and miles away.

"What?" I return. Even my voice is muffled.

The hunter purses his lips and I can see the tell tale flash of annoyance in his eyes. He looks as if he's going to spit something at me but curiously doesn't. Instead, he turns away and fumbles for something I can't see. I blink and Daryl's gone; I blink again and he's back again, only this time on my other side. Hot, stale air tickles my right cheek and I look up into Daryl's face, confused. He doesn't say anything, just jerks his head in that come on gesture of his. I don't even think to question him, to wonder why. I don't care. He says go I'll go. He says come I'll do that too. He says ya ain't worth the goddamn trouble and I'll laugh and say I've always known that and he's a little behind the times. What's the difference? What's it matter?

There is none and it doesn't.

There never was and it never did.

Funny. It took me a while to figure that out.

Without thinking or caring, I do what Daryl has asked in not so many words. I shift and move, go to follow him, but when I do, the ground falls out from under me and I stumble. Pain flares like bursts of fireworks behind my eyes, so many places I can't pinpoint a single color, a single location. I pitch forward, unable to stop myself, too lost in the too sharp sensations, and wait to hit the dirt. Except I don't. For a moment I think I do because I slam into something warm and solid and hard, but when I lift my head, I'm not parallel to the ground and it's not soil in my mouth. I'm vertical still; I can tell because the sky is too blue above me. And there's fabric against my lips, tasting like salt, like blood, like metal. I find myself staring into Daryl's river blue eyes and it doesn't click that I'm propped up against his chest until I feel his heartbeat vibrate on my teeth.

"Sorry," I mutter. The word feels funny in my mouth, too small, too insubstantial, but Daryl doesn't seem to think so. He just grunts and nods, accepts what I've said as he pushes me away. I sway on my feet the second he lets go and he curses. I wonder if I've stepped on him and go to apologize again but he doesn't let me. His hand's on my elbow suddenly and I wince as his fingers press into the bruises his brother left behind. I don't think I made any noise but Daryl's grip relaxes like I did and when he drags me along after him, he's not nearly as harsh as the day he first dragged me into camp.

The going is slow and I still don't know our destination. Nor do I much care. I'm too busy tracking the flashes of color as they float by and the jolts of pain that set them off. At some point, I pass a plane of glass, a car window or something of that ilk. My blurry reflection stares back at me in repose and I can't help the giggle that slides off my tongue.

"What's blue and black and red all over?" I think I see myself grin, making the bruises and splashes of dried blood on my face dance, before I'm pulled along again and trees replace the glass.

The next thing I know, I'm standing in front of a tent. Which makes me actually stop and look because most tents were destroyed and all tents had at least some damage to them: splatters of blood, stray bullets holes, a slash or two or ten. But this one seems completely unmarred, pristine. I try to ask Daryl, the exact question I'm unsure of, but he cuts me off again, yanking open the unzipped flaps and tugging me in after him. Suddenly, I find myself sitting, pain and colors fading to pastels and dull pulses. Fabric slides under my fingertips, slightly course and very worn, and I look down to see a cot beneath my thighs. Tentatively, I trace the haphazard stitches sewn into the thick quilt I'm sitting on, the blue color nearly white with age and use. I pull my hand away and start slightly at the red smear I've left behind. Something small and akin to guilt settles in my veins but it's a hollow feeling because what's the difference? What's it matter?

I press my hand firmly to the quilt again and, this time, I don't even blink at the bloody handprint I leave in my wake.

A cleared throat draws my attention and I'm actually surprised to see Daryl standing over me. For a moment, I'd forgotten he was here. "What are we doing?" I ask. My voice is thin and quiet, barely over a whisper. I feel like this is a secret and I don't know why.

Daryl stares at me in that unnerving silent way of his and doesn't answer my question. He never answers my questions. I mostly ask out of principle now instead of actually desiring a reply. Still not saying a word, the hunter takes a small step towards me and then sinks down to my height. It takes a moment for me to notice that he's sitting on a camping chair, balanced on the edge as he simultaneously leans towards me and tries to stay as far away as possible. The effort must be tiring. I wonder why he tries.

"What are you doing?" I try again. His silence responds and I abandon the attempt at prying words out of him and instead tune into his actions. While his mouth might not be moving, his hands sure aren't idle. Deft and square fingers fumble with a small duffle bag, delving into its depths. I hear the rustle of plastic, the whisper of fabric and the rattle of pills. After a minute, Daryl withdraws his hands and clutched between his palms are pieces of bandages and gauze, a bag of pills and what looks to be half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I tilt my head at the items, curious, as Daryl spreads them across his lap and then suddenly meets my gaze.

The older man says something to me but I don't catch the words. Once again, I'm struck at how haggard the hunter looks, the purple bags under his eyes stark and livid like bruises on his skin. I wonder if they hurt to the touch. I wonder if his eyes burn from exhaustion. Then I wonder am I? Am I tired? Should I be?

All these questions and yet I can't find one single answer. Maybe that should bother me. It really doesn't.

---

The kid's really out of it. And he means out of it. Can't even stand on her own two feet or track a conversation. Daryl can't even comprehend how she's still conscious. Maybe it's fear; maybe it's apathy; maybe the kid just doesn't know how to turn herself off. Whatever it is, she doesn't even have fumes left and Daryl's just waitin for her to pass the fuck out already.

He's actually almost prayin for it.

"Gimme yer arm," he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time. And yet, still Audrey blinks back at him like he hadn't said a word. Her eyes, dull and dilated, skip over his face like a rock over placid water, never landin on any one place for more than a moment. Patience worn thin, energy nonexistent, he finally snaps at her. "Kid!"

She starts at his harsh tone, bodily flinchin, and Daryl mentally kicks himself, thinks of accusin eyes and judgin looks. However, it gets her attention, finally, and her eyes become just a little more clearer as she asks, "What?"

Daryl swears that's all she remembers how to say now.

"Yer arm." He jerks his chin at the bleedin appendage, holds out his hand for it. Audrey looks down and cocks her head as if the blood is somethin she hadn't noticed before. She turns her arm from side to side, watches the red drops slide down her skin in fascination like it doesn't hurt, like she doesn't feel a thing. Daryl rolls his eyes and takes her elbow. He doesn't think about how his fingers seem to surround the sharp curve, how they seem to slot into some of the bruises imbedded into her skin.

"Yer a Dixon boy. Got the same poison in ya."

He knows it, he does. He goddamn fuckin does.

The wound is worse than he had thought, which was pretty bad to begin with. It's bout three inches long and an inch wide but the edges gape open like a hungry maw. Daryl thinks it's probably, at least, an inch and a half deep, more than just the graze he first assumed. The bullet's torn out a chunk of the kid's arm and she's gonna need stitches, there's no denyin it. Daryl just doesn't know what to do with that information. He doesn't even know why she's here though he guessed it was mostly his fault. He hadn't exactly planned it though and he didn't know if he wanted it.

It was just…the kid was too pathetic, too fucked up. She tumbled out of his truck like a newborn calf, would have face planted if he hadn't caught her, his hands on her—too sharp, too prominent—hipbones. It was when she was leanin on him like that, all lethargic and listless, that he had realized how light she felt, how thin, her bones hollow as a bird's with no muscle in between. She felt too fragile, too small, and all Daryl could think about was Merle's fist collidin with all those brittle bones, all that eggshell thin flesh. It made him sick and he pushed her away, feelin guilty as hell for too many reasons, but the moment he let her go, she was already on her way to hittin the ground again. She couldn't stand, couldn't even keep her eyes in focus; her wrist and ankles, ribs…there wasn't a part of her that was whole and untarnished. And she was just there, alone, lookin up at him in dazed confusion with those godforsaken green eyes of hers, so dull now, so lifeless, and Daryl doesn't know what came over him. One minute they were standin next to his truck and the next, they were already halfway across camp, the kid's elbow cradled in his palm and her stumblin after him.

Daryl should have stopped there. He should have dropped her off by the RV, handed her over to that old man in his stupid fishin hat, to Chinaman, to fuckin Walsh even. They were her friends after all. And Daryl was nothin. Nothin at all to the kid cuz he made it that way. With a little help from Merle too.

But he didn't do any of that shit. Instead, he dragged the kid to his tent—his now, not his and Merle's cuz his brother's god knows where, maybe even dead—and put her on the edge of his bed while he went rummagin for supplies. And all the while somethin in his head kept askin him why he was even botherin when not three days ago he stated she wasn't worth the goddamn trouble. Daryl had told that thing to shut up; told it that he owed her and Daryl Dixon hated bein in anyone's dept. It made you weak and vulnerable and Daryl also hated bein either of those things.

Besides, he also reasoned, they couldn't have anyone wanderin around with open wounds. Best-case scenario, it would draw more walkers from the woods. Worst case, they'd have a geek comin up from inside of camp and they've already got one of those in the makin. Don't need another fuckin one.

And the rest of the assholes were too busy cryin over bullshit. Too busy bein offended by the truth they didn't want to hear. Too busy chasin faery tales and miracle cures. The kid wasn't even on their radar at the moment and if he wasn't for Daryl, she'd probably be wanderin off somewhere, gettin herself killed and wouldn't that be a kick in the ass and all his fault too? Yeah, Walsh is the one that fuckin shot her, everyone else has ignored her, but they'd find some way to pin this on Daryl. Cuz he's a Dixon, he's Merle's brother, and he's got the same goddamn poison in his blood.

He's sick of it. All of it. Sick and tired of these people and their looks and—

Suddenly, the kid makes a noise. It ain't very loud or startlin, barely more than a sharp inhale, but it has Daryl snappin out of his thoughts fast. He looks down and sees that his grip has grown tight on her elbow, the skin blanchin white under the pressure. His fingers fall from her arm like it's burned him and he rocks back in the campin chair, abruptly all too conscious of how close the kid is, where she is, here in his tent, on his bed. Since she walked into camp, he's done nothin but push and push her away. How is it that she's even here? She really shouldn't be, he knows this, but every time he goes to open his mouth and kick her out, all he can think of is his brother's fingerprints circlin her neck, the smiles the kid used to give him, easy and no nonsense, and her words from weeks past that started it all.

"What are ya proposing?"

"Nothing. Just a truce and…perhaps a chance to make a new friend."

Daryl thinks of a little dark skinned boy named Ted and the thing called friendship that Merle told him he didn't need, that Daryl's convinced himself he never wanted.

Then Daryl doesn't think of anythin at all cuz this kid's bleedin out in front of him, it's gettin all over his bed, and that's the last goddamn thing he wants.

Not lookin up, the hunter reaches for the rubbin alcohol, the last of it, and unscrews the bottle with his teeth. The sharp, unpleasant smell of it stings his nose and makes his eyes water but he ignores it as he spits the cap into his lap and jerks his chin at the kid's arm again. "Hold it out," he grunts at her. He still won't meet her gaze.

For a moment she doesn't move and Daryl thinks she's not listenin again, lost in her own head. But when he finally looks up, her eyes aren't as unfocused as he assumed they would be. They're still flat and dull but alertness lurks along their edges, a keen, objective disinterest. Daryl finds it more disconcertin than if her eyes had nothin in them at all. He squirms under that look and then curses himself for doin so, settlin on a scowl and a raised, impatient eyebrow. The kid doesn't even blink but somethin shifts in her expression and she holds out her arm silently, eyes locked on his face.

Your move her eyes seem to say to him and I'm tired of playin this game. Daryl drops his eyes again and splashes alcohol on the wound without ceremony, tryin to ignore the kernel of guilt in his gut when the kid jerks from the pain. The entire time he's cleanin out the gash, however, the kid doesn't make a sound. Doesn't whimper or whine or cry. Hell, she barely even moves. But Daryl isn't blind and he can see the way the muscles jump in her arm every time he swipes a piece of gauze over the gapin flesh and he can hear the way she grinds her teeth. She's feelin pain and this hurts like a bitch. Daryl tries not to feel grateful cuz if she can still feel this then she ain't as far gone as he had feared.

Thought.

As he had thought.

Cuz he ain't afraid. He has no right. She ain't his friend. She ain't his anythin. He's just doin this cuz otherwise he'd have to face all those other sons of bitches and he's pickin the lesser of two evils here.

He cleans the wound rather quickly but it doesn't stop bleeding, it won't Daryl knows. It's too deep, too wide, too long. It needs stitches but the hunter doesn't know how to tell the kid and doesn't know what he's gonna do after he tells her. Unfortunately, the kid kind of takes the situation right out of his hands.

"Just stitch it," she suddenly says. Daryl snaps his head up and Audrey's lookin him right in the face. Unbidden, his eyes trace the swollen, black skin of her left eye, the tape on the bridge of her nose, the split in her lip and every abrasion in between. She looks like absolute hell. And that's not even countin the sallow tint to her skin or the dimmed quality of her eyes. It churns Daryl's gut to look at her this close up but he won't drop his gaze again. He doesn't even think he can.

"Tch. Kid ya don't know what yer askin for," he manages to grumble in reply. He makes his words sound as dismissive as possible, like she's stupid for even suggestin it, but really…it's their, her, only option. "Stitches hurt—"

"Like a bitch." She looks him dead in the eye with a flat expression. Her pale face betrays nothin, smudged with dirt and bruises but no emotion, dark hair a chaotic halo around her head. Daryl frowns at the way he can no longer read her. "I know. Been there before. But I'll bleed out without them and, while tempting, I don't think anyone else would appreciate that particular outcome."

Daryl tries and fails to ignore the 'been there before' portion of that statement. "When the hell did ya need stitches?"

Cuz come the hell on. The first time Daryl got stitches he was four years old and fell off his pa's tractor. But Audrey…she's a city kid. More than that, she's a spoiled city kid. White picket fence and a mom and dad who bought her fuckin sword lessons to appease her boredom. There ain't no reason for her to be gettin stitches.

The kid almost smiles at him, lips twitchin ever so slighty upwards, though the light never reaches her eyes. She doesn't answer him. Just poses her own question. "Do you have a needle and thread?" Her eyes finally leave him, Daryl doesn't admit that it's easier to breathe now, and jump around his tent. He tenses when her gaze lands on Merle's bed behind him but her eyes betray nothin and neither does her voice. "If not," she continues nonchalantly. "I could probably go find one. I know Carol has a kit. I think Jacqui does too."

"I got some."

Her eyes click back to him and she hums softly. "Ok. Then let's get this shit over with before some other catastrophe happens. I'd rather not be caught with my pants down again if I can help it."

There's no true inflection in her voice but the words themselves are so out of character for the kid that Daryl doesn't even process them for a minute. When he doesn't move, the kid kind of cocks an expectant eyebrow at him and he scowls but gets up anyway. A part of him is thrown off kilter, off balance, but he's too tired to fight it now, too tired to fuckin care anymore. Three days, without food or sleep, in which he lost his last of kin and has almost died an uncomfortable amount of times. He's just done. The kid needs stitches, has given him the green light. That's good enough for him. It has to be.

He finds the needle and thread with some difficulty. He and Merle had made it a point to avoid major injury since the world went and ended so the small kit they had is stashed in the bottom of some bag in the corner of the tent. Daryl thinks it's amazin they even have it at all. But, then again, it's amazin they're even alive at all.

The hunter refuses to look at his brother's empty bed and what that exactly entails.

"So where'd you learn how to sew?"

Daryl looks up from where he's tryin to thread his needle to find Audrey curiously watchin him. Her eyes, still deep and green, blink back calmly at him, awaitin an answer. He purses his lips at her. "I ain't a fuckin housewife," he growls. The kid does that funny little not smile again and inclines her head at his hands.

"You seem to know your way around a needle and thread," she replies and Daryl would think her teasin if her voice weren't so flat, like she's just statin an observation. Scowlin, he returns his attention to his hands and finally gets the thread through the hole.

"Yeah well some of us didn't always have nannies at our beck and call kid. I learned to survive."

"I can understand that," Audrey says and Daryl thinks no you really couldn't. "Who taught you?"

It's on the tip of his tongue, the name, his response, but then the image of a disembodied, bloodied hand flashes through his minds eye and Daryl seizes up. He goes stonily quiet, rigid, and doesn't give an answer. The kid doesn't ask again and he wonders if his silence wasn't answer enough.

---

I think I've upset Daryl and I think I should be sorry. I'm neither sure of the first nor capable of the second. Which finds us here: entombed in silence with the smell of blood and smoke and the lingering stench of Merle not three feet away.

Merle. I probably shouldn't have asked that question, about the stitching, but I was curious. I didn't think to assume Merle had taught Daryl; maybe I should have. I frown at my apparent mistake. Well, it's too late now. Damage is done and all of that. I just hope Daryl doesn't take it out on my arm.

The needle and thread are both sterilized by alcohol now, the former also cleansed by Daryl's—or maybe it's Merle's—lighter. I find myself staring at the red-hot tip, wondering how much this is going to hurt. Can't be too much. I'm not feeling much as of right now, just distant pulses of something, a steady drum beat in my ankle, wrist, ribs and head. It's easily ignored as long as I find other things to replace it with.

Like the fact that I'm in the Dixon's tent.

My eyes skip away from Daryl and his needle at the thought and go about skimming the small room I'm in, four material walls and a zippered entrance. It's a lot bigger than I would have first assumed, a lot bigger than my tent. Or well…my old tent. The old tent I shared with Abby. But it's gone now and she's dead. I don't have a tent anymore. Hmmm. That's actually potentially problematic.

Anyway. Daryl's tent. Used to be DarylandMerle's tent. Spacious. Also cleaner than I would have expected, the side I'm sitting on anyway. The other side of the tent I'm going to venture a wild guess here and say is Merle's. I take in the unkempt bed, the piles of clothes scattered around that I can smell from here, a suspicious looking bag peaking out from under the cot, shadows of pills inside them. Yeah, I'm gonna say Merle.

I like Daryl's side a lot better. He has a cot, and while Merle has—had, past tense—one too, Daryl's is more put together. There's a pile of pillows at the head, lopsided and worn but comfy looking nonetheless. A sleeping bag is rolled up and pushed towards the foot of the cot and there's a thick quilt under my fingers. Besides the bed, there's not much else that Daryl seems to own. There has to be a duffle or two somewhere because I don't see any of Daryl's clothes. All I do see is that crossbow of his, propped up next to the entrance, right beside the drying rack that I'm all two familiar with. The silver contraption catches my attention for a moment longer than it should and I think I hear the ghost of memories seep from it's blood stained bars.

"Hey Daryl? Where do I put this last piece? The rack's full."

"Eat the damn thing, I don't care."

It's only been a few weeks since Daryl and I shared these words but God it feels like lifetimes. So much has happened since then. Since I thought that we could be friends. Since I cared enough to try. Since Amy was alive and Merle was here to threaten me and…and…and I'm just so fucking tired. I didn't realize it before but I am. Tired. Exhausted. My eyes sting and itch and my head feels too heavy. Maybe I should have taken Glenn up on that resting thing. Too late now though. He's not talking to me; no one is. And my tent's gone and Jim's dying in the RV and—

"Ow!"

I blink as a sharp pain radiates up my arm, setting my nerve endings on fire. Instinctively, I try to move away but a firm grip on my elbow keeps me from doing so.

"Don't move." Daryl clenches his fingers, though not painfully, and I find myself looking into his eyes before I know it. The ice blue of them makes me unconsciously freeze, from muscles to lungs to heart because the color is so stark and for a second I think it's familiar. That soul searing color, like chips of ice, shards of glass, a frozen lake, a winter sky, Mom, Irina, Amy, blueblueblue. It makes my chest hurt, constrict, like a weight is sitting on me ribcage and I don't like it, don't want it, and instead drop my gaze to where that small flare of pain is still burning.

The glint of silver in a sea of red is a fascinating contrast. It could almost be called pretty. Except the wound is too gruesome, the blood too dark and the needle a little too wicked looking. But it's still fascinating, the needle especially. It's curved, like a fish hook, the roundness of it so very different from what I'm used to, straight needles burrowing straight through flesh, making straight lines if you tried hard enough and sometimes not even then. An inane thought enters my head and I almost giggle, thinking I'm a fish on the end of a hook, dangling and fighting a useless fight. And if I'm the fish that makes Daryl the fisherman. That's fitting. He's a hunter after all; a fisherman wouldn't be that much of a leap. I don't think he'd wear Dale's hat though. That's asking a little too much.

Seeming to agree with me, the needle-hook bobs a little, as if to nod. The motion stings, but only barely, and I watch as the pointed end glides through my skin and out again, a piece of black thread left in it's wake. The stitch is perfect, even and straight, and I think about the botched jobs I've done in the past, efforts that have left ropy, thick scars. Aside from maybe social skills, there's not a lot the hunter doesn't seem to have a good level of proficiency in. I can't help but envy Daryl's prowess.

Daryl doesn't say anything in the minutes that follow and I keep myself from moving an inch. It still hurts like a bitch, just like I knew it would, but Daryl's fast and efficient: within ten minutes there are ten neat stitches in place and the gash has finally stopped bleeding. It burns and aches, the ages still tinged red with what might be the onsets of infection, but it's at least stopped bleeding. I know I should feel grateful but I don't; I don't feel much of anything. Nevertheless, as Daryl's tying off the last knot and cutting off the excess strand, I find myself saying, "Thank you."

The hunter doesn't even look up. He just kind of grunts as he reaches for the alcohol again and douses the entire upper half of my arm. I can't stop the hiss that escapes from behind my clenched teeth but Daryl presses on regardless, quickly taking my arm once more and wrapping it in a clean, new bandage. The white cloth seems too stark against my grimy and gory skin and I shy away from the sight, looking up at the man across from me instead.

"Thank you," I repeat. The words feel funny in my mouth, like sorry did, but it seems like the thing to say. Daryl's scowl actually makes it a little easier to breathe, so familiar after everything else has been turned on its head.

"How bout instead of thankin me you keep yourself from getting shot in the future kid."

"Well it's not like I was asking to be shot." I frown as I mull my words over. "Ok maybe I kind of did. I mean Shane did try to warn me but I was more worried about Carol and Sophia. There was a walker chasing them see? And I couldn't reach them in time so—?"

"So what?" Daryl snaps. He abruptly jerks out of his chair and walks three feet away, stands rigidly at the head of his cot. I can't help but notice the tremor in his hands as he clenches them or the way he seems to sway on his feet. "So ya just gave Walsh the ok to shoot you?!"

"To save Carol and her daughter? Yes." I cock my head at the hunter, my brow furrowed. I don't see what the big deal is. It's a graze, a flesh wound. So it took a couple of stitches; so I lost some blood. I'm better off than Abby or Mr. St James. Or Amy. I'm better off than Jim too, fever flushed and on his way out. My heart's still beating and I'm still infection free. That alone is grounds for celebration.

Daryl sneers, an ugly expression, and he looks like he's gearin up for a fight when suddenly…he just stops. Like literally stops, mid-breath, already inhaled and everything. He looks at me with this odd expression I can't decipher, eyes shuttered closed like curtains pulled to keep the sun out and I notice he almost flinches, as if he's been struck by some unseen force. Perhaps Daryl's more out of it than I assumed. I wouldn't blame him. He has all the rights to be.

The ensuing silence is thick and stifling. Daryl doesn't look at me and I can't look away from him. I contemplate asking what is wrong with him but then discard the notion as useless. Daryl wouldn't tell me even if I asked. I'm not his friend. I'm not his partner. I'm just the girl who ain't worth the goddamn trouble and the bitch who left his brother to die. In realizing that, I ask myself why I'm here, sitting in the Dixon's tent, on Daryl's bed. I shouldn't even be anywhere near the hunter and yet I'm in this place that no one's ever be within fifty yards of; in his home for lack of a better word.

Why?

The simple answer is because the hunter dragged me but things are never so simple. Yes, he dragged me but I let myself be dragged. I didn't care either way and maybe I should have. But I have nowhere else to go when I think about it: no tent, no friends, at least not at the moment. Amy's six feet under, buried deep in a shallow grave, and the rest of camp seems inclined to wish I were in her place. Perhaps that's a bit harsh but the fact of the matter is I have no fans right now. Daryl isn't exactly a fan, might be the worst of them, but we were never overly close. A few exchanged poems and botched attempts at friendship is all we have between us, all fueled by my idiotic desire to give someone a chance I was given long ago. Be that as it may, it hurts a lot less to see a disgusted sneer on his face than on Glenn's. I never had anything better after all.

The part of me that wishes I did tries to tell me something but I ignore it. It's not significant, can't be. What's done is done is dead and when I think about it, I've got nothing left but the blood in my veins and the air in my lungs. The thought almost makes me feel hopeless. Almost. If only I could feel anything beyond this submerged numbness.

Taking one last look at Daryl's averted profile, I realize there's nothing left for me here; there was nothing here to begin with. Without a word, I slide off the cot and move towards the exit, careful not to step on anything, careful to stay on my feet. There's the rustle of fabric behind me and Daryl clears his throat. I don't know what he has to say but it can't be important because I'm not important; I'm not worth the goddamn trouble.

I cut the hunter off before he can manage to take a breath. "Thank you Daryl," I say. Turning around, I manage to find his eyes, bluebluetoofuckingblue, and crack a smile so sharp and broken I feel like my face has shattered into shards of serrated glass. "I won't bother you in the future."

The older man looks like he wants to say something, face contorting around the words, letters pushing against his teeth, but before he can get any of them into the air, I whip around and duck out of his tent, striding away as quickly as I can on my bum leg. I can't be sure, I might have imagined it, but I think I hear the echoes of my name follow me across camp, through the winding dirt paths and blood stained ground. When I glance behind me, however, I see nothing but dry summer air and I chalk it up to wishful thinking and isn't that a funny notion? Wishful. I wish I may, I wish I might, nobody gets their wishes tonight.

Amy wished I would just talk to her.

Glenn wished I'd side with him.

Daryl wished to find his brother.

I wished to not have to bury any more friends.

I wished I didn't fucking care.

As I pass the RV, the soil still soaking up Amy's blood, crimson and scarlet and vermillion, I think that wishes are for children and I haven't been a child in a very long time, if I ever was one at all. There's no such thing as wishes or faery dust, no second star to the right and straight on till morning bullshit that works in real life. (1) You get what life deals you and it's usually shit. You're lucky to get what you need, much less what you want and there's no room to complain. I understand that, learned the lesson a long time ago. I don't go looking for handouts or shoulders to cry on and I certainly don't go looking for shit that isn't real, like miracle cures and some vague notion of safety. Newsflash: it's the end of the world. Might as well go looking for Neverland. Tell Peter hi for me when you get there.

But I don't say any of these things out loud; I just walk on silently, past the RV and the road that leads up the hill and to the graves, the road that leads down to the quarry and that boulder on the edge of the placid lake and all the people in between. People don't reach out to me as I go and I keep to myself in turn. Perhaps they are all in shock. I think that must be it. Usually I can't keep them off me: Are you ok Audrey? Do you need something honey? Would you like to cry this out? Something in me says that isn't a good thing but I can't find it in myself to care. I always wanted them to give me some space, however good intentioned they were. Seems like I got what I wanted huh?

Seems like I got my wish.

The thought is mocking at best and nonchalantly sadistic at worst. It pricks in my chest and makes my head hurt, pound and swirl, so much so that I can't concentrate on where I'm heading until I'm right outside the ruined remains of my tent, trampled Earth beneath my unsteady feet and the smell of gore cloying in my lungs. I give half a thought to walking back towards the RV, if only to escape the sights and smells, but then decide fuck it. It smells and looks like this everywhere and I'll find peace nowhere. At least here the air isn't so heavy with smoke and pitying, accusing gazes. Here, at least I'm alone with a still silence.

Decided, I go to collapse on this half rotten log, about five yards from my old tent, when I see it. At first I'm confused, don't believe my eyes, but the longer I stare the more sure I become.

It's my hiking pack, worn and wearied and right fucking there, right where my tent's entrance used to be. I frown at the sight and make my way over, wary, like it might explode. It unsurprisingly doesn't but it does have a few surprises I wasn't expecting: pain pills and bandages, the last remaining dregs of a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a canteen full of water and a protein bar. All of these items are stuffed into a large Ziplock bag, the plastic seal at the top old and torn and shredded. I bend down, wincing as my ribs protest the movement, and gingerly pick the bag up. The pills rattle and the liquids slosh together, the protein bar crinkles and everything is slightly dusted with this fine white powder, remnants of the bag's previous inhabitants.

I almost laugh at the powder, stark against my skin, thinking fucking, goddamn fairy dust. I don't know what drug it is; I'm not too familiar with the subtle nuances between powered cocaine and heroin. But I'm familiar with the bag itself. I saw it not half an hour ago, half hidden underneath a rickety cot and piles of well-worn clothes.

I look up but, as I expected, I'm alone. Nothing moves except the branches in the hot Georgia wind and it's silent saved for the subdued hum of the cicadas and the even more quiet murmurs of camp members up near the RV. The bag in my hand feels heavy so I set it down, sinking after it until I'm sitting on the ground, spine against the weak support of my hiking pack. My wrist, my ankle, my ribs, and my head thrum as I inspect the bandages in my hands, the handful of pills, the protein bar cuz I can't remember the last time I ate. I try to figure out what this all means, what this entails, but I'm too damn tired and settle for just dumping the supplies into my lap, reach first for the protein bar and then for the pills.

As I chew the first, the second waiting in the palm of my other hand, I tilt my head back and look at the sky, looking for a star and only averting my eyes when the sun threatens to blind me.

---

It's decided that the group will leave for the CDC in the morning. Walsh dictated it so and Grimes gave his nod of approval. Daryl honestly could give a single fuck either way. CDC or Fort Benning, it doesn't goddamn matter. What these assholes were chasin was a pipedream and the poor sumbitches weren't even high. Daryl would pity them if he didn't hate 'em.

The sun's close to settin now and Daryl squints against the orange glare, eyes burnin and so tired he can't even move off the bed of his truck. He knows he should, should probably find somethin to eat, make sure everythin's tied down, but he can't be bothered to do more than breathe at the moment. And he's earned it goddamn it; he has. Three days…three fuckin days of non-stop shitfests. Give him a fuckin break. With that thought, he shakes his head to clear it but takes a swig of the lukewarm beer in his hand, the last of Merle's stash, and tries not to think of how it tastes like blood and sweat goin down.

It took hours to get everythin packed and stowed in the truck. He had to disassemble the tent and wrap up all his belongings, all of Merle's, make sure he didn't leave crap behind. Then, unable to look at his brother's shit, he'd stuffed it into duffles and stuck it all underneath Merle's bike, tied down in the bed of Daryl's truck. It's all there now, feet behind him as he sits on the tailgate, all he has left of his last of kin. The thought awakens somethin sour in the back of his throat and makes him spit to the side, even though his mouth's too dry to manage more than a few drops, and it reminds him why he's sittin here in the first place.

He means to get the fuck out of here, get the hell outta Dodge, again, but this time he's goin alone. It's all he could think about this afternoon. The only reason he's here in this quarry, with these people, is cuz Merle thought it would be safer to hunker down in numbers. Yeah well, Merle ain't here anymore and it's cuz of these same people too. So, Daryl sees no reason to stay. He's got his bow, a few stowed guns; he knew how to hunt and track and kill better than any predator native to Georgia. He'd be fine on his own, better even. And he'd go lookin for his brother, try and find him, cuz that's what family did even if they didn't want to.

Half of his mind reminds him that he had searched for Merle and found nothin; the other half reminds him that was cuz there was nothin to find. Merle had split and hadn't come back, hadn't come lookin for Daryl. Or maybe he hadn't split at all. Maybe someone else took the van and he was still stuck in Atlanta, dead or alive or somethin in between. For the life of him, the hunter can't decide which is worse.

A noise sounds off behind him and he turns to see Walsh lordin over the dinner fire, pointin in different directions, tellin people what to do. It's mostly women around him and they follow without complaint, gettin food on the fire and onto plates, rallyin the children and makin sure they're all in eyeshot. Watchin the women cook, Daryl thinks about the hunt he did not two days ago and wonders whatever happened to the fawn he brought back. It's probably gone by now, wasted and rotted away, left unattended to fester in the Georgia sun. Normally, Daryl would be pissed bout a wasted kill. Now, he's too goddamn fed up.

The sun goes down quickly and leaves the quarry in a twilight bruise. Camp gathers at the fire but Daryl can barely hear them, no idle conversation in the air tonight. It's quiet and still, the clink of silverware and crackles of the fire really the only sounds to be heard, mixed in with a few garbled murmurs. It's like everyone's afraid to talk too loud, afraid to call attention to themselves, afraid to disturb the ghosts that are threatenin to choke them. Daryl thinks that maybe if they had been more afraid, more vigilant, last night they wouldn't have to be so now. But the thought is useless and so he forgets it and settles down with his back against the front tire of Merle's bike, starin into the dark forest before him.

He'll leave in the mornin he decides, like the rest of them. But he'll be headin his own way. He doesn't need these people and he never wanted them. He'll be fine on his own and even better when he finds his brother. He just keeps repeatin that to himself, even when the words stop makin sense, like when you say a word so many times it becomes gibberish. He keeps sayin it cuz it's the only thing he's got and he refuses to listen to the other voice in his head, soft words and a softer lilt, images of a blue lake and green eyes.

"We, you, me, Merle, those "assholes" back at camp…we might be the only living, breathing people left in this godforsaken world."

"This might not be ideal and I hate to break it to you but…we are all each other has."

Daryl chugs the rest of his beer and tosses the can away, watchin the aluminum can glint dully in the dyin sun before fallin to the ground. He thinks about metal in the grass and hidden dangers, remembers the traps that he and Merle still have set up around camp, metal and glass and rope. He thinks about his brother and he thinks about that fuckin kid and no matter how hard he tries, he can't goddamn stop.

If he's honest with himself, and he usually makes it a point not to be, he hasn't stopped thinkin bout her since she ducked out of his tent. It was that look on her face as she left; that smile that looked painful and seconds away from splinterin. It literally struck him dumb cuz one second she's sittin there, no emotion in any inch of her, and then she's up on her feet and leavin, lookin like she's about to cry. He didn't understand, didn't comprehend, and then she was gone, her parting words ringin in his ears and reverberatin through his tent.

"Thank you Daryl. I won't bother you in the future."

A few weeks ago, Daryl would have said about fuckin time. Hell, just yesterday he would have thought that. But he can't seem to achieve it now. Maybe he's too tired but maybe just maybe…he doesn't like the idea as he once might have. It's that debt he owes and the look in the kid's eye, the fact that his brother almost killed her and how she hasn't said a word about it. It was the culmination of all that shit, in addition to how no one's speakin to her, that had Daryl callin out after her and, when that failed, had him leavin his tent with a bag clenched tight in his hand and her hikin pack, which he had snagged from the Charger's bumper when she left it behind before the funerals, thrown over his shoulder. He didn't remember packin the bag in his hands or dumpin all of Merle's shit out but when he looked down all he saw was a haphazard first aid kit instead of the stash of drugs the bag used to be.

He hadn't known where to find the kid and, while he could have tracked her, caught up to her, he…he decided against it. What was he gonna say to her? He had nothin. The last thing he tried to say, the thing he had to swallow back down, was some shit bout Walsh and how the kid needed to not be so idiotic, let people just step all over her like that. But who the fuck was he to talk? His brother did so much worse to her than a bullet graze: sprained ankle, busted ribs, broken nose, bruised trachea and a fractured wrist. That didn't even include the part where he tried to throw her off a fuckin roof. So he had no right to say anythin, even if he could find the words.

That bein said, he went to the only place he could think of, hopin she wouldn't be there: her tent. Or what used to be her tent he discovered. It was completely destroyed, debris scattered everywhere, blood and gore and death. It wasn't until he was standin amongst the carnage that he remembered the kid askin him to clean up in exhange for helpin him take care of the camp members' bodies. They never got around to it and it seemed they never would. He didn't particularly care either way but it made it problematic to give the kid this shit. That was, until he heard her comin down the incline towards him, shuffled feet and labored breaths. He didn't even think before he reacted; he just set her pack down and dumped his bag on top of it before slippin off into the trees, doin his best not to make a sound. Apparently, he succeeded cuz the kid didn't even look up until she was standin in the middle of the ruined rows of tents and, when she finally did, it was only to gaze around in confusion, like she didn't know how she got there. Daryl wouldn't be surprised if that was the truth.

He should have just walked away then, he had done what he came to do, but somethin had him pausin, just for a moment. He didn't stay long, barely a minute, but he stood there long enough to watch Audrey take his things and sink to the ground, propped up against her pack as she ate one of the bars she had given him and pop some of the pain meds he had given her. It was weird but seein the kid like that, sitin in the dirt, alone, face tilted up to the sky with her skin ten different shades of fucked up…he almost felt like…like he wanted nothin more than to go sit next to her, have her read out of that stupid book of hers or just not say anythin at all. He didn't know why he felt like that and he turned away without figurin it out.

Ten minutes later he made the decision to leave.

Four hours later and he's still sittin here and he wonders if he'll see the kid one last time before he hits the road.

With the way his life's gone, he thinks probably not.

Ignorin the way the thought jerks in his chest, Daryl closes his eyes as he leans on Merle's bike, his crossbow a warm and familiar weight in his lap.

---

"Hey."

Glenn shifts uneasily on his feet, a thin shadow backlit by the camp's fire. I look up into his face and can only see the glint of his eyes, a flash of white teeth.

"Hi," I return. I seem overly loud in the otherwise silent air, my voice grating and harsh. Glenn seems to think so as well because he flinches as if struck, rocking back on his heels, exhaling thickly. Awkward tension is like a livewire between us and the hair on my arms rises with the electricity. My heart, however, is a different story. It doesn't stutter or skip or stop; just keeps on beating a steady, calm beat beneath my ribs.

There's a moment of silence where neither Glenn nor I speak but then he picks up the slack. "How…how are you?" he asks and god if it doesn't sound like the most perfunctory thing. Polite questions not worth their weight in air.

I give a small nod, as is the appropriate response. "Fine," I say. "Just fine."

It's a lie and we both know it. It's the opposite of the truth but neither of us says it. And Glenn doesn't even give me that skeptical look he would have before; he just nods in turn.

"Go…good," he stammers. "That's…good."

We dissolve into silence again and I can't help but recall all the times the two us—used to be three but we're now minus one—could sit and talk for hours about nothing, just enjoying each other's company. How could so much change in so little time?

Oh yeah. Death does that to a person.

My bones shift together unpleasantly the longer I sit here and I can't seem to look my friend—former friend? Has it come to that? Do I care?—in the face. That's ok though. He can't seem to manage it either.

"Did you need something Glenn?" I ask when the silence finally becomes too stifling, too suffocating. I barely stop myself from asking why are you even here?

He looks up at me, or at least I think he does, and clears his throat. "Uh…yeah. I um…I brought you this." He takes a step forward and I glance down in time to see him extend his hand, a plate of food now bridging the distance between us. It's not much, some dried meat, some peas, a side of fruit, but I suddenly can't remember when the last time I ate was, besides that protein bar. I think it might have been the fish fry last night and a discordant flash of images plays behind my eyes: dancing flames, glinting blue eyes behind strands of spun gold, vibrating, bell like laughter and the silver gleam of friend.

My stomach rolls and I might have lost my appetite. Nevertheless, I reach out tentatively and take the plate from Glenn's hands because I can almost imagine the earnest look on his face, doe brown eyes and quirking lips. It's a peace offering, I think, and even if taking it implies an apology, and I have nothing to apologize for, I don't have the energy to be antagonizing. Not anymore.

"Thank you," I whisper and let the plate settle on my thighs. It was a nice notion, a kind thought. Glenn didn't have to walk all the way over here, yards away from the others and the fire, to where I'm sitting in the ruins of the former lean-to we used for firewood. I had walked straight past him earlier and I know he saw that, saw how I chose to be away from everyone but close enough that I wasn't completely alone, completely vulnerable in the dark. Yet another slight I've done against my so-called friend and yet here he is, offering up the proverbial olive branch. Commendable.

Amy's voice filters through my head, distorted and weak, a memory from that day we ate Glenn's candy and slept in the shade of a tree. "Anyways, he'll probably be over it before the end of the day. He can't stay mad for very long."

Seems like she was right. I don't know why that makes me feel vaguely sick.

Glenn sways closer and I can finally see the dimmest outline of his face. I think he's smiling. "You're welcome," he says. He bobs on his feet again, a nervous motion, and I can almost taste his next question. Do you need anything? Can I sit here? Will you come sit with us? Glenn, always helpful. Glenn, always nice. Glenn, forever predictable.

"Ok well if you need anything else…you know where I'll be."

I blink up at him, confused and thrown for a loop, but Glenn just gives me a small nod and backs away slowly. His shoes crunch over the dirt and his face fades rapidly into shadow until he's just a black silhouette with a dull orange light at his back. I watch him turn and head back to the others; he doesn't look back once. Just another sign that he's still upset, still can't look at me, maybe has had enough. Maybe I should call out to him, repair what's been broken, if I can, but I don't. I have nothing to say to him. I'm sorry Amy died? I'm sorry I don't have the words? I'm sorry you can't see life for what it really is and deal with it accordingly? None of that seems to really sounds right and I don't have the energy to think of an alternative. I'm tired and it's been a damn long day. If I had a place to sleep I would have been unconscious by now. But I don't and so here I am, staring at the plate in my lap and trying to convince myself it's worth consuming. It's a failing endeavor and after a few small bites, I push the plate to the ends of my knees and tilt my head up to the sky. My tongue is heavy in my mouth and tastes like ash, like dirt, and the weak heat of the fire does nothing to warm my bones. The stars burn coldly in the night sky and I absentmindedly trace their shapes until my eyes cross and everything becomes blurry.

I don't know how much time passes, minutes, hours, but suddenly I hear a noise behind me. It's quiet, I almost miss it, but since last night—Amy's scream, shadows in the dark, bloodblooddeath—I don't know if I can ever not think the worst of every rustle, sigh, and shuffle that I'll ever hear. Instantly, I'm on alert, hand already over my shoulder and brushing the hilt of the katana. The haze of my vision clears and sound comes back to me in high definition: the beat of my heart, the sound of my lungs expanding, the crackle of fire and murmur of distance voices. Nothing speaks of danger but I know what I heard and I'm not making the same mistake that was made last night.

Taking a deep breath, even though it hurts, my lungs, my throat, my ribs, I slide the katana half way out of it's sheathe and glance sharply over my shoulder, eyes straining to see through the shadows. I see nothing at first, just trees and darkness, but then I hear that same noise again: a grating scrape underlain with an indistinct, low-pitched noise. Like a moan. Fuck. Here we go again.

I wonder how many of them there are this time: fifty, a hundred, a million? There were only nineteen last night and we nearly all died. How long could we hold off any more than that? Is it even worth the try? I'm inclined to say no but then I remember Carl's big blue eyes and Sophia's open face, her tentative smile. They're only kids; they haven't even lived yet. A part of my mind points out what kind of life is this—fear and running and death—but at least it's a life; at least they're alive.

Unlike Amy.

Unlike my family.

Unlike my friends.

It's something and it's something I can actually try to protect because Sophia and Carl do not deserve to be ripped to pieces even if I do.

With that in mind, I'm about to sound the alarm, call out to Shane atop the RV, tell everyone to get ready cuz here they come…when a curse reaches out from the darkness, muttered and quiet. I freeze half out of my seat, the plate of food teetering precariously on my knees. Walkers don't curse. Walkers don't talk. This…this isn't a walker. The realization comes quick and sharp and cold, a relief to the fire in my veins. This isn't a walker because I know who it is, can make out his outline now in the dimness.

This isn't a walker because Daryl's sitting on the bed of his truck, twenty yards away and near the road and there isn't a chance in hell a geek's getting passed him without his knowledge. The knowledge that it's Daryl and not Death near should be comforting.

It isn't and only serves to put a knot in my gut, a distant discomfort that I don't want to address.

Knowing that camp is no longer in danger of being overrun again, I sink back into my seat, my strings severed without the adrenaline to string them up. My fingers idly play with the plate I managed to save. Sweat beads along my skin, sour and slick, and the new bandages that I have wrapped around me—wrist and ankle and ribs—become damp and uncomfortable. My eyes are drawn to the pristine whiteness of my new wrist splint, stark in the darkness, the cloth thick and quality, much better than the worn ace bandages I got from Dale. I think about the pocket in my hiking bag that I stuffed those blood stained pieces and I think about the pills next to them, the empty bottle of rubbing alcohol and the half full canteen. I try not to, I really do, but there is nothing left to occupy my thoughts but bad memories and I'd rather have discomfort than the unpleasant sensation of my ribs cracking beneath my skin, piercing my heart.

Daryl Dixon. The man who saved my life. Brother to the man that tried to end it. The hunter that's kept me fed. The bastard that's done nothing but push me away and give me hell. The friend I never almost had.

It's been a month and I still don't have him figured out; it's been a month and I'm done trying. I told him I wouldn't bother him anymore and I meant it. He doesn't want to be friends. Great. Cuz I don't think I want any more. He doesn't want to be partners. Ok. I'm one hand down and was shit at skinning anyway. I may be stubborn and can't take a hint but him screaming at me I'm not worth any sort of trouble and blaming me for leaving Merle behind when I had every fucking right to…that's not a hint. That's a blatant fuck you and fuck off. Fine. So I'm done. So I was stupid to even try. I can understand that.

What I can't understand is this: the ride to the funerals, the stitching my wounds, the bandages and food and display of an ability to feel human emotion, human compassion. I just don't understand. Daryl acts like he hates me one minute and then the next he doesn't. It's been like that since I got to camp and I'm tired of the endless circles, the frustrating merry-go-round. I don't have the patience any more; I don't want to—can't even bother to—try any more.

So I'm not going to try.

I'm going to do and not give a damn what Daryl thinks or how he reacts. This isn't about him. It's about me and not thinking because thinking and debating and analyzing has just fucked me over. I'm just going to do and not give a shit about the consequences because what can be worse than my friends dying under my hands, scalding blood and freezing tears? Nothing and certainly not Daryl glaring or becoming pissed off. He can't affect me any more; he can't hurt me.

Because honestly? I've stopped fucking caring.

The few yards spanning between Daryl and I are dark and treacherous and picking my way through them is a painstaking process. I stumble too many times to count and it's unsurprising that Daryl's looking right at me when I round the side of his truck, crossbow poised and at the ready. It's dark, I can barely make out his face even though I'm standing two feet from him, but I'm not worried; I know he sees it's me. I stare down the length of his arrow for an indeterminable amount of time and when he finally drops it, I'm faced with a scowl.

"Ya tryin to end up shot kid?" he snarls, a flash of white teeth in the dark. I shrug and don't answer. I don't think he'd want the truth anyway.

"I think you have better aim than that," I respond. I hold out my hand to him, nodding down at the plate between my fingers. "It's probably cold by now but I'd say it's better than what you're running on."

Daryl stays silent and doesn't reach for my offering. After a minute has gone by I give up and set the food next to him on the open tailgate. Still the hunter doesn't say anything but I'm not exactly expecting gratitude; I don't even want it. Not waiting for Daryl to find his voice again, I turn and go to make my way back to the destroyed lean to. I make it five feet before he calls out.

"What bout you?"

Stopping, I look over my shoulder, try to find Daryl's eyes, fail in the darkness. "What about me?"

The hunter fidgets on his truck, the old metal protesting his weight and movement. I can almost imagine the discomfort in his expression when he says, "What are you gonna eat?"

I shrug again but realize he probably can't see it. I'm still half turned to look behind me and my ribs are screaming at the strain. "Not really hungry. Thought it would be better if someone ate it rather than it going to waste," I tell him.

It's the truth, God's honest. Maybe I forgot to mention that him dying of starvation or getting bit cuz he's too out of it would dampen all of our chances at survival but who's going to tell him that?

"What if I already ate?" Daryl fires back and I recognize the intentional antagonistic quality of his voice. I heard it in Merle's words not a few days ago; I heard it from Daryl's own mouth too many times to remember.

"Than save it. Or throw it out. I'm not here to tell you what to do. I just thought I'd offer."

Really. I'm just too done for this shit.

Daryl processes my words for a still moment and just as I'm about to leave again he speaks up, low and rumbled. "Where ya headed? Chinaman waitin up for ya?" I can't tell if it's an honest question or a subtle dig. I think it must be the former because why would Daryl know that Glenn's upset with me? It's not like he'd pay my life that much attention.

"Nowhere in particular. Somewhere to wait for sunrise." It's not like I'll be getting much sleep. What if more walkers come in the night? What if I dream?

"Tch. Yer probably gonna fall on yer ass ya go walkin in the dark," Daryl says and I can just about see his sneer. I purse my lips at his words, thinking I get what he's saying, and turn to fully face him.

"Are you offering me a seat Daryl?" I cut to the chase. The hunter grunts something and I hear him shift again on his truck. Taking that as an affirmative, I shuffle my way through the dark, hands outstretched for balance. The second my fingers brush warm metal, I fumble to the open tailgate. It's a lot easier to see Daryl from this distance but there are still plenty of shadows. What's more, he's not even looking at me, silently tucking into his plate. I pull my katana off slowly, stifling a hiss of pain, and slide it into the bed. I follow it up with some effort, tucking my right hand against my ribs, but I still lose balance half way up. If it weren't for Daryl's hand on my elbow I would have pitched off the end.

Collapsing back into the bed, I collide with Daryl's shoulder for a moment—warm, sweat slicked flesh—before righting myself. "Thanks," I mutter. He grumbles something back but I can't funny hear it and he falls silent right after. Though my ribs and ankle throb in diluted pain, I have to admit sitting on the truck is a lot more comfortable than perching on some rotten log. It's darker back here sure, I can barely see a thing which means a walker could basically be ten feet from me and I'd never know but…I'm not particularly worried.

The following minutes are quiet save for the clicking of Daryl's jaw and the wet gulp as he swallows. He finishes the whole plate in record time and I almost call bullshit on his earlier statement of having eaten but can't find the energy. In result I stay silent as the minutes add up to half an hour and even more, just staring at nothing, into nothing, until my eyes are crossed and heavy and breathing becomes an unconscious motion once more. There's a small voice in my head, oh so very small now, asking why I'm here, why when I said, like I've said a million times, that I'm done with Daryl. And it's simple really. I'm here because I have nowhere else to be; I'm here because I want to be. Well maybe want is a strong word. I just don't care either way. So Daryl's here. So he isn't. So it's dark and I'm tired and I cannot fall asleep. It's all the same to me.

At some point, my legs fall asleep and I squirm to get my blood flowing. In doing so, I jar the katana beside me which in turns shifts back and knocks against something else. There's a muffled crack and then a metallic thud. I go rigid and turn around, half curious, a quarter guilty, and the rest just exhausted. I don't expect to see the mounds of crap stack up behind me and I wonder as to how I missed it all in the first place.

It's too late and there's not enough light from the fire for me to see what I've displaced but if I squint I can make out vague shapes. Merle's bike is the most obvious, towering over me, Daryl leaning his spine against its knobby tire. I can make out a few other things: the haphazard bulge of a collapsed tent, the metal frame of a cot, the silver gleam of the meat drying rack. All of Daryl's belongings are sitting right here behind me and I can't help but think all I have left fits into a hiking pack. Then I get to thinking about the morning and the group leaving, abandoning camp, and Daryl sitting off all the way over here, by himself, segregated, isolated, with his brother's motorcycle denting grooves into his back.

"You're leaving."

It's not a question.

Daryl goes rigid beside me and casts half a glance out of the corner of his eye in my direction. I can't see the color of them and the orbs yawn black and fathomless. "We're all leavin kid," he deflects. "Ya heard Walsh and Officer fuckin Friendly."

I shake my head and now his evasion has confirmed my suspicion. "We are…but you're not coming with us." I know it, no matter how he would try to deny. There is no other option. His brother's gone; this group tolerates him at best and hates his guts at worst. I know I wouldn't stick around. And Daryl's a lot smarter than I am. "You're leaving on your own. Aren't you?"

The question slips out unbidden but it's rhetorical anyway. Daryl doesn't respond and the overwhelming absence of words tells the whole story.

I'm not surprised. I'm not. I'm only surprised that the hunter's stuck around this long.

Turning away from Daryl and his life bundled up nice and tight behind me, I stare out into the forest. My skin is slick with sweat and streaked with grime and gore, winding, gruesome trails snaking around my arms. The humid, Georgia air makes my unruly hair stick to the back of my neck and every cell of me aches to collapse. I feel 1000 years old; I feel ancient in my own bones. So much has happened and the time's been so little. Four months ago I was on my way to graduating high school. Two months ago and my home was reduced to ashes. A month ago I was shot in the head and made my first human contact since the world ended, I made my first friends. Three days ago I was whole and healthy and Daryl still had a brother. Yesterday Amy was still alive and Glenn could still look me in the eye and I actually gave a crap about going through the motions. That's all gone now and I clench my fingers wondering if there was anyway to have stopped it, anyway to keep it from slipping through my fingers.

"So I guess you leave in the morning," I say at length. In my peripherals I see Daryl give a curt nod. The morning, mere hours away. Daryl will go his way and I'll…I don't know where I'm going or what I'll do. Probably just keep going until something stops me, whether it be teeth or starvation or a bullet I'll put through my own skull.

"You must endure, you must continue on. Remember this Audrey Lara Bennett. Remember this and never forget it," Sensei's voice echoes in my head as if in reprimand.

I haven't forgot Sensei. I just don't think I can try forever. I don't think I want to.

It might just be the lack of sleep or the lack of food, the shock or whatever but I can almost feel Sensei's disappointment as if he is standing right in front of me with that all too familiar frown. I drop my head and stare at the splint on my wrist, the bruises on my knuckles, the blood under my fingernails.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell the ghost of Takeo Nakamura. "You don't know what this world is like. You didn't live long enough to see it."

A nasty part of my brain whispers whose fault is that, followed by flashes of fire and the destruction of Dalton playing through my mind while someone is screaming, "Audrey you have to go. Go! It's too late. I'll do my best to find them but you have to go!"

Maybe before I would have tried to deny it but now I accept it's my fault and my entire fault only. Seems I can't save anyone.

Some more time passes and I suddenly realize it's gone dead silent. Feeling the hair on my arms stand on end, I crane my head back to look towards the RV and see that the fire is barely embers now. Everyone's gone to bed, ready for the big day tomorrow. I see Shane's shadow move atop the RV but besides that, the shadows are the only movement my eyes can see, the dry wind through the grass and leaves the only sounds left in the night. I wonder what time it is and I wonder when we'll be leaving. I turn to ask Daryl but my mouth has only just parted when I freeze, tongue pressed tight against the split in my lower lip.

Beside me, Daryl is slumped in his seat, lanky and lean, half folded in on himself. His hands are half curled around his crossbow that balances precariously on his thighs and his right leg, inches from my own, twitches every so often. Even in sleep the hunter is ready to go, always prepared. I'm half curious as to if this is a new, apocalypse reflex he's honed or if it's something he's always had. I guess I'll never know. Taking a deep breath, very conscious of Merle's boot prints indented on my ribs, I find myself drinking in the sight of Daryl's sleeping face. It's not exactly relaxed; there's still a pinch between his eyes and a tightness around his mouth but he certainly looks more approachable while he sleeps. The irony of the matter is he's probably his most dangerous, will lash out first and ask questions latter. He's always so hostile or antagonistic at best that it's disconcerting to see him like this, so open and vulnerable, especially with the threat that's looming in the woods. This just speaks to how exhausted the hunter must be, how the past few days have just taken and taken and left him with nothing.

I think I feel something akin to sympathy prick in my chest but I can't be sure. Either way, I slowly lean against the side of Daryl's truck and turn my attention back to the woods, now alert to and focused on any sound or movement that could become dangerous. The way I see it this is the last thing I can do for the hunter, the last good thing I can give him. He saved my life before and has kept me fed since, has protected camp to the best of his abilities. Making sure that he's not torn to shreds as he sleeps, especially when I was going to be awake anyway, is the least I can do. That and moving is not high on my desire list. If I can use his truck to rest, I can keep my eyes open for geeks and gleaming teeth.

The night passes slowly and by the time the sky starts to glow pink with the rising sun the only things that have moved are the moon above my head and the stars in the sky. Behind me, I can hear the others begin to move and stir, the sound of cooking and the garbled noise of good mornings. The time has come to leave; where we'll end up I don't know but our time here in the quarry has come to an end. I look about and try to feel sad but I can't muster up the feeling for trees and a lake and familiar dirt when I've already watched my house go up in flames, my school, my city, my family. It really just doesn't compare.

When I hear the first echoes of my name I know that I can't stay here any longer. This time I think I actually feel disappointment but I push it down and reach for my katana instead. I slip off the tailgate and land unsteadily on my feet, trying to be as quiet as possible. Looking up, I realize that I wasn't very successful because, already, Daryl stirs. The sudden urge to be gone before he's fully conscious seizes me and I move without thinking, rounding the side of his truck and already heading back towards the RV.

But before I get too far I can't help but pause and turn one last time to face the hunter, get one last good look. "Goodbye Daryl," I whisper and I find myself wishing I could see his eyes just once more, wishing I could imagine them as Mom's or Irina's or Amy's. But I don't go back and I don't linger. I take a deep breath and nod at the back of Daryl's head even though he can't see it and say the only thing I can think of.

"Thank you."

For saving my life when it isn't worth saving.

For putting up with all this shit and keeping us all fed.

For being a friend, however brief the time and however shallow the definition.

Thank you. And I hope you find your brother.

Having nothing else, I follow the sound of my name and leave Daryl in the bed of his truck, my last image of him his face slack with sleep and his eyelids just starting to flutter open.

---

Daryl wakes up with the words thank you circling an empty drain in his head and he doesn't know why. Hell, he doesn't even remember fallin asleep but suddenly it's daylight and he's alone on the tailgate of his truck, a crick in his neck and a sore spot on his spine from Merle's knobby bike tires. He snaps to attention real quick when he realizes where he is and automatically looks for threats in his immediate vicinity; he finds none and his grip slowly loosens on the handle of the crossbow.

"Shit," he grumbles under his breath, scrubbin a hand across his face and through his hair. He had passed out, literally fainted like a goddamn pussy. Jesus. A geek could have walked up and taken a fuckin chunk out of him before he knew it. A dumb ass mistake and Daryl couldn't even remember makin it. The last thing he remembers was the kid figurin out he was leavin and…and where the hell is she anyway? Liftin his head, he looks around him but he's well and truly alone. He purses his lips at the thought and feels vaguely pissed that the kid had just left he sleepin out in the open. However, when he shifts to jump down to the dirt, he realizes the spot beside him is still warm. The rest of the metal, save the place he had just been sittin and the spot inches away, is cold and dewy in the morning air. That means that kid had just been there; recently enough that her body heat still lingers. That means she hadn't left him during the night but only when the sun had come up. The discovery has him lookin around again but he sees nothin but trees and air. Audrey's gone.

And thinking about it…he should be too.

It's mornin. He had decided he'd leave in the mornin and it's here. Once he's checked that everything's tied down, checked his water and meager food supplies, once he's checked his weapons and double checked he's left nothin behind…nothin's keepin him. Except he's sittin in the driver's seat, half an hour after he woke up, with his hand on the ignition and the other on the wheel and he can't seem to turn the goddamn key. He gives up after the tenth failed attempt and just stares out his windshield, watchin as the rest of the assholes get ready for their own journey, packin their crap into their cars and roundin up their kids.

That mother fuckin kid. Audrey fuckin Bennet. There's no denyin it's her that's makin him pause; nothing else these people have could keep him. But that kid. Everythin bout her alternately pisses Daryl off or confuses the fuck outta him and it's been like that since day one. Now he could finally be rid of her and he can't even move. He tries to figure out why that is and he comes up with reasons that don't make sense: her journal with all those stupid words in it, her kickin Walsh's ass, her bringing him food, her skinnin a rabbit beside him and fuckin up time and time again. It doesn't make sense…and yet if goddamn does.

He never wanted it, tried his hardest to fight it, called it a hundred different things but the fact of the matter is…the kid was, is, his friend. Cuz why else would she do any of the shit she's done, all that shit he can't ignore? And why else would he have driven her up to those graves or stitched her arm or offered her a seat last night when all he could think about was her wandering off into the dark and being torn asunder or fallin and breakin her neck? He said it was cuz of Merle; he said it was cuz he owed her. And while all that shit was true, they were merely excuses. The truth is Audrey was the first one to treat him like a goddamn human being and Daryl couldn't help but be partial to that, like that, even when he kept tellin himself he didn't need it, that he didn't want it. It had snuck up on, crawled beneath his skin when he wasn't lookin, but he can't fight it any more.

The kid's his goddamn friend and if he leaves these motherfuckers are gonna get her killed.

The instilled Dixon part of his brain insists he shouldn't care; he's known the kid for a month; she's part of the reason his brother's missin and what bout Merle anyway? Is Daryl just gonna abandon him, his kin, for some seventeen year old kid that's smiled some at him and treated him just a little bit better than dirt? What bout family? Does that mean nothin to Daryl now?

The hunter wants to snarl that it's always meant somethin to him, even when it meant nothin to his godforsaken father, his goddamn brother. He's always stood by Merle's side! He's the one that got his brother out of county jail when the world went to shit and saved his ass too many times to count when the older Dixon was too fucked up to tell left from right!

He fuckin went back for Merle, even when the odds said he was dead or worse! His brother's the one that ditched, high tailed it out of Dodge and didn't think bout Daryl back at camp waitin for him. What was Daryl supposed to do? Wait here in this quarry for the dead to come and devour him? Wait for his brother to never come back? Or was he supposed to go back into the city and look for somethin that isn't there; risk his life in vain? This all sounded very noble and logical last night, alone in the dark with only the shadows for company. But in the bright light of day…stickin round cuz he can actually tolerate a human being doesn't seem so stupid compared to the alternative. Sure, he can take care of himself but other people, while annoying and problematic, serve as some kind of buffer between him and the undead, whether it be through watchin his back or bein at his back, between him and snappin teeth. Morbid but honest.

And the brutal truth is, nevermind the kid or what he thinks, feels, for her…stayin with these assholes is the best chance he has for survival.

Guilt, no matter how irrational, burns hot in his gut. It makes his head pound and bones feel brittle cuz Merle's his brother and now he's gone and Daryl's all alone and might never see him again. The situation might cripple a lesser man but Daryl has grown up in shitty conditions and has learned to roll with the punches and keep on movin. This is no different and he's got more pressin matters to consider. Like survival. He just needs to survive and he knows, deep down, that Merle, wherever he is, will do the same. They're Dixons. Fightin's in their blood.

Daryl had said nobody could kill Merle but Merle and he believed it. He'd find his brother eventually cuz the sonvabitch was too stubborn to die. It was a Dixon quality after all; same thing ran through his own veins, the same poison that's gonna keep the two of them alive.

Daryl leans back in the driver's seat and reaches for the ashtray, findin one of Merle's half smoked butts. He pushes the truck's lighter in and pulls it out a minute later, layin the cherry red end against the cigarette between his lips. He takes a deep drag, holds it, and lets it out slowly, watchin the smoke curl off his tongue and spiral into the air.

"Here's to seein ya later Merle," he mutters and he feels like he really just might.

---

By nine o'clock everyone's packed and ready to go, the vehicles lined up with their drivers crowded around them. I stand off to the side, trying to be as invisible as possible but it's a futile attempt. As the adults hammer out the finer details of our trip Carl ambles up to me and blinks those big blue eyes of his, red rimmed and puffy. He's been crying recently and I think he's probably been crying for Amy. He looks at me with this expression that begs for me to fix it and even if I knew what to fix—the world, Amy's death, what?—I'd have nothing to offer. I show Carl my empty hands to tell him this but he misinterprets my gesture because all of the sudden he's latched onto my waist with his face buried in my ribs. I almost cry out as he nuzzles into the bruises and most likely broken bones in my side but stop myself at the last second. Instead, I tentatively wrap my good arm around him and pat along his spine. The gesture is awkward and almost robotic but it's the best I can give at the moment. Because there's this voice in my head screaming it's only going to get worse tell him tell him and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep the words from spilling out. Unaware of my inner turmoil, Carl silently cries into my side until his mother comes to extract him and even then he stands close as he can, brushing my hand every so often.

The mannerisms are so child like, so young. And it takes me a minute to remember Carl is only twelve after all. He should be playing little league or something similarly mundane and normal. He shouldn't be standing here listening to Shane address the group like a squadron of soldiers; he shouldn't be standing on the dirt that still bares the stain of blood and death. He shouldn't…but he is and that's life.

I promised to protect his life to the best of my abilities. I can do nothing for his innocence.

For the next few minutes I half-heartedly listen as Shane speaks of CB radio frequencies and caravans, horns and signals. It's all useless information to me; I won't be driving. In fact, I don't even know what vehicle I'm riding in. I haven't spoken to anyone this morning aside from a few passing good mornings. No one's told me anything and I suppose I'll just hop into whatever vehicle has room. It will most likely be the RV, with dying Jim and Dale, Jacqui and Glenn, who I overheard conversing about seats and shifts in the back with our resident patient.

It will be like a hospital on wheels; or rather a hospice. I won't say anything, not to anyone, but I know Jim's not going to make it. There's a small chance I'm wrong but as I said before: hope for the best, prepare for the absolute worst. Sometimes, the first part is not even necessary.

Something moves in my peripherals and, bored, I look up to find it. At first I think it's one of Morales' children who have been fidgeting for some time now or maybe Sophia who's been pressed so tight into her mother's side all morning, I wonder if she's bruised. But it's none of them, nor is it anyone else I would have guessed.

It's Daryl.

He standing five feet away from Morales, set back a little bit so he's not part of the circle of people but close enough to hear what's happening. He's dressed differently than I last saw him, maybe the same jeans but he's in a faded orange sleeveless number that looks relatively clean. He also looks less haggard and strung out, the bruises under his eyes nearly gone, his skin not so pale. All of this is vaguely surprising but not so much as his actual presence.

A few hours have passed since I left him stirring on his tailgate; he should be long gone by now. In fact, I thought he was. I hadn't seen him the entire time I wandered around camp, picking up random things, helping to get the caravan ready. I had just assumed he slipped away silently in true Daryl Dixon fashion.

But he hadn't. Because he's standing ten yards away from me, rubbing at his eyes and shifting from foot to foot. I think maybe I'm hallucinating, lack of food and lack of sleep coming back to bite me in the ass, but all of he sudden Daryl looks up, as if he could sense me staring. Our eyes clash immediately, my green on his blue, and the two of us freeze, speaking in glances. My question, and slight confusion, must show in my expression—why haven't you left?—because Daryl shrugs at length—I don't know—and when I jerk my head slightly at the rest of the group—are you coming with?—he just nods sharply.

Yes.

I blink and tilt my head at him. Huh. Well…well that's something. What I'm not exactly sure but…it's something.

I contemplate heading over to him, again I'm not sure as to why, but before I can even move, Morales' deep voice penetrates my thoughts.

"We're uh…we're not going."

The words don't make sense for a minute but when my eyes flicker to the older man and his family, see the sadness in each of their faces, the tears in Miranda's…I very quickly understand.

Daryl might not have left but that doesn't mean everyone's staying. A piece of the Earth crumbles from below me but what no one knows is I'm already floating away, weightless.

"We have family in Birmingham," Miranda explains. She clings to her husband's arm for strength and repeatedly reaches out to touch her children's hair or arm or face. "We want to be with out people."

The rest of the group stares at the family with incredibility; Shane's face is the worst.

"You go out on your own, you won't have anyone to watch your back," he says and I can't tell if it's a warning or a death sentence he's uttering. Probably both.

Morales, kind hearted and soft spoken, usually never without a smile, nods grimly. "I understand…but I got to do what's best for my family."

Rick, who barely knows this man, looks stricken. The cop with the bleeding heart. He should stitch that up before he dies of exsanguination. "You sure?" he asks and Morales nods. It's like a judge banding a gavel; a door slamming shut.

"We talked about it. We're sure."

And just like that…it's done. Shane and Rick concede. They hand Morales a gun and a box full of bullets, to which I don't miss Daryl's half aborted scoff in the background. Everyone starts bombarding the family for hugs and handshakes, goodbyes and good lucks.

I feel like I'm at a funeral again.

I stand near the back and don't move from my spot, watching from a distance as Carl stands at his mother's side before Miranda and her children and tries not to cry.

Silently, I look at Luis and Eliza in turn, taking in their young faces, wet with tears and streaked with dirt. They look so young; they're even younger than Carl and that makes me feel so ancient. Eliza wails as her brother just quietly sniffles and I watch as Sophia hugs the other girl tight, losing yet another friend. As they let go, Eliza presses a worn and raggedy doll into Sophia's hands. The blonde girl blinks at her with big eyes but clutches the doll to her chest nonetheless.

The exchange would be heart breaking.

If I had anything left to break.

Within minutes, all that can be said has been said and Morales makes his way over to me, his last stop. I don't even try to run. "Well mijita," he says with a smile so sad I can only frown. "Guess we never did get to those Spanish lessons huh?"

It takes me a moment to remember what he was referring to, a snatch of prose spoken by his daughter, overlain with hiccups, but when I do, it only deepens my frown. A part of my wants to reply with something harsh, but truthful, about people dying and who needs education like that anyways, here at the end of the world? But that's not what I say because somewhere in my mine I know that's not appropriate. Instead, I respond with, "I would have been a horrible student anyway so I guess you lucked out." No less truthful but less biting I suppose.

Morales laughs but it's quiet and halfhearted. "I don't know niña," he says. "You seem awfully smart."

I smile in reply, bitter and broken, and force myself not to say, "No I'm stupid as hell because if I was any kind of smart I'd take that gun from your waistband and put a bullet through my skull."

The older man must take my silence as an ability to speak through my emotions because he suddenly pulls me into a hug. It's hot and uncomfortable in his arms, smells of sweat and dirt and blood, and I stand there stiffly until he releases me. He smiles down at me, still gently holding my upper arms, and a tear falls against my cheek. I wipe it away with a flick of my wrist and hope he doesn't notice my own eyes are bone dry.

"Take care of yourself Audrey. Maybe we'll see each other again one day."

I nod despite myself and when Morales hugs me one last time, I manage to awkwardly pat his back. When he turns and walks back to his family, piles into their car, I wave at Luis and Eliza, who wave back in turn.

"No," I whisper as his ignition kicks and rumbles to life. "We won't."

Something clicks in my chest and I can't tell if the sensation is painful or not.

"Who won't what?" a voice asks behind me and I turn to find Glenn standing a few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders hunched. I drop my hand and shrug, turn my back on Morales and his family and don't look back.

"Nothing. Never mind. Are we ready to go?"

Glenn purses his lips, displeased with my reply, but just nods his head. "Yeah. Do you know who you're riding with?"

No. Not at all. And I don't necessarily want to ride with you because a part of me just automatically wants to look for Amy and she's dead and I accepted that but I don't know if you can and I think you might hate me for it and that's something I don't want to deal with right now.

All of this and more runs through my head in the blink of an eye and it all gets garbled up in my throat because I know I shouldn't say any of that but I can't think of anything else to say. I realize there's no way to avoid it, might as well suck it up, and go to tell Glenn that I don't have a ride and could I please ride with him.

"Kid!"

My head snaps up as if my name had been shouted. I guess, in a way, it was. Daryl is standing next to his truck, half in the driver's seat, with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. "I'm not waitin for yer ass all day," he calls out. Like I know what he's talking about. Like he had offered this before. Like this was fucking planned. The son of a bitch is giving me an out, shocking and from left field, but I'll take it anyway. It's a gift horse and I'm not looking for teeth. Not allowing myself to think about my choice, I wave at Daryl to show I've heard him and turn back to Glenn.

Glenn looks shocked to hell, eyes wide and mouth agape. He sputters something, half a question, but I cut him off. "I have a ride but thanks for asking." The response sounds awkward to my own ears but I don't let it stop me. I just stoop to grab my hiking pack, leaning against my leg, and shoulder it with a grunt. The weight makes my ankle scream, my ribs too, but I press through it and press forward, nodding quickly at Glenn before shuffling over to Daryl's truck.

The door sticks and it takes me a few tries to wrench it open. Flakes of faded paint flutter to the ground as I toss my bag onto the floor of the truck and painstakingly follow it up. My katana and tanto find their places on the seat beside me and, as soon as I'm situated, I shut the door with a definitive click. Eyes still flaring with flashes of sharp pain, I cast a glance at Daryl and bite my lip, hoping the pain with center me.

"Thanks," I tell him. "For the ride I mean."

I don't know what else I'd be thanking him for. Staying? I just felt the need to clarify. Daryl actually looks back at me, straight in the goddamn eye, and I remember my earlier wish to see his eyes one last time. The blue of them is refreshing—Mom, Irina, Amy—and I find myself relaxing despite everything.

The hunter doesn't say anything at first but as the cars start up around us, he gives me a tight-lipped nod. "Ain't nothin," he mutters and it might be the softest thing he's ever said. "I'd thought it'd be better than trapped in some movin death trap with a walker to be." He flicks his head towards the Winnebago where Glenn is just closing the door behind him.

I hum in acknowledgement and force myself not to think of Jim or him dying and what we are all gonna do then. "You wouldn't be wrong but still…thank you."

I think I see a flush of red on Daryl's cheeks but it might be the heat.

"Yeah well…make sure to stay on your goddamn side. And if ya talk to much I'm leavin yer ass on the side of the road."

"Duly noted."

Daryl doesn't say anything more as he starts the truck and puts it into drive. The two of us are last in the caravan and as we pull out onto the road, turning left, I crane my head to the right just in time to see Morales' little Suzuki turn a dip in the road. I think I see a hand pressed into the rear window, a small face gazing back at me, but then Daryl completes the turn left and we head in the opposite direction. Morales and his family are gone and the realization leaves me strangely cold. It doesn't hurt just makes me feel as if I've been dipped in ice. I look down at my fingers, expecting frostbite, but they're still pale, dried blood beneath my fingernails. I curl my hands into fists and look away.

Staring out the window at the passing greenery, Daryl Dixon a silent presence at my side, I think about the face I just saw, Eliza I believe, saying her last farewell. And I think about my friend Annie Marie, her dainty hand pressed against the back window of her father's pickup truck and me waving until she was long gone and my arm was sore and tired.

I think about those two girls and I think about how I'll never see either of them again. It's a sobering thought and I press my forehead against the window in order to feel anything besides the tightness of my skin.

Closing my eyes, I pray for oblivion but sleep is not, and never was, a mercy.

---

(1) Peter Pan reference. The magical land that Peter Pan lives in is named Neverland and is found on the second star to the right and straight on till morning

So. This was really weird for me cuz Audrey's mindset is a kind of fucked up place. I hope I portrayed that well enough. I'd just like to state that her detachment is letting her get closer to Daryl, as weird as that sounds, because she has just stopped caring. If I didn't make that clear enough.

ANYWAY! I hope you liked it (this was a shit ton of Daryl/Audrey interaction) and please leave your thoughts below :) I know it's been a while but I can't wait to hear from you guys! ^^

Until next time!

~Shadows

PS: DID YOU GUYS SEE THAT FUCKING SEASON PREMIERE?! HOLY SHIT! My friend and I literally just freaked out for an hour in my dorm room. No lie. What did you guys think of it? :O