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

33. No Grave Can Hold my Body Down

A/N: And here's another one lol. Thank you to the couple of people who left a review! It made my day to know other people were enjoying this with me.

Hope you enjoy this next installment! Also, I think we might get to a confession in the following chapter ;)

(PS: Title is taken from one of my favorite Hozier songs.)

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Chapter 32: No Grave Can Hold my Body Down, I'll Crawl Home to Her

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Daryl wakes up the next morning and immediately knows it's much later than it should be. Typically, he wakes up at dawn, if he's even slept at all. But the sun is already beatin' down, warmin' the air around him, bright even behind his closed eyelids. He can hear other people movin' through camp, the murmur of voices, clinks of pots and pans as breakfast is started.

The next thing he realizes is that he's more rested than he expects, than he can remember bein' in a long damn time. He must have slept the whole night, driftin' off not long after the kid stopped talkin'.

The kid.

His eyes snap open, the blurry ceiling of his tent comin' into focus, and he slowly turns his head to the right.

Audrey is fast asleep only several feet away. She's curled up on her side facin' him, with her head half buried in his pillow. And it is his pillow and cot, not Merle's, which are currently under Daryl. He'd just felt… weird 'bout makin' her sleep in Merle's bed when she's still wearin' his bruises. Daryl shoves the thought away and studies his new… roommate. Her hair is coverin' half her face, but the hunter thinks she looks… peaceful. There's even the ghost of a smile tuggin' at her lips, but he can tell she's still sleepin'. Each breath is deep, slow, and steady, and her eyes are flickerin' behind her eggshell-colored lids.

He still can't fuckin' believe he offered her his tent last night. Or that she had accepted so quickly. Daryl tells himself he was just tryin' to be practical. Stop the kid from doin' somethin' stupid, like actually climbin' on top of the RV again.

But… he knows he did it for selfish reasons, too, wantin' to keep her close. To protect her, obviously, but also because he just felt… better when she was around. He was less of an asshole, less angry. (Except when the kid did somethin' to test his patience, like skinnin' her palms to hell and dislocatin' her wrist. She seriously couldn't keep herself out of damn trouble.)

Daryl wonders if he's cursed himself, though, when the memory of turnin' around from the tent zipper last night rises in his mind. The kid had been sprawled out on the cot with a sleepy smile on her face and his bandana danglin' between them, and it was almost like she was beckonin' him to join her. He'd nearly choked on his own damn spit while his whole body flared with heat, and he'd quickly turned out the light so the kid couldn't see how red he was gettin'. As red as that fuckin' bandana.

His eyes go to it now. It's fallin' out from under the kid's pillow, but he can see her fingers are inches away from it. Like she'd been reachin' for it in her sleep.

He had immediately noticed her wearin' it yesterday, when he walked into the RV. It seemed to keep her hair out of her eyes, and it looked… nice on her. Pretty.

Bitin' his tongue, Daryl instantly berates himself for the thought. This is exactly what he shouldn't be doin', exactly what he feared would happen when he opened his damned mouth and told the kid she could sleep here. But he can't exactly take back the offer now, he ain't that much of a bastard, so he's just gotta live with the consequences of his idiotic decisions.

Doesn't mean he has to torture himself more than necessary, though, so he swings himself upright and out of bed, careful not to wake Audrey.

He can be silent when he needs to be, and he is now. First, he quickly strips off his sleeveless button-up, pullin' on a dingy white tank top even faster. It takes him a moment of diggin' through his shit, but he finally finds a long-sleeved brown shirt. He shrugs it on, leavin' it unbuttoned for now. He knows it's gonna be hot as hell today, as it is every other fuckin' day, but the thin sleeves will offer him better protection from the sun while he's out searchin' for the girl. The outside of his arms had felt a little tender after yesterday, but he ain't 'bout to cry over some sunburn.

It only takes him a minute more to shove his boots on and lace them up, and he's bendin' down to grab his bow from under the bed when he catches sight of Merle's stash. It's crumpled at the foot of his cot, tucked just under the frame. It musta rolled under there last night, after he grabbed the kid some meds.

Daryl purses his lips, eyes flickerin' to his unconscious tent-mate. After a moment of thought, he grabs the stash and quietly pulls out two pills, but when he goes to tuck the rest away in his bag, somethin' else catches his eye.

It's the packet of new bandanas he found in one of the cars on the highway. Again, the image of the kid wearin' the red one flashes through his mind, and he suddenly wonders if she tried to give it back because it was bloodstained, and she didn't want it anymore. An idea takes root in his brain, and Daryl ends up grabbin' an olive green bandana from the pack. He tells himself he needs something to place the pills on anyway, but who the fuck's he kiddin'?

The color reminds him of Audrey's eyes, and he wants her to have it. Wants to see her wearin' it, too, but he stomps the image down, guilt and shame pricklin' through his veins.

Feelin' overly warm, Daryl drops the folded square of fabric on his cot and sets the two pills directly in the center. The kid should see it when she wakes up, so he turns to leave for the second time, but his eyes snag on the red bandana hangin' off the edge of her bed. Before he knows what he's doin, the hunter takes two steps forward until he's loomin' over her unsuspectin' form. He holds his breath, and then he stoops and slowly extracts the bandana from under her pillow, careful not to wake her.

The kid's warm breath brushes over his knuckles before he quickly steps back, with the red fabric clenched between his fingers. He tells himself he might do some huntin' today and needs a rag to wipe down the bolts afterward. And this one is already bloodstained, so he's just bein'… practical. Besides, he's leavin' her a new one, so it ain't like he's stealin'. Technically, it's his shit anyway.

Again, he turns to leave. But again, somethin' stops him.

What if Audrey didn't realize he was givin' her the green bandana? She might just take the pills. Also, what if she can't tell which pill is which and ends up takin' the pain med at the wrong time?

Daryl hovers indecisively for a moment before he curses under his breath and moves back to his bag. He tries to be as quiet as possible, but of course he has to dive to the damn bottom to find what he's lookin' for: a faded receipt from a truck-stop diner and the stub of a squared carpenter's pencil. He extracts both things, and then he bends over his cot to scrawl out a quick note, tryin' not to think too hard about it.

Kid,

White's for pain, yellow's antibiotic.

Green's for you.

He immediately regrets the last line, cheeks burnin', and he tries to cross it out. He's too aggressive with it, though, and the lead point snaps. The embarrassin' line is still mostly visible, enough that the kid will be able to decipher it with little problem. Daryl decides to just crumple the note entirely, the bandana be damned.

Then Audrey sighs behind him, the cot creakin' as she shifts.

The hunter snaps upright and darts a panicked look at her, but she's still asleep, just more on her back. He needs to leave now, before she wakes up, cuz he doesn't want to argue with her about stayin' behind again today. He also needs to leave before he ends up starin' at the way her shorts have ridden up slightly, flashin' the pale skin of her thighs.

Tearin' his guilty eyes away, Daryl grabs his crossbow, and it ain't until he's half unzipped the tent flap that he remembers the goddamn note he left on his cot.

Screw it. He can't backtrack again. Maybe, if he's lucky, the kid just wouldn't notice the note.

Luck hasn't ever been on his side before, but there's a first time for everythin', right?

Daryl finally ducks outside, but he can't help sparin' Audrey one more glance as he goes to close the flap again. Her sleepin', sprawled out form is the last thing he sees before he reseals her in the tent.

As he turns and straightens, the hunter notices people are already congregatin' near the RV on the opposite side of camp. He squints in the early mornin' light. The lost girl's ma and Grimes' wife are stringin' up laundry together, the clothes flutterin' in the breeze, and Daryl thinks he'll need to find some time to do his own clothes soon. For now, though, he's got a search to coordinate, so he starts marchin' across camp. He passes Andrea as he gets closer to the RV, and the blonde stops and smirks at him, which immediately raises his hackles.

"Mornin', Dixon," she greets, and why does she sound so fuckin' chipper? "You're up later than usual. Sleep well?"

Before he can answer, her eyes flick back to his tent, that goddamned smirk growin', and he just knows that she knows the kid is in there. His whole body pulses with heat, and he fixes his face into the meanest scowl he can muster.

"Just fine," he grits out, shootin' her a glare that could melt paint and stalkin' past.

He can hear the blond laughin' behind him and does his best to ignore her.

Everyone else has started to gather 'round the yellow car parked near the RV, so the hunter stomps toward them. T-Dog gives him a nod of greetin' as he walks up, and Daryl is so surprised he just nods back. If that ain't weird enough, Glenn flashes him a small, awkward smile and then silently holds out a plate of bacon and eggs, gesturin' for Daryl to take it. The hunter is used to people just flat-out ignorin' him, or givin' him a wide berth, so this is… new. And uncomfortable.

He feels the kid is to blame but doesn't know how exactly.

Daryl takes the plate with a barely muttered 'thanks,' and Glenn nods before turnin' back to Rick, who has joined their group and is lookin' over the survey map.

"Alright, everyone's getting new search grids today," the former sheriff starts as he looks around the gathered faces. "If Sophia made it as far as the farmhouse Daryl found, she might have gone further east than we've been so far."

The hunter shifts at being mentioned, duckin' his head and shovelin' eggs into his mouth. He doesn't miss the sharp scoff that cuts through the air, though, and his eyes snap to Shane. The buzzcut bastard is on the other side of the car, openin' the door and shakin' his head, but Rick ignores him.

The sheriff is about to continue givin' out marchin' orders, but he's interrupted by a young boy steppin' up in a grubby gray t-shirt and jeans. He's one of the farm folk, and Daryl wonders what the hell he's doin' here.

"I'd like to help," the boy says, his voice crackin' with nerves. "I, uh, know the area pretty well and stuff."

Now, Daryl is the one who scoffs as he swallows a strip of bacon. The boy must be all of fifteen. His balls probably ain't even dropped yet.

Rick shifts back from the hood of the car, turnin' to the boy with a narrowed-eyed look. "Is Herschel okay with this, Jimmy?"

Daryl watches Jimmy shift from foot to foot, the jut of his Adam's apple bobbin' in his pale throat as he swallows. "Y-Yeah," he says, entirely unconvincin'. "He said I should… ask you."

Daryl rolls his eyes, seein' the obvious lie a mile away. But Rick, the trustin' idiot, apparently believes him.

"Alright then." The sheriff smiles at the boy, nods. "Thanks."

Suddenly, Shane lets out another noise of disbelief, and Daryl's eyes click to the former cop again. He's sittin in the open doorway of the car, just the top his shaved head visible through the windshield, and Daryl just knows he's gonna say some irritatin' shit.

"Nothing about what Daryl found screams Sophia to me," Shane starts, and yup, Daryl was right. Fuckin' irritatin'. "Anyone could have been holed up in that farmhouse."

Daryl quickly swallows the last of his eggs, ready to defend himself, but he's beaten to it.

"Anybody includes her, right?" Andrea points out from the other side of Rick.

Daryl blinks in surprise, but when Shane scoffs again, he still feels the need to personally shut the cop up.

"Whoever slept in that cupboard was no bigger than yay-high," he grunts, and he holds his free hand at his waist to demonstrate.

Andrea again surprises him as her blue eyes find his. "It's a good lead. Ignore Shane."

"Yeah," Rick agrees, turnin' to the hunter. "I have a good feeling about this. Maybe we'll pick up her trail again."

Daryl is shocked that everyone is believin' him, even backin' him up, and he fidgets uncomfortably as he tries to deflect.

"No maybe about it." He looks away from them and steps closer to the car, draggin' his finger across the map spread over the hood. "I'm gonna borrow a horse, head up to this ridge right here. Take the bird's-eye view of the whole grid. If she's up there, I'll spot her."

He technically hadn't asked the farmer if he could borrow the horse, but if the old bastard had a problem with it, he could take his complaint to Officer fuckin' Friendly. It ain't like Daryl's stealin' the horse anyhow.

Rick nods at Daryl's plan, lookin' impressed, which also makes the hunter uncomfortable. Then T-Dog has to go and open his damn mouth.

"Good idea," he says as he meets Daryl's eye, and now there's a half-smirk on his face. But it's teasin', not cruel. "Maybe you'll see your chupacabra up there, too."

Now, a faint smile floats across Rick's face, annd there's an amused glint in his eyes. "Chupacabra?"

Before the hunter can shoot down the conversation, Dale suddenly walks up, carryin' the sheriff's bag of guns. He drops it on the hood of the car with a muffled thud before he starts passin' out the weapons.

"You never heard of this?" the old bastard chuckles to Rick. "Our first night in camp, Daryl tells us the whole thing reminds him of a time when he went squirrel hunting, and he saw a chupacabra."

Daryl bites the inside of his cheek and curses Merle for gettin' him drunk and makin' him tell that story. His face itches with heat, and he dumps his empty plate atop the car as he starts buttonin' his shirt, just to give his hands somethin' to do.

Then the boy, Jimmy, huffs out a laugh, and Daryl's hackles rise.

"What're brayin' at, jackass?" he snaps at the brat, who swallows sharply under the hunter's glare but then pastes a cocky look on his stupid face.

"So you believe in a blood-sucking dog?" he asks, his tone mockin'.

"You believe in dead people walkin' around?" Daryl shoots back with a scowl.

No one has an answer to that, and Daryl even spots Andrea hidin' a smile before Jimmy clears his throat and reaches for the rifle on the car's hood.

"Hey, hey." Rick stops him, then takes the gun with a furrowed brow. "Ever fire one of these before?"

Jimmy purses his lips, which a big fat no, but he pulls himself up to his full height and tries to look tough. It ain't exactly intimidatin', since the boy is probably a buck-thirty soakin' wet.

"Well, if I'm going out, I want one," he says, puffin' out his nonexistent pecs.

Daryl snorts and picks his crossbow up from where he'd set it against the tire, adjustin' the strap over his shoulder.

"Yeah, and people in hell want Slurpees," he sneers at the boy before stompin' off.

He's wastin' precious daylight, and he's already got his marchin' orders. He doesn't need to listen to these assholes yap anymore. As he stalks away, he hears the group talk about gun trainin', but that ain't got nothin' to do with him. He can shoot a gun, probably better than most, if not all, of the others. Besides, he prefers his bow anyway.

So, he keeps walkin, and he gets halfway through camp before he suddenly remembers the kid asleep in his tent. From the sound of it, most of the group is goin' out on the grid search, mainly the women stayin' behind. He should probably mention Audrey to one of them. Just for safety reasons.

But fuck, what's he supposed to say?

In the end, he thankfully doesn't have to figure it out. He'd stopped near the edge of the trees while he thought about the kid, and when he looks back over his shoulder, Carol is hangin' somethin' on one of the clothes lines. She must sense his gaze, because her eyes find his a moment later. She pauses in her task, and Daryl purses his lips before lookin' toward his tent. She follows his eyeline and then turns back to him. The hunter can see her mouth the kid's name, and even though it makes his skin feel too thin and tight, he jerks his head in a nod.

Carol smiles faintly and nods back, pointin' to her eye and then at his tent to say she'll look out for Audrey. Daryl feels a knot unhitch in his chest, and he nods again before continuin' on.

There's only one horse in the stables when he gets there, a chestnut-brown mare. It's skittish as the hunter leads it out of the stall, nickering and tossing back its head. Daryl assumes the animal ain't used to strangers, so he mutters to it in a low, nonthreatenin' tone as he strokes his hand across its flank.

The mare settles after a few moments and even presses her nose into his hand, like she's lookin' for treats.

Daryl smirks and pets her nose. He always liked horses. He'd worked on a few ranches in his youth, before he got a job at the mechanic shop, since it was better money. He preferred the company of animals over people, though. At least horses never tried to talk his ear off, or sneered down their long noses at him.

It takes Daryl less than ten minutes to saddle up the mare. She gets a little nervous again when he puts one leg in the stirrup and swings himself over her back, but he strokes her neck until she settles. Then he picks up the reins, clickin' his tongue and nudgin' the horse with his boots. She nickers but starts walkin' forward, and Daryl leads her out of the stables. As he pauses to reorient himself and consult the map in his head, he spares one more glance at camp. The copse of trees and circle of tents is across the property, so he can't make out much detail, but he thinks he sees a familiar splash of short, dark hair. He knows the kid is gonna pissed at being left behind again, but it's for her own damn good. She can snip at him all she wants when he gets back.

But to get back, he has to leave.

"Come on," he mutters to the mare, clickin' his tongue again as he turns them away.

They quickly leave the farm behind and slip into the woods, and Daryl pats himself on the back for his genius. Today is gonna be a lot easier than his last few days of searchin'. Since he ain't havin' to hoof it, he'll be able to conserve energy, focus more on trackin'.

A seed of hope takes root in his chest. Maybe today would be the day he finally found the little girl. He just hopes he finds her in one piece.

Daryl shakes the dark thoughts out of his head. No, he can't lose faith now. He'll find her.

He has to.

The hunter leads the horse through the woods, followin' the map in his head and checkin' the ground for tracks, signs, clues. For the first couple hours, it's quiet. Just the sound of the mare's hooves cloppin' through the leaf litter, birds trillin' in the canopy overhead, the hum of cicadas. Even though it's still mornin', Daryl is already drenched in sweat, and every few minutes, he's gotta flick salty droplets out of his stingin' eyes.

So far, he's found nothin'. Again. No tracks, no scraps of clothing, no trail. He thankfully hasn't run into any geeks, either, but he still keeps his head on a swivel, sniffin' every so often in case there's the stench of death on the stale breeze.

But it seems like it's just him and the damn horse in these woods. He tries not to get frustrated, tries to tell himself to be patient. It's hard, though, especially as the sun rises higher and higher into the sky. After another half hour of nothin', he decides to start huntin'. The farmer's family seemed to have an abundance of food, but now that there are ten more mouths to feed, that food would run out much quicker. It can't hurt to bring back more meat.

Daryl scans the canopy and underbrush, and now that he's lookin' for somethin' other than the girl, he has a little more success. A squirrel skitters around a trunk about twenty yards ahead of him, and the hunter swings his crossbow around. As he sights down the scope, he watches the squirrel dartin' through the low hangin' branches, waitin' for it to settle. His finger hovers over the trigger, and just as he goes to pull it, he abruptly thinks that the sun-spotted leaves are the same color as Audrey's eyes.

His hand jerks, a curse flyin' from his mouth while the bolt slices through the air. He nearly misses, but somehow he manages to pin the squirrel to the tree, the critter dyin' with a high-pitched squeal.

"Fuckin' idiot," he chastises himself.

Grumblin' under his breath, he nudges the horse forward, and the mare tosses her head as she obeys.

Daryl plucks the squirrel off the tree as he passes, and then he jerks his bolt out of its chest. He just barely pierced it through the side when he had been aimin' dead fuckin' center. He was lucky he seemingly hit a lung.

Reachin' around, he tucks the dead animal into his belt at the small of his back. It takes a little more finesse to slot the bolt back into the mounted quiver, especially with the horse swayin' under him, but he gets it in the end.

They continue on, and the ground slowly starts to slope as they walk along the ridge. A creek gurgles to his left, down below, and the sound is a quiet constant. The horse shuffles through the debris on the forest floor, and Daryl leans back to compensate for the downgrade.

As he ducks past a green-leafed branch, the hunter again thinks about the kid, even though he doesn't want to. Even though he's been actively avoidin' the thought of her.

Still… he can't help but wonder what she's doin.' Hopefully stayin' out of fuckin' trouble. She should be fine on the farm, but she disproved that theory yesterday, nearly fallin' down a well like a goddamn ACME cartoon. He swears she does this shit on purpose, just to give him heart palpations. Not that she knows what she's doin' to him. Not that he would ever tell her. But still. She needs to develop better self-preservation skills. She seems to have survival down, but always to her own detriment. She throws herself recklessly into danger, and her body ends up payin' the price. He's yelled at her for this shit before, but… maybe he could show her. Teach her to be more cautious. He ain't really sure how he'd do that, but it's somethin' to think 'bout. Of course, she would have to heal up first, but she would actually have to sit on her ass and rest for that to happen, which she seems goddamn allergic to.

Daryl is so lost in thought that he nearly misses the small bright speck amid the muddied browns and greens in his peripherals, and he berates himself for gettin' distracted.

"Whoaaa." He tugs on the reins, slowin' the horse to a crawl and turnin' her so they face downhill. He shields his eyes from the glare comin' through the thin canopy, and he squints.

There's somethin' down there. Washed up in the mud at the bottom of the hill. It's small, too small to be the girl, but it's the first thing he's seen today that looks out of place.

Pursin' his lips, he tugs on the reins again, and the mare stops with a quiet nicker. He dismounts smoothly, takin' the guide rope attached to the horse's halter and slingin' it over a low branch. The mare immediately starts grazin' on the shoots of grass pokin' through the leaf litter, and Daryl pats the side of her neck.

Then he swings his crossbow around, cocks the string back, and gets a bolt ready to fire. His eyes sweep a full three-sixty before he slowly starts to pick his way down the hill, watchin' both his feet and his six. He reaches the bottom of the slope relatively quickly, and his boots squelch through the mud of the half-dried creek. He scans around, not about to let any dead fuckers get the drop on him, but the forest is quiet. Empty.

Once he's cleared the area, he slowly lowers his bow, and he drops his gaze to the log twenty feet ahead of him. Or, more importantly, the object restin' against the log.

It's a doll. The plush body is streaked and caked with mud, but Daryl can make out the painted-on face, the pink color of its dress, the pigtails on either side of its head. His heart skips a beat. He remembers Sophia carryin' around a doll. He can picture her cryin' into it when he snapped at her at the old folk's home, which he still feels guilty about. But he never looked at the toy closely, so he can't say for sure that this doll is her doll.

Still… how many other little girls were lost in these woods?

Daryl walks forward through the muck and picks up the doll. He looks around again, studyin' the bushes, the crevices where a little girl could hide. He considers sayin' her name, thinks about the risks of callin' walkers straight to him. But if she's nearby…

Fuck it.

"Sophia!" he hollers, his voice echoin' around him as he spins in a circle.

He holds his breath and waits a few moments to see if there's a response. When there is none, he exhales sharply, disappointment stabbin' him low in the chest. But he pushes it down. If this is her doll— and he's choosin' to believe it is— then she had to have been close by at some point.

Which means he could pick up her trail again.

The hunter's resolve hardens, and he makes his way back uphill with his eyes intensely scannin' the ground. As he mounts the horse again, he tucks the doll behind him, into his belt but opposite the squirrel. Then he clicks his tongue and urges the mare forward, followin' the creek downstream. He alternates between scourin' the ridge itself and lookin' back downhill, but the grade is startin' to slope up now. Daryl considers backtrackin' and leadin' the horse down into the creek bed, but he ultimately decides to stay up the ridge, for the bird's eye view.

His heart rate has picked up a little, canterin' behind his ribs, and anticipation buzzes on the back of his tongue. This could be the closest he's been to Sophia in days. He tries not to, but he imagines the relief of findin' her, exhausted and dirty but alive, tuckered out in a bush. He imagines the reactions back at camp, when he comes ridin' in with her behind him. Her ma would probably cry, Rick might give him that impressed nod again, and Audrey… Daryl pictures her face, grinnin' so wide it should hurt, but the tears in her green eyes would be from happiness instead of pain. She might even hug him again, in gratitude. That wouldn't be so bad.

His face warms, and he shakes his head, cursin' himself under his breath. Of course, bringin' Sophia back safe is his main goal. The girl doesn't deserve to be lost out here by her lonesome, especially with the way the world is.

The hunter is still mentally beratin' himself when birds suddenly explode out of the brush ahead of him, cawin' and climbin' for the treetops. The mare nickers and shifts under him, her energy nervous and flighty.

"Whoa, easy, easy," Daryl mutters as he pats her on the neck.

The animal calms, though is still a little tense. He nudges her on anyway, and they continue along the ridge for another half hour. His eyes are still glued to the ground, but he's so focused on findin' Sophia that he doesn't see the snake until it's too late.

Before he can even grab the reins from his lap, the snake darts through the undergrowth right in front of them. The horse instantly freaks out, neighin'—no, screamin'— as she stomps at the ground. Daryl attempts to calm her, but she suddenly rears up, stabbin' at the air with her front hooves. She bucks him right out of the damn saddle, and the hunter tries to grab on— to the horse's mane, the saddle, anythin'— but it all slips through his fingers.

He blinks, and he's suddenly careenin' down the ridge, uncontrollable. The world revolves around him— dirt, sky, trees— and each time he strikes the ground, the impact painfully drives the air from his lungs.

Abruptly, he smacks into wet stone, hard enough that his vision blackens momentarily, and he slips through the water, findin' no purchase. He skids down the rockface before he suddenly goes airborne for a gut-wrenching second, weightless. Then gravity grabs ahold of him again, and he falls and slams into the ground one final time.

Pain instantly rips through his body, blindin' and white-hot, and he's left gaspin' and rollin' in several inches of water.

"Son… of a bitch," he pants as he writhes there.

His head is throbbin', pulses of color flashin' across his eyes, but his side is on fire. He groans and hisses, scrabblin' at his abdomen. His fingers brush something hard, metal, and the pain increases until bile races up his throat. Daryl swallows it before he lifts his head enough to look down his body. His vision is blurry, doubled, but he can see the arrow juttin' out of his side, stainin' his shirt and the water around him dark red.

"F-Fuck."

The hunter lays there pantin' for a while, unable to catch his breath. Every time his lungs expand, lightning shoots through his torso, immediately stealin' his oxygen, and he's back at square one. His head continues to swim, and he has to blink blood out of his eyes several times. He can also taste it on the back of his tongue, hot and metallic, and he would spit it out if he didn't think the motion might tear him in two.

Eventually, he has to admit this ain't some fuck up dream. He ain't gonna wake up in his tent nice and safe. He's out in the middle of nowhere, and if he doesn't get up and move his ass, he's dead fuckin' meat. Ain't no way people are sendin' out a search party for him.

Suddenly, Audrey's face darts through his hazy thoughts, and Daryl thinks the kid might do it, actually. Go out and look for him. Which is even worse, cuz she'll do it alone if no one will join her, and she'll end up dead in these fuckin' woods, too.

He can't have that. Her blood on his hands.

So, he's gotta nut the fuck up and get back to that goddamn farm. Now.

Daryl takes shallow, pantin' breaths to psyche himself up. It still feels like a knife in his side every time, but he bucks up the strength to roll himself over onto his knees. His arms shake, fingers diggin' into the mud, and he nearly vomits in the shallow water. But he swallows it down, stays upright, and before he can chicken out, he starts draggin' himself toward the muddy shore. He slips a few times as the pool randomly gets deeper, brackish liquid floodin' into his mouth, and he has to hold his side to stabilize the arrow the best he can. His fingers are a little numb, but he keeps goin' until he's mostly out of the water. Then the hunter kneels there for a second, tryin' to catch his breath, before he slowly straights up.

"God… damn it," he hisses through clenched teeth and sits back on his heels.

The pain is makin' him woozy, his vision flickerin', but he ignores it, lookin' down at the arrow pierced through his side. He needs to try and stabilize it better, and put some pressure on the wound. Rippin' out the bolt would probably be doable, even if it hurt like a motherfucker, and it would make movin' around easier. But he decides against it for now, cuz he doesn't want to bleed out in the middle of these damn woods. He might anyway, but he won't help the Reaper do its fuckin' job.

He'll keep fightin' till he can't, and he ain't at the point yet.

So, Daryl yanks out the huntin' knife sheathed at his hip. His hands shake, but he manages not to nick himself when he cuts the sleeves off his shirt. It takes him several attempts to knot the lengths of fabric into a useable rope, but a few minutes later, he's groanin' through his teeth as he cinches the makeshift tourniquet around both his torso and the bolt. Once he's got it tied off, he drops his head back, takin' shallow breaths. His eyes trail over his surroundings for the first time since he fell, and he realizes this part of the canyon is really steep. The walls are practically rock and loose soil on all sides, and the waterfall makes everythin' muddy and slick.

He couldn't have fallen at a worse fuckin' point along the ridge.

But there ain't nothin' for it. He can't just sit here and cry, so he grits his teeth and shoves himself to his feet. He sways, his boots sloshin' through the creek, but he remains upright by some miracle. His side is still burnin' like hellfire, but now he's got a goal to focus on, so it's a little easier to push past the pain. Daryl scans the shallow water around the shore, staggerin' forward a few steps when he finds what he needs. Squattin' down makes his vision tunnel again, but he manages to snag a broken branch from the mud. He tests its strength, tryin' to see if it will hold his weight.

Until a bush rustles behind him.

The hunter goes still, holdin his breath. Then he slowly turns around. His eyes dart back and forth, and it ain't until he's reachin' behind him that he realizes his crossbow is missin'. It must have come off durin' his fall, which means it's probably at the bottom of the waterfall.

Heart in his throat, Daryl clutches his stick and stares intently at the bushes across the water. He stands there frozen for at least thirty seconds, but when nothin' attacks him, he turns his attention back to the pool. He can't leave his bow behind. Makin' it back to the farm was already gonna be enough of a struggle. If he runs into walkers, he needs somethin' to protect himself.

Which means he's gotta go swimmin' again.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he spits as he shuffles back into the pool.

He uses his walkin' stick like a blind man's cane, sweepin' it through the water in front of him. Step by painful step, he slowly makes his way back toward the waterfall, where he initially landed. The water gets a little deeper in the middle, up to his chest in some places, and Daryl tries not to think about how filthy his wounds are gettin'.

For several minutes, the hunter continues fishin' for his bow, his side screamin' the whole time. Just when he's about to give up, the stick smacks against somethin' at the bottom of the pool. Somethin' hard and heavy. Daryl squats, hissin' through his teeth as his hand gropes under the water, until his fingers hit familiar metal.

Feelin' a rush of relief, he drags the crossbow to the surface, but the relief is short lived. Not only does the weight of the bow yank terribly at his side, but when he finally sets eyes on it, his other three bolts are missin'. He shuffles his boots in a quick radius around where he found the crossbow, but he can't find the arrows, and he doesn't have the strength to go snorkelin' for them.

Fuck it. He can make more bolts later. If he survives.

Draggin' the heavy bow back to shore is agony, as is anchorin' it to his belt so he can tow it behind him. But that's nothin' compared to what the hunter feels when he starts tryin' to claw his way out of this pit he's found himself in. The soil is loose, as he feared, and the rocks are sharp enough to cut into his palms, his fingers. Blood is drippin' into his eyes from a gash on his brow, and every time he tries to pull himself up the cliff, it's like lava is being poured directly on his side.

Daryl pauses only several feet off the ravine floor, practically gaspin' for breath. He tries to ignore it, but a voice in the back of his head is hissin' that this is impossible. Ain't no way he's gonna make it all the way to the top of the cliff, let alone back to the farm. The doubt makes his fingers tremble, and he starts to lose purchase on the rocks.

But then, another voice suddenly echoes through his throbbin' head, and it drowns out all else.

I have this feeling that if you go out there alone, something bad is going to happen to you. And I don't… want that.

Audrey.

The worry in her voice— in those damn bottle-glass green eyes— had cut right through him yesterday. At the time, Daryl played it off with a joke, but truthfully, no one had ever been worried about him like that. Worried over his safety. About if he was comin' back or not. Maybe his ma, once upon a time, but she's been gone most of his life.

If he doesn't make it back… would the kid cry over him? They're friends, sure, but would she fall to pieces again, like after the blonde girl died? He doesn't think so, but… he recalls the dead look in her eyes at the CDC, how she felt like she had nothin' left to live for. If both he and Sophia die out here…

Don't break her heart if you can help it, Dixon. This time, it's the blonde's voice, Andrea. And it ignites something inside him.

Daryl gnashes his teeth and heaves his body upward, fingers catchin' the next handhold and diggin' in. No, he ain't givin' up now. He ain't givin' up until he breathes his last, and he doesn't plan to do that is these godforsaken woods. Determination burns through him, hotter than the pain in his side, and he uses it to propel himself up the cliffside.

But, despite his resolve, it's slow going torture. It's hot and humid as fuck, the sun high overhead, and he's drenched in sweat, the salt stingin' his eyes, his wounds, makin' his fingers slip more often than not. Every once in a while, he accidentally jars the arrow punched through his side, and he has to claw his broken fingernails into his walkin' stick as his vision blackens. A few times, he nearly passes out, but still he keeps goin'.

As he gets higher up, the soil becomes even looser and keeps slidin' out from under him, so he resorts to grabbin' onto saplings and roots to catch himself. Every muscle in his body is screamin', but he just keeps puttin' one foot in front of the other, crawlin' inch by inch up the steep slope.

Eventually, he's gaspin' for breath, and he has to pause as his vision tunnels again. Once his head stops spinnin' so much, he glances upward. This next portion of the cliff is more steep, rocky. There's little to no soil at all, so the walkin' stick is useless. Lip curlin' with disgust, he tosses it away, but as his eyes follow it down, he realizes how far he's come. The ravine floor is far below, almost enough to give him vertigo, but that might also be the head wound talkin'. He looks back up and estimates he's at least halfway, maybe more. He ain't there yet, but he's a lot closer than he used to be.

He looks for his next handhold and tries to ignore his shakin' knees.

"Oh, come on," he hisses to himself, eyes lockin' onto his next steppin' stone. "Ya've done half. Stop bein' such a pussy."

Takin' a few rapid breaths, Daryl swings himself forward and up, tryin' to grab a sapling a few feet above his head. He misses, cursin', and is about to try again when the soil starts to slide out from under him. Except now it's more of a landslide than a trickle. The hunter pants through the pain as the bolt in his side is jostled, and he tries to brace himself between two small trees.

But suddenly, the roots of those trees give way under his boots, and Daryl doesn't even have time to think before he pitches backwards and is at the mercy of gravity yet again.

He tries to catch himself on anythin' on the way down, fingers snaggin' on roots, scrapin' against bark and stone, but he's goin' too fast, and he's only pickin' up speed. He tumbles back down the cliff, back down to the very bottom, and when he slams into the mud again, white-hot agony explodes through his side, his head, his entire fuckin' body.

Then blackness swallows him whole.

---

"Audrey… Dree… Audrey Bennett!"

"What?" I snap my head around, squinting against the glare of the hot, midday sun.

A moment later, something is placed on my head, and I blink up at Glenn as my eyes adjust to the shade provided by his baseball cap.

"Better?" he asks as he sits down on the opposite side of the picnic bench, with the sun behind him.

I smile and tug at the bill of the cap. "Yeah, a bit. Sorry, were you saying something?"

"Just your name... a couple dozen times."

"Sorry," I repeat, and my smile turns a little sheepish. "I was just… lost in thought." For a moment, my eyes skip back to the treeline across the fields, looking for something— someone —I know isn't there, but I quickly turn back to Glenn. "Sooo, what's up? Oh, did you want to help me fold my laundry? That's very kind of you, Glenda, thank you!"

Using my one good arm— that's not in a sling— I grab a handful of clothes from the pile beside me and dump it in front of him, and Glenn rolls his eyes but dutifully picks up a T-shirt.

"You're lucky I have a favor to ask you," he grumbles while he starts folding the shirt.

"Ah, a little quid pro quo." I smirk and sit back, kicking my good leg out so it brushes his foot under the table. "Now you've got me curious. What's the favor?"

I've missed this, the easy banter with my friend, and I'm waiting for him to toss me a joke or a quippy line.

To my surprise, Glenn doesn't do that, nor does he answer right away. Instead, he sets my finished shirt aside and grabs another one, and he begins folding again in silence. I cock my head and study him, and I notice how he's shooting glances around us. I follow his gaze, but there's nothing really to see. Dale is on lookout atop the RV, shielded by his umbrella lawn chair. Carol went up to the farmhouse to talk to someone about making a group dinner tonight, and Andrea and T-Dog are still out searching their grid. Shane and Rick returned from theirs not too long ago, but Shane immediately stomped off somewhere. Then Rick and Lori started arguing by their tent soon after— maybe about Carl coming down to camp, though I'm not sure— but they're nowhere to be seen now.

I turn back to Glenn. He's still not looking at me, but I can see his face is suddenly beet-red as he stares down at the picnic table.

"Uh, here, I think you might need this more than me." I start taking off the cap to give back to him, but Glenn finally responds.

"No, no, it's fine, I just-" He waves me off, and his eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second before he clenches them shut, drops his face onto the table, and lets out a muffled groan. "Ugh, this is soooo embarrassing."

"What, heatstroke?" I snort, my concern fading away now that I realize he's just embarrassed about something.

"Did you mean it?" he asks abruptly, and he tilts his face to peek up at me. "Yesterday, w-when you said you'd help me… translate girl code."

I blink in confusion, and it takes my brain a few seconds to catch up, to remember the conversation he's referencing. It was before the well incident, before we both nearly died, so my memory is a little fuzzy, but…

"Wait." A grin slowly starts to crawl across my face. "Did something happen with you and Maggie on that run? And you didn't tell me immediately?!"

"You were unconscious when I got back!" Glenn defends himself as he lifts his head. "And then you disappeared during dinner!"

Now, it's my turn to blush as I recall where I 'disappeared' to last night, and I shift my weight on the hard bench seat that's probably giving me ass splinters.

"We're not talking about me right now, Glenda," I deflect and toss a random article of clothing at him, which he catches, but he squawks when he realizes it's a sports bra. He drops it like it's on fire, and I can't help but laugh as I lean forward and snag it back from him. "Now, come on. Tell me what happened."

"You're the worst," he grumbles, rubbing at his red cheeks, but when I raise my bra again, he throws up his hands. "Kidding! Just kidding. You are very wise and insightful, O Great Oracle Bennett. And I'm hoping you can, uh, give me some more advice."

"Did my advice from yesterday not work?" I ask as I cock my head. "About being yourself?"

"N-No, it did," Glenn stutters, his face growing even redder, and he focuses on folding another one of my shirts. "It actually worked… really well. We, uh, I-I mean, she… We kissed."

The news takes me by surprise, but a giddy feeling rises in my chest like bubbles. Something I haven't felt since Amy died, but I quickly push the thought away.

"Shut. Up." I grin so wide it hurts, pulling at my bruises, but I don't care. Kicking my foot out again, I nudge my friend's leg repeatedly, and he slowly matches my wide smile. "Dude, seriously?! Ha! I knew you had it in you."

"She was actually the one to make the first move," he laughs nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"Even better! Girls only make the first move if they reallllly like someone." I nudge him again with my boot, and he kicks me back very lightly. His blush is starting to die down a little bit, but I can't help asking my next question, my smile turning sly. "Soo… how was it?"

"What?" Glenn's eyes flick to mine. "The kiss or—"

"Of course the kiss, what else is there!" I scoff, but then I notice how he averts his gaze again. His cheeks, which had started to return to their normal color, are also red as cherries now. I narrow my eyes at him, and when he clears his throat and nervously tugs at the collar of his shirt, I spot a faint bruise just under his clavicle.

My eyes nearly pop out of my head, and when my jaw swings open on its hinges, I can't help the gasp that follows. Glenn darts a quick glance at me, blushes even harder, and words just come spilling out of my mouth.

"Did you… the two of you…" I trail off, my own face heating up, and I wave my hand in a vague gesture, unable to finish the sentence.

Glenn purses his lips, red up to his hairline, and nods.

I exhale sharply and blink several times as I process this information, but my silence seems to unnerve Glenn, and he grimaces.

"Oh, god, is this weird? This is weird, isn't? Shit, I shouldn't have— you know what, just forget I said anything—"

"No, wait!" I lean across the table as he starts to get up, catching his wrist. He stops, but he looks like he's still moments away from bolting, so I tug on his arm. "Just wait. I'm sorry, I didn't mean— you just took me by surprise is all. I wasn't expecting… that."

"You and me both," Glenn mutters, which startles a snort out of me, and he meets my eyes again with a tentative, if still slightly embarrassed, smile.

"Sit back down, this position is killing my ribs," I groan and drop his wrist. He hesitates, half out of his seat, so I wave at him impatiently. "Come on, seriously. It's not weird. We're friends, and this is not weird. Honestly, you should have heard some of the graphic dating stories Mathias used to tell me. Some of them would have made you clutch your pearls."

"Who's Mathias?" he asks as he slowly sits back down.

The question resounds in my head like a ringing bell, and my breath catches a little. I hadn't meant to say his name, but hearing it out of someone else's mouth, after so long, throws me off balance. Glenn is starting at me expectantly, though, and before I know it, the truth falls off my tongue.

"He was a friend from… back home," I say, clearing my throat when it tightens a little.

Understanding glints in Glenn's eyes, followed by a flash of pity, but I don't want that right now. I want to hold on to the friend and happiness I have in this moment, not be tugged at by ghosts, so I kick my foot into Glenn's leg again.

"Okay, so you and Maggie did a little more than kissing in a tree," I tease, and Glenn hisses my name and darts a panicked look around, but I kick him again to draw his attention. "It's fine, no one's listening. Anyway, like I said, that's an… unexpected turn of events. But see, this means I was right! She really does like you."

I grin again, but Glenn doesn't match it, his eyebrows and lips dipping down into a frown.

"I thought so, too, but now… I dunno," he mutters and seems to deflate in his seat. "I thought we had a, um, good… time. I know I did, and she seemed to e-enjoy it as well. But she was avoiding me this morning, and then when I finally caught up to her, she was kind of… angry?"

Now, I'm frowning. "What did she say? What did you say?"

"Nothing, really." Glenn shrugs. "I just said I would like to… see her again sometime. Then she said she doesn't even know if she really likes me before she just marched off. So… did I screw up somehow? Maybe I shouldn't have said anything? I just didn't think the two-day rule still applied."

"The what?" I ask with a furrowed brow.

"You know, the two-day rule," he explains, but when I just blink at him, he sighs. "Like, you're not supposed to text someone back immediately after a first, uh, date. So you don't come across as too eager."

"Oh." I blink, blushing a little at my inexperience. I'd gone on a few dates before, but nothing serious, and I didn't know there were unspoken rules about communication afterwards. "Well, I'm actually inclined to agree with you. It's kinda hard to follow 'the two-day rule' when you're living on her farm in the middle of the apocalypse."

"Exactly!" Glenn groans before dropping his head into his hands. "Between this thing with Maggie, and then Lori's issue, I feel like my brain is going to explode."

"Lori?" My stomach sinks a little. "What's wrong with Lori?"

"Oh, shit." Glenn snaps his head up, and his eyes are wide, panicked. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm not supposed to say anything."

"Say anything about what?" I ask as my heart rate kicks up a notch, and when Glenn tries to clamp his lips closed, I kick him a little harder under the table.

"Ow!" He jerks his leg away and scowls at me. "Why am I getting hit when it's not even my secret?"

"What secret?" I press, but he looks like he still might refuse, so I decide to change tactics. "Glenn, if this secret affects the group, you should tell someone. And if it isn't anything… threatening, then I'll keep my mouth shut. I promise."

I can see the resolve flickering in his dark eyes, and he darts a look over his shoulder, as if he's looking out for Rick's wife. When he doesn't find her, he turns back to me, sighs, and lowers his voice.

"Alright, but you have to keep quiet. At least until Lori tells Rick."

"Tells him what?"

Glenn leans over the table, and his voice is barely even a whisper. "She's… pregnant."

For the second time during this conversation, I'm stunned speechless. My mouth gapes, flapping uselessly, and there are so many thoughts buzzing through my head that they all blend into a continuous hiss of static.

"I know." Glenn nods when he sees my expression, but his sigh sounds relieved as he sits back. "God, actually, that feels so much better. I suck at keeping secrets. I wasn't even good at hide-and-seek as a kid."

I barely even hear what he's saying. The word pregnant has punched through the static of my thoughts and is being repeated on a loop like a broken record. Lori is pregnant. Lori is pregnant.

"H-How did you find out?" The question just falls from my numb lips.

"She asked me to pick something up during my run yesterday, and when I found the package with the brand name, it turned out to be a pregnancy test," he explains. "And then this morning, when I tried to talk to her about it… the look on her face said it all."

"Fuck," I breathe, slumping against the table as my wide eyes meet his.

"Yup." Glenn nods before fixing me with a narrowed-eyed look. "But you can't say anything. This isn't a threat to the group… yet. And Lori said she just needs some time to figure out how to tell Rick."

Suddenly, I recall seeing the Grimes couple arguing earlier. Had she been telling him then? Or… was she telling him something else? As much as I would like to forget, I still remember stumbling upon Shane and Lori in the woods around the quarry. All I'd seen was a pile of scattered clothes and a flash of bare skin, but it was enough to get the picture. It might feel like years since that happened, but it's only been about a week since we left the quarry. And I don't know much about these things, but I thought it took a couple weeks, at least, to get a positive pregnancy test…

I abruptly shove the thought out of my mind. It isn't any of my business anyway. Like Glenn said, this isn't a group problem yet… but it could become one.

In fact, we could potentially have multiple problems, now that I think about it.

"Wait." I snap my head up, fixing my eyes on Glenn's, and even though I can feel my cheeks starting to burn again, I force myself to ask my next question. "One pregnancy is dangerous enough. Did you and Maggie… use anything?"

Glenn turns bright red and looks away, picking up another piece of my clothing, but his fingers fumble too much to actually fold it.

"Yes," he mutters to the table, refusing to look at me. "There were some… condoms at the pharmacy. Why? Did you need some?"

He flicks a quick look at me, then over his shoulder toward the tents, specifically the one I slept in last night, and a wave of heat rushes through my body at the implication.

"W-What? No!" I choke out, but my voice squeaks more than I would like. "I don't— why the hell would I need those?"

A sly smile tugs at Glenn's lips. "Did no one give you the birds and the bees talk, Dree? I can try to find a sex ed book the next time I do a run. Maybe something with diagrams, pictures-"

"I will throw a pair of panties at you, Glenn Rhee." I narrow my eyes at him, trying to look threatening despite the warmth suffusing my face, but he just laughs and holds up his hands.

"Not so fun being the one who gets teased, huh?" he snickers while shielding his face.

Before I can retaliate, Dale's voice rings out across the camp, calling Glenn's name. I look over my shoulder toward the RV, and the older man waves at us before he begins climbing down the ladder at the rear of the vehicle.

"Ope, looks like duty calls. I'll see ya later." Glenn quickly pushes himself up from the picnic bench, but he's still wearing that shit-eating grin. "Just let me know if you end up needing one of those condoms."

I make a strangled, indignant noise, and my hand whips out in a flailing motion. Glenn just laughs as he dodges the pair of underwear, and then he leans forward and plucks his cap off my head. The motion tugs the bandana I'm wearing out of place, and green fabric momentarily obscures my vision. When I can see again, Glenn's already halfway to the RV— he's practically skipping, the smug bastard— and even though he isn't looking at me, I still flip him off to make myself feel better.

Once he's gone, I try to refocus on my laundry, but it's a Herculean task. My mind keeps trying to wander off, especially when I see Lori duck out of her tent a few minutes later. My eyes immediately go to her belly, which is as flat as it's ever been, but I can't help thinking of the baby potentially growing in there. I've never really been around babies. Mitch and Eleanor only ever took in older kids, and then when I went to live with my mom, I was the only child under her care for several years, until Manny and then Irina came along, but they had both been toddlers already. All I know about babies is they cry and poop a lot, and neither of those things seem like they would be easy to deal with in the world we're living in now. It isn't like we can run down to Walmart for diapers, and the noise…

I shake my head, tearing my eyes away from Lori before she catches me staring at her. It isn't my problem. And it isn't a problem I'll have to face any time in the foreseeable future. No matter what kind of jokes Glenn makes.

I flush again, remembering his parting comment about condoms, and even though I fight it with every fiber of my being, Daryl's face flashes through my mind.

But I immediately strangle the image, stomping down on the idea before it can even fully form because it's… ridiculous. Ludicrous. Absurd. Honestly, it's Glenn's fault. He was the one talking about his pharmacy tryst with Maggie. I'm happy for him and everything, especially if Maggie comes back around, but the bastard's thrown my mind into the gutter.

Feeling hot and itchy, I quickly finish folding up my laundry, intending to go find Carol so I could maybe help out with the dinner prep. I grab my pack from the bench beside me, but as I'm stuffing my folded clothes inside, a warm gust of wind whistles past. It blows green fabric into my eyes, and once again I can't help thinking about the hunter.

But this time, it's worry that makes my stomach twist.

As I shift the bandana back over my hair, my gaze goes to the treeline. He's been gone for hours now, gone before I woke up. I'm still a little miffed about being left behind again, but I know Daryl was just being practical. My body is still all sore and fucked up, I would just be a liability out in the woods. And my feelings don't matter in the grand scheme of things. What matters is finding Sophia.

I've been trying not to think about it, but today is day four. Four days since she slipped off the highway and disappeared into the trees. With every hour that passes, that time only grows, as does the pit in my stomach. If I think about it too long, I start to feel sick, so I push the thought away, telling myself that we're going to find her. Daryl is going to find her. He can track a deer for days using broken branches and the barest impressions in the dirt. He can definitely find a little girl's trail.

My eyes scan the trees, like he's going to walk out of them right this second with Sophia right behind him. But of course that doesn't happen. The fields remain empty, the sun burning down, and I swallow past a suddenly dry throat. My chest feels a little tight, too, so I take a deep breath, wincing as it pulls at my ribs.

Without thinking, my fingers poke at a lump buried in the pocket of my jean cut offs. It's the pain pill Daryl left me this morning. After breakfast, I'd taken the antibiotic, and the half pill from last night, which made me a little drowsy but nothing I couldn't work through. Most of my pain is pretty muted right now, since I've been sitting around doing nothing, but as I touch the pain pill in my pocket, I think of the other things Daryl left me. Like the bandana on my head, and the hiking boot on my good foot. And the note that had been left beside the pills— Green's for you.

I blush at the memory, and at the fact that said note is now tucked away in my journal. My stomach flutters, but it isn't anxiety this time, and I quickly push myself to my feet, trying to escape the feeling. Slinging on my pack, I grab my swords from the tabletop, and I go to drop my things near the firepit, since I don't want to go back to my— the tent right now.

Trying to shove everything out of my mind, I walk away from the picnic table, but I can't help throwing one last look at the empty fields and the sun slowly descending through the midday sky.

I just… hope he gets back soon.

---

Daryl wakes in fits and starts. It's like he's swimmin' through cement. Every time he surfaces, he just gets sucked right back down again. His head is fuckin' throbbin', too, like a jackhammer is tryna get through his skull. His left side burns somethin' awful, like he's gettin' branded by a cattle iron, and the taste of mud and blood is thick on his tongue. At some point, he tries to open his eyes, but they're heavy as lead.

What's… wrong with him? His brain has turned into taffy, each thought slow and sticky. Eventually, he remembers a cliff, the sky wheelin' overhead, blood in the water, but not much else. He'd… fallen.

But how? And where is he?

The hunter fights to open his eyes again, and this time he somewhat succeeds. A blurry green canopy spins slowly above him, like that Tilt-a-Whirl Merle took him on at the county fair one year, just to see him puke. That shit-eatin' grin of his brother's flashes through his muddled thoughts, but when Daryl flutters his eyes, the image remains.

Merle is standin' over him, grinnin'. But he's an adult now, not the sixteen-year old Daryl was rememberin', the grooves and wrinkles in his face more familiar than that faded memory. Daryl feels somethin' like relief trickle through him, but it's followed by a throb at the back of his head. Then the hunter thinks that his brother shouldn't… be here, but he can't remember why.

"Why don't you pull that arrow out, dummy?" Merle suddenly asks, his tone light. "Ya could bind yer wound better."

"Merle…" Daryl chuckles weakly.

The hunter again feels a flash of relief over hearin' his brother's voice, loud and real in his ears, but he still can't remember why he's relieved. Doesn't matter. His big bro is here. Things would be alright.

"What's going on here? You takin' a siesta or something?"

Daryl squints up at Merle's blurry, smirkin' face. His head pulses again, and he suddenly remembers the horse and fallin' down the cliff more clearly. Remembers the arrow pokin' out his stomach.

"A shitty day, bro," he rasps, tryna move, but lightnin' races up his side. He goes limp again.

"Aw," Merle's voice mocks, and when Daryl can slightly focus, his brother is poutin' down at him. "Want me to get ya a pillow? Maybe rub yer feet?"

"Screw you," is Daryl's reflexive response. It's what he always says when Merle is fuckin' with him, but the words are weak now cuz the hunter can't seem to take a deep breath.

"Uh-uh. You're the one screwed from the looks of it." Merle leans over, his face loomin' inches above him but still blurry. "All them years I spent tryna make a man of you, this is what I get? Look 'atcha. Lyin' in the dirt like a used rubber. You're gonna die out here, little brother. And for what?"

Daryl tries to think past the throbbin' in his head. After a moment, Sophia's face swims to the front of his foggy thoughts. That's what he'd been doing, why he was out here.

"A girl," he mutters, swallows, tastes mud. "They… lost a little girl."

Merle's voice becomes sharper, more of a leer, and Daryl vaguely sees the flash of his yellowed, grinnin' teeth. "So, you really do got a thing for little girls now, huh?"

Audrey's face immediately flashes across Daryl's mind, and he knows Merle is talkin' about her. He gathers enough strength to fully open his eyes, attempts to glare at his brother, but he can't decide which of the three Merles is real.

"Shut up," he grunts. He tries to say it angrily, a warnin', but it comes out pathetic.

"But that must be it," Merle says, cockin' his bald head, and the glare of the sun off it makes Daryl close his eyes again. "Cuz I noticed ya ain't out lookin' for old Merle no more."

Another memory rises in the hunter's achin' brain. A rooftop, bakin' in the sun. Blood on the gravel and… a hand. Merle's hand. Cuz Merle went missin'. But…

"Tried like hell to find ya, bro," Daryl defends himself as he fights to open his eyes.

"Like hell you did," his brother scoffs. "You split, man. Lit out first chance ya got."

A flare of anger overrides the burnin' pain in his chest, and he shoots another weak glare at the approximation of Merle's face. "No, you lit out. All ya had to do… was wait. We went back for ya. Rick and I… we did right by ya."

"This the same Rick that cuffed me to the rooftop in the first place?" Merle sneers, his face distortin' until it makes Daryl's stomach turn. "The one who forced me to cut off my own hand. This him we're talkin' about? You his bitch now?"

Daryl tries to focus, but his eyes are swimmin'. They keep rollin' back into his head without his permission.

"I ain't… nobody's bitch," he still manages to spit.

"Yer a joke is what ya are, playin' errand boy to a bunch of pansy-asses, cunts, and democrats," Merle says, and then he chuckles, a mean, cruel sound that Daryl is all too familiar with. "Yer nothing but a freak to them. Redneck trash, that's all ya are."

Daryl wants to argue, but he knows it's the truth. Merle knows it too, and he flashes another blurry, yellow-toothed grin.

"They're laughin' at ya 'hind your back," he coos. "You know that, doncha? Especially that bitch with her little pig stickers. I really shoulda killed her when I had the chance."

Again, Audrey flashes through his head, but this time, the bruises Merle left on her face and throat are dark and fresh, the blood not even dry. Anger scalds the back of Daryl's tongue, wakin' him up a little more, and he bares his teeth in a snarl.

"Don't… fuckin' talk 'bout her," he grits out. If he had enough strength, if his head would stop spinnin', he would punch that fuckin' smile right off Merle's face. He would pay back every bruise his brother left on the kid. And it still wouldn't be enough.

"Ooh-hoo, did I hit a nerve, Darylina?" Merle laughs, but when he continues, his voice is suddenly sharp, serrated. Angry. "I told ya to stay away from that little cooze, but nah, you didn't want to listen to good ole Merle. Now look 'atcha. She's got ya so tight by the balls that you're out here riskin' your life for some brat you don't give two shits about."

Daryl… doesn't think that's true. Sure, he wasn't plannin' to have fuckin' tea parties with Sophia, but that didn't mean he thought the girl deserved to get eaten in the woods. He's not that much of an asshole.

But before he can get the words out, Merle charges on.

"And what are ya hopin' for, huh?" Merle sneers, his face only inches away now. It's still blurry, but Daryl can see the disgusted curl of his brother's lip. "Ya hopin' to find the girl, be the hero, just so that uppity green-eyed bitch will fuck you?"

Guilt, shame, and denial all rush up the hunter's throat, thick enough to choke him, and his head throbs again.

"Nah," Daryl slurs, his tongue suddenly too heavy. "That's not—"

Merle cuts him off. "Oh, you can't lie to me, baby brother. I know what's in yer head. Cuz it was in mine, too." He flashes a sick, twisted grin, and their grandmother's voice hisses in the back of Daryl's head.

Got the same poison in ya. Trash like you ain't allowed in heaven.

He feels sick, bile burnin' a hole straight through him, but Merle doesn't relent.

"But you know she ain't never gonna fuck ya. Right, Darylina?" he asks, and now his tone is fakely sympathetic. "Cuz she ain't. She wouldn't touch yer ugly, scarred, white trash ass with a ten-foot pole. Even here, at the end of the goddamn world."

Daryl wants to argue, wants to snap something back, but his tongue won't work anymore. It sits like a lump of dead meat in his mouth, and his eyes are startin' to roll until Merle's voice snaps him out of it.

"I got news for ya, son," his brother says, and it sounds like he's speakin' directly in Daryl's ear. "That little bitch and all those other fuckers are just usin' ya. And one of these days, when you're no longer useful, when your little girlfriend gets tired of stringin' you along by the dick, they're gonna scrape ya off their heels like you was dogshit."

The hunter can barely keep his eyes open now, but Merle taps him with a sharp "Hey!". Daryl scrapes together the last of his strength, focuses on his brother's face floatin' above him.

"They ain't yer kin, yer blood," Merle continues, his voice quieter now but no less sharp. "Hell, if ya had any damn nuts in that sack of yers, you'd go back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me. Then slit that bitch's throat to finish what I started. She'd let you fuck her then. Corpses can't say no."

Daryl gags at the thought of hurtin' the kid, but Merle's fingers suddenly dig into his jaw, his chin, and the hunter blearily blinks up at his brother.

"Now you listen to me," Merle whispers. "Ain't nobody ever gonna care 'bout you except me, little brother. Ain't nobody ever will. Now, come on. Get up on your feet before I have to kick your teeth in. Let's go. Come on!"

Despite Merle yellin' at him, Daryl's eyes slip closed once again. Then Merle starts shakin' him, hard. Daryl's head rolls to the side, but when he blinks, his vision focuses a little.

And it's not Merle kickin' his boots. It's a walker, tryna gnaw through the leather.

Panicked adrenaline shoots through him, lightin' every nerve on fire. Daryl's eyes snap fully open, and he flails, just barely managin' to nail the geek in the head with his foot. It snarls as it teeters to the side, and the hunter looks around wildly. His crossbow is lyin' in the mud a few feet away. He scrabbles for it, ignorin' the stabbin' pain in his side, but the walker regains its balance. It pounces on him, pinnin' him down. Daryl shoves the bastard up by the shoulders, fightin' to keep its rotten teeth away from him. As the walker bares all its weight down, he blindly claws at the ground under him. He jams his fingers against a solid rock, and he grabs it, swingin' it into the geek's arm.

The walker buckles, the bone snappin', and Daryl hits it twice more around the head, usin' his momentum to roll them over. The geek gargles out a growl and tries to fight back. It pulls at his hair in an attempt to roll them again, but Daryl bucks it off and rockets to his feet. He sways, unsteady, but the walker is already gettin' up, so the hunter grabs a large branch stickin' out of the mud. He uses it as a buffer, shovin' the walker onto its ass mid lunge. Before it can get back up, he jumps on top of it, and then he slams the branch horizontally into the fucker's face.

Bone caves in with a dull crunch and a squirt of thick, dark blood, but the motherfucker is still writhin', still movin', so Daryl spins the branch in his grip and spears the son of a bitch straight through its face.

The walker falls still with one last gurgle, but more growlin' makes Daryl's head snap up. Another geek is shamblin' out of the brush toward him, its arms outstretched, ready to tear him apart. Daryl tries to wrench the branch free from the walker beneath him, but it's stuck fast in the thing's skull. He's gaspin' for breath, and his vision swims and doubles. He doesn't think he can grapple with the second geek and win.

His eyes suddenly catch on his crossbow again, only a few feet away. It doesn't have any bolts left… but he has one.

Without thinkin' too much on it, Daryl throws himself onto his back, grabs the arrow stickin' out of his side, and starts to pull it through, fletching and all. The pain makes his vision darken, but he can't focus on that. The arrow comes free with a wet sound, and the shaft slides through his fingers before he slots the bloody bolt between his teeth and drags the crossbow into his lap. He struggles with the draw weight, the pain in his side makin' him cry out wordlessly, but he ratchets the string back just in time.

The hunter slams the arrow into place when the walker is only feet away, and then he throws himself onto his back again, sightin' down the scope and pullin' the trigger just as the geek lunges at him.

The bolt hits the bastard square between the eyes, poppin' out the top of its skull. A moment later, the walker crumples mere inches away from him.

Daryl collapses back into the mud, pantin' with pain and adrenaline, and everything goes black as he passes out again. He awakens with a start an unknown amount of time later, frantically snappin' his head around in search of more enemies. But the clearin' is empty around him.

"Fuck," he sighs in relief, droppin' his head back onto the marshy ground.

He lays there for a moment, catchin' his breath, but knows he's gotta get the fuck up now before anythin' else shows up. At the very least, the pain in his side has lessened now that the arrow is out, but when he looks down his body, he can see his shirt is dark with blood, crimson tendrils leakin' out into the water around him.

Grittin' his teeth, Daryl crawls a few feet away to sit back on some rocks. Bein' upright makes him sway, his head poundin', but he ignores it as he slowly shucks off his muddy shirt. He dips it into the edge of the pool, just to get most of the muck off, and then he starts rippin' the fabric up. Warm blood oozes down his side the whole time, and he can feel it soakin' into the waistband of his jeans. He needs to slow the bleedin' as best he can, so he bunches up the remainder of his shirt and presses it to the wound. Unfortunately, the rope made of his sleeves got torn durin' his tussle with the geeks, and it ain't long enough to wrap around his torso anymore.

The hunter curses under his breath before he suddenly remembers somethin'. Slowly, so as not to aggravate his wound, he gropes along his back until his fingers brush up against a square of fabric, tucked into his back pocket. He pulls it out and stares down at the red bandana. It's damp and a little muddy, but Daryl still finds himself bringin' it up to his face. Without thinkin', he sniffs the edge of it, smells soap and somethin' he just knows is distinctly the kid.

He immediately hates himself for it, Merle's words cyclin' through his mind- I know what's in yer head. Cuz it was in mine, too. Daryl rips the bandana away from his face, tyin' it onto the rope of his sleeves and cinchin' it tightly around his waist, with the wadded up shirt bein' used as makeshift gauze.

The pain centers him a little, and Daryl knows he needs to buck the fuck up now if he's going to survive.

Merle— or his hallucination of Merle— was right about one thing. Daryl needs to stop pussyfootin' around.

First thing he needs to do is combat his dizziness, so he gropes behind his back again until his fingers encounter fur. Somehow, the squirrel had remained tucked in his belt through all the bullshit, as did the doll on the other side. Silver goddamn linin'.

Daryl pulls the critter out now, staggerin' over to a log, where he starts to gut his catch. He needs the fuel/energy to get the fuck out of this ravine, and it ain't the first time he's had to eat raw meat.

As he digs his fingers through the squirrel's innards, poppin' bloody pieces of viscera into his mouth, he suddenly thinks about the time he and the kid were skinnin' his catch back at the quarry. How she worked quietly beside her, takin' every criticism he gave her and improvin' her skills. He remembers how she shrieked when he threw raw meat at her, the sound of her voice reading those stupid poems she likes. Then how she laughed, rollin' in the dirt, as he playfully poked her with a stick.

Merle's leerin' smirk rears up in his head, tauntin' him, and Daryl shoves all these thoughts away. He needs to focus, can't afford to get distracted.

Once he finishes off the squirrel, he gets up and tucks the doll he found more securely under his belt. He goes to grab his bow, but then he looks over at the dead walkers, and on an impulse, he decides to take himself a little trophy. A tiny part of his decision is logical, maybe the smell would help mask him on his way back to the farm. But, mainly, he just wants a souvenir to scream fuck you at the universe.

Cuz he ain't dyin' in this goddamn ditch.

A few minutes later, he's got walker ears hangin' around his neck, and he's tied the crossbow to the back of his belt, so he can drag it behind him. It'll be a bitch to clean later, but he doesn't give a fuck right now. Finally, he starts the climb again. It's twice as hard this time, his head woozy from both blood loss and the concussion he's no doubt sufferin'. His side is also on fire, but now it's a low, constant burn, instead of a lightning strike. He ignores it all and keeps pushin' forward, sweat and blood drippin' down his face.

At some point, he looks up and sees it's late afternoon, the light pokin' through the canopy more golden in color. By his estimate, he only has a couple more hours till sunset, and if he's stuck in these woods after dark, he's extra fucked. As he tries to catch his breath, he stares up at the faraway sky, and birds call and wheel overheard.

"Please, don't feed the birds."

Daryl grinds his teeth and looks back up the cliff. Merle is smirkin' down at him from the top, which is closer than he thought it'd be. The hunter knows his brother ain't really there, knows he should be worried about hallucinatin', but he just feels irritated.

"What's the matter, Darylina?" Merle chuckles as he kicks at the cliff edge. "That all ya got in ya? Why don't you throw away that purse and climb."

"I liked it better when ya was missing," Daryl growls, lookin' away from his brother— who's not there— and focusin' on his task.

Still, Merle's laugh sounds real as it echoes down the cliffside. "Come on now, don't be like that. I'm on your side!"

"Yeah?" the hunter scoffs and grabs onto his next handhold. "Since when?"

"Hell, since the day ya were born, baby brother," Merle replies from above. "Somebody had to look after your worthless ass."

Daryl would laugh if he had enough air in his lungs. He had been lookin' after himself most of his life. Ever since his mom died. Hell, even before then.

"Ya never took care of me," Daryl huffs as he struggles to maintain his balance, clingin' onto vines and roots between the rocks. "You talk a big game, but you was never there. Hell, ya ain't here now! Some things never change."

It's silent for a moment, broken only by the sounds of the hunter pantin' and cursin' as he continues to climb. He thinks his brother might have finally decided to leave him alone, but when the hell had that ever happened?

"Well, I'll tell you what," Merle drawls. "I'm as real as your chupacabra!"

Daryl knows he should just ignore his brother, stop feedin' into the hallucination, but he can't stop himself from snappin' back.

"I know what I saw!" He shoots a glare upward and shifts his boots to get a sturdier stance, but the rock is crumbly beneath him, so he has to be careful.

"Yeah, and I'm sure them shrooms you ate had nothin' to do with it, right?" Merle snorts, which was what he always said when they got caught up in this familiar argument.

And Daryl's powerless to stop himself from givin' the familiar response. "You best shut the hell up!"

"Oooh, or what?" Merle asks, his tone mockin'. "Yer gonna come up here and shut my mouth for me? Well, come on and do it then! If ya think yer man enough."

Daryl bares his teeth as he scrabbles at dried roots and grasses, but he ain't gainin' any ground. It's like every time he gains an inch, he slides back several feet. Fear of fallin' again is also makin' his every muscle rigid as stone, his breathin' shallow and tight.

"Hey, kick off them damn high heels and climb, son," Merle jeers from above, and then he starts laughin' again. "Ya know what? If I were you, I'd take a pause for the cause, brother. Cuz I just don't think yer gonna make it to the top."

Rage burns through the hunter like a wildfire. Pantin' through his teeth, his digs his fingers into the rockface, and he swings his lower body out until he can wrap his legs around a pair of skinny saplings. Then he hauls himself up horizontally, gainin' several feet in one go.

"Well, well, look at what we have here," Merle cackles, and he squats down, extendin' his hand in Daryl's peripherals. "Come on now. Come on, little brother. Why don't ya grab your girlfriend's hand? This is the only way you'll get to touch her, after all."

Suddenly, his rough, smoker's laughter turns into Audrey's, the sound sweeter, higher-pitched, but no less mockin'.

A flash of fury blindly propels Daryl up the last few feet. His hands slam down at the top of the ridge, and he carves his fingers into the dirt, haulin' himself up despite the pain and exhaustion. He staggers to his feet, covered in mud, tastin' blood, eyes dartin' around wildly.

But Merle's nowhere to be found.

"Yeah," Daryl hisses before he raises his voice. "You'd better fuckin' run!"

His words echo back to him like one last final taunt. He stumbles forward, looks around for the horse, but it's long gone, and the sun is still sinkin' overhead. Some of his adrenaline starts to fade along with his anger, and his knees shake, his body just wantin' to collapse, give in. Daryl sags against a tree, tryin' to catch his breath, but when he closes his eyes, Audrey's are starin' back at him.

The worry in their emerald depths is as sharp as broken glass, and Daryl finds himself openin' his eyes and staggerin' forward, deeper into the woods. As he goes, Merle snickers in his ear, callin' him a whipped little bitch, but the hunter does his best to ignore him.

It's gonna be a long goddamn hike back to the farm.