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

27. This Kind of Life Keeps Breaking Your

So I could sit here for about an hour and write out why I'm such an sshole and haven't updated in ten thousand years but frankly, by this point, I'm sure you don't give a sh!t. All I'll say is, school sucks, family sucks, and writers block is a ficking cu#t.

I really, REALLY tried to finish the first episode with this but it just wasnt happening. I have half the next chapter written now, though, so I hope to get that out a LOT sooner than this crap.

If I still have readers out there, I hope you enjoy this :( There is a LOOOOOOT of Daryl/Audrey fluff in this (and even some sexual tension) so I hope it makes up for the long lapse in updates.

[I know it doesn't.]

Before I let you go, however, I just wanted to thank you guys from the bottom of my HEART. Do you see that number of reviews? I won't even mention the follows and favorites. I'm just...so overwhelmed and thankful and x( Just...thank you so much. It really means a lot to me.

Now without further audieu or BS, here's chapter 27.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my OC and her specific plot line. I make no profit from this.

Warnings: language, mentions of gore and suicide

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Chapter 27: This Kind of Life Keeps Breaking Your Heart

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"A…are you alright Audrey?"

The voice sounds worlds away, muffled, and oh so very faint. I turn to find it, and my vision swims. It's day and night and then day again, and it takes longer than it should for me to realize that my eyes are falling shut and snapping open without my consent.

Carl stares up at me with tears in his crystal blue eyes. He looks so young. He is so young I have to remind myself. Barely 12 years old. Just a child. Just like…

My heart clenches painfully and that wild panic starts to claw its way up my throat again. I force it down with a strained smile.

"I'm fine Carl," I tell him. Reaching out, I try to ruffle his hair, a habit of mine, but my arm shakes from overexertion. I settle for placing my fingers against the jut of his shoulder.

He frowns and looks so like his mother. I can tell he knows I'm lying, but I don't have the energy to convince him otherwise. I barely have the energy to talk with him. My eyes fall shut again, and I can't get them to open fast enough.

"Carl why don't you go check on your mother? I'm sure she needs some support right now."

It's a dismissal, and Carl realizes it: He tenses underneath the hand I have yet to drag off his shoulder and, when he speaks, his words tremble slightly.

"B…but I wanted to make sure you were ok." My eyes are still closed but I can imagine the expression he is wearing: wide, blue eyes and pale, trusting face. "You…you look sick."

The fear is sharp in his voice. I know how I must look, collapsed here against a broken car, sitting on the hood and unable to move even as the rusted metal sears the bottoms of my thighs. I know that I'm covered in blood and sweat from head to toe, the colors of gore stark against my skin, my white shirt, and blue jean shorts. I'm a canvas of unholy colors and I'm panting with exertion, on the very precipice of passing out. The last people Carl saw in such a state…

Jim.

Amy.

The names rattle at the back of my skull, ricocheting and echoing painfully through the dark caverns there.

"I'm just a little tired. It's really nothing too bad. I'll rest awhile and be back on my feet in no time."

I struggle to open my eyes, and Carl stands there with that worried frown still etched onto his face. There's dirt on the bridge of his nose, framed by faint freckles. I think of Irina, Manny, and I wish with all my might that I could shelter this poor young boy from hunger, from pain, from sadness. I'm slowly beginning to realize, however, that this might be impossible. The knowledge fills me with unfathomable despair.

"Carl?!"

Lori's voice snakes its way in between the cars. There's a frantic edge to it, sharp and fearful, and I can almost hear her worried thoughts from here. I kick out with my uninjured foot and nudge Carl in the hip, trying desperately to ignore how my leg trembles.

"Go on," I tell him. "You should stay close to your mom for the time being. I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

The young boy bites his lip and looks conflicted, but Lori's voice is rising in pitch as she calls out his name again, so he can do nothing but accept my words. He spares me one last concerned glance before running towards the sound of his mother. I follow him with my eyes until I can see Lori over the top of car, meeting him halfway. She pulls him close and I see her mutter something to him, threading her fingers through his hair, wiping that smudge of dirt off his nose. The sight makes my chest feel tight, that panic rising to block my throat again. I'm just about to push off the hood I'm sitting on, exhaustion be damned, when a voice stops me.

"Somebody should."

I blink and turn to see Glenn a few feet away. There's a smear of black grease across his cheek but, other than that, his face is uncharacteristically pale.

"Huh?" I don't understand what he's just said.

"You told Carl not to worry about you, but somebody should." He walks over to the car I'm perched on and leans against the fender. Something is off about him—his voice, his expression—but I can't place it. I stare at him a few moments more and realize he will not meet my eye.

"I don't need a babysitter Glenn." There's a bite to my words that I can't whittle down. "And there are more important things that need to be done right now than staring at me sitting on my ass."

The young man winces but finally looks up. His brown eyes find mine, dark with anxiety and pain. It's a sickening combination, and one that I am used to. "I'm worried about Sophia too, you know," he says quietly. The saliva in my mouth suddenly dries up and my heart pounds painfully behind my ribs; it brands a tattoo under my skin, a tattoo of panic and fear and SophiaSophiaSophia.

Most of the men had gone out after Rick turned up at the railing, sweaty, tired, and alone. The second he asked where Sophia was my stomach plummeted to the ground. Sophia wasn't with us; she wasn't with him. That meant she was out in the woods by herself. The woods…these fucking woods full of walkers. Rick tried to save face, glaze over the panic he saw settling in to everyone's features. He told the men to come with him; he said that Sophia was probably just resting in some bush nearby. They left…and then Glenn and Shane came back, refusing to meet anyone's eyes and telling everyone to go back to scavenging. It was a distraction if I ever saw one. The only reason I hadn't booked it to the trees myself is because I caught Shane before he could slide off, asked him what happened. The former cop wasn't very specific, but he had said Daryl was on Sophia's trail. I had breathed a sigh of relief. If Daryl were on her trail, she'd be back in no time. Daryl can find anything, anyone. He's an amazing hunter, an amazing tracker. I kept telling myself these things and held onto a strained hope.

That was hours ago. Daryl and Rick still aren't back. And Sophia…

This time, I'm the one that can't meet Glenn's eyes.

"Come on," I mutter. Sliding off the car, I stumble in the direction of the highway railing, one hand out for balance and the other clenched tight around the hilt of my katana. The sweltering afternoon sun glints off the red-stained steel, and I try to ignore the bits of brain matter that cling to its edge. "We should go see if the others have come back yet."

Glenn sighs behind me, but I hear the crunch of gravel as he follows. He catches my elbow when I stumble but doesn't look at me. I feel the distance between us like a gaping vacuum. But I can't address it, not now. First, we have to find Sophia. Everything else comes second. Once Sophia is safe and sound, I'll apologize to Glenn. I don't know exactly for what—Amy, my suicide attempt—but I know something as to be said. Later, though.

Later.

My skin itches with drying blood; I force myself not to scratch because I fear if I start, I'll dig to the bone, anything to escape this sickening pressure in my chest. A dark voice whispers at the back of my head, "You should have been there. You promised, promised to protect her. But, then again, we know what your promises are good for, don't we?"

I bite my lip and taste copper; the voice fades. I cling to the reprieve and start my prayers again, as useless as they probably are.

Please, let Sophia be all right.

Please, let her be ok.

Please let Daryl and the others bring her back safe.

Please…

---

"Are you sure we're goin the right way?"

Daryl grits his teeth and forces down a caustic retort. The fifth goddamn one in as many minutes.

"Yes. " His voice sounds like crushed glass. "Now are ya gonna keep yappin or are ya gonna let me concentrate?"

Grimes sighs at his back but says nothin else. Daryl nearly groans in gratitude. The cop had been nothing but annoyin, insistent questions since Walsh and the chink went back to the highway.

Can you tell which way she went?

Do you see anything?

We're goin the right way, right?

It's enough to make Daryl want to scream. But he doesn't. He just bites his tongue and keeps his eyes down, trackin this fumblin trail of a lost little girl. It ain't easy. Over the last few minutes, the girl's trail has been growin faint. Sometimes, Daryl even loses it for a few moments before he spots somethin out the corner of his eye. He keeps goin though. Even though it's hot as hell. Even though Grimes won't shut the fuck up. Even though the two of them are getting farther and farther away from the highway and the sun's close to settin.

After Grimes had asked his goddamn thousandth question, Daryl had started to question himself. Why the fuck was he out here? He owed these people nothin. He didn't have to help them at all. But he was, with minimal complaints, and he would be lyin through his teeth if he said it was for any other reason than Audrey.

Daryl purses his lips and squints at the partial impression of the girl's shoe in the dirt. It points West, so the hunter picks his way in that direction, mind half consumed by the memory of the kid comin to him and askin for help.

#

Standing on the hood of a large 4x4, Daryl cranes his neck to view the surroundin area. Empty cars and hot stagnant air meet his scrutiny. Nothing moves but the handful of people arguin bout 30 yards away and Daryl quickly turns away from their raised voices and wild hand gestures. One ambush was enough. They didn't need a fuckin second one.

There's a piece of skin on Daryl's lip that is ragged and bloody, but his teeth worry the sore spot all the same. He's jittery and still on edge. Everyone is. The air is tense and rank with the stench of death. Daryl ain't surprised though. A herd of walkers that size, that much dead flesh, he's actually surprised they ain't gaggin on the thick air. As for the tension…he tries not to think bout it. Not his problem. He's just gonna keep his head low and try to survive. He's just gonna—

"Daryl."

Fuck.

And then she's standin there, right below him. He tries not to look at her, cuz he knows what will happen if he does, but the stubborn kid tries to climb the SUV he's on, and Daryl has no choice but to jump down. Those green eyes capture his the second he straightens out of his crouch, and he can't move even if he tried.

"How…" Audrey fidgets: the fingers of her left hand twine into the torn hem of her T-shirt, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot. Daryl finds himself starin at the red and brown splatters that arc across her shirt and the fronts of her thighs. Half-formed questions batter against the back of his teeth but before he can think to ask them, the kid's talkin again.

"Are you ok?"

Daryl blinks at the question. "Ok? We almost got bit in the ass by a herd of goddamn geeks. How the hell is anyone supposed to be ok?" He doesn't mean to sound so harsh, but his chest feels too tight and loose at the same time, like the race his heart just ran had stretched the muscles in his chest past their capacity, a rubber band pulled thin.

Audrey frowns and the motion frames the bruises on her face, the split in her lip. "What I meant was, you're not hurt right?"

"Well, that ain't what ya said."

"Daryl."

He knows he's bein a smart ass, but he's doin it to distract the kid. Cuz he doesn't want to talk about it. Not at fucking all. Rollin his eyes and his shoulders to match, Daryl averts his gaze to the side. He's fakin bein vigilant and hopes Audrey will buy it. "Yeah, I'm fine. Don't get yer panties in a twist."

The kid sighs, and it sounds like relief. Daryl doesn't look to see if she's wearin an expression to match.

"Great. That's…that's good. I was…worried," she mumbles, and her words do somethin funny to Daryl's insides. Somethin funny that's been happenin more and more these days…like every time he looks at her. Daryl refuses to acknowledge it.

"And you?" he finds himself askin without his consent. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Audrey snap her head up and stare at him. His skin feels hot under her gaze, and he rushes to elaborate. "Ya didn't get hurt again did ya? Fuckin magnet for injuries."

There's a snort, and then Daryl's bein jostled to the side. He looks down with a scowl, but the kid's grinnin up at him, green eyes bright, and he finds he can't maintain it for long.

Audrey reaches over her shoulder and pats the hilt of the sword restin there. "I'll have you know, I took out my fair share of walkers, Dixon," she gloats, and Daryl can't help but smirk at her attitude. The kid was still a spitfire, even after all this shit.

"That right?"

She nods, hair fallin into her eyes. "Yup. I was even gonna come to your rescue when—"

The words stop like she's suddenly chockin on them; the light fades from her eyes; the grin slides right off her face. Daryl tenses cuz he knows what she's tryin to say. He doesn't know what to do bout it, he ain't good at this shit, so he just stands there rigidly, fighting the sudden, desperate urge to reach out and touch the tremblin kid.

Fuck. What the hell is wrong with him?

He blames it on those goddamn geeks. Ever since Grimes hissed at him to duck under a car, Daryl's been strung tight, on edge, rattlin out of his bones. And not cuz he was scared, at least not for himself. See, when Grimes spat out those words, eyes wild and terrified, the first thought in Daryl's mind was the kid. He doesn't know why, but she was, and he had hauled ass to find her wide eyed and confused between the cars. Shovin her under that movin truck wasn't even a conscious thought.

But what came next was. Never in a million years would Daryl have thought he'd risk his life for some nig—for someone like T-Dog, yet he did. Cuz the kid was inches away from him under that truck, and her eyes were green and scared and determined to crawl away from him, right into that herd of geeks, and Daryl just couldn't let her do it. He couldn't let her throw her life away like that, not after he almost unknowingly lost her in Atlanta to his brother, and not after he almost lost her to herself and the burnin CDC. So, he forced her to stay under the car, said her name—fuck he can still taste it—and now he's all fucked up and disoriented.

Daryl blames the walkers and ignores the voice in the back of his head that keeps whisperin it had nothin to do with the geeks and everythin to do with him and the changes Audrey was causin somewhere deep in his fuckin DNA.

"Daryl…I have to ask you something."

All teasing is suddenly gone from her voice; her face is somber as the grave and eyes just as dead. Daryl knows whatever she's bout to ask…he ain't gonna like it. He braces himself like he would for a punch: feet spread apart, shoulders squared, jaw clenched. He grunts somethin of a go-ahead, and the kid starts wringin her shirt again, the split on her lip bleeding once more as she worries it with her straight, white teeth.

"Sophia's missing."

She says it bluntly, no room for bullshit. Daryl, at the very least, admires that.

"I don't know if you heard. You probably did. I mean, you're observant like that after all, and it's all everyone is talking about," she rambles, words trippin over themselves like newborn colts. A stray piece of hair falls into her face, and she brushes it away absentmindedly. Daryl finds himself starin at the blood on the back of her knuckles, a perverse form of freckles. He doesn't like them as much as the ones on her nose. In fact, he hates them. He wants to reach out and scrape them off her skin, but he can't because she's tuckin that hand into her equally tainted shorts and, fuck. Daryl really can't stand those green, green eyes of hers.

Especially not with tears in them.

"I should have been there," Audrey rasps out and Daryl thinks he might have missed out on some of the conversation. "She needed my help and I wasn't…and now I can't even—" She lifts up her wrist and scowls in disgust at the splint, drops her eyes and sneers at her fucked up ankle. "I can't even go help look for her. I have to sit here with my thumb up my ass while Sophia is out there all alone and scared and—" Her face contorts and Daryl has this sudden, horrible feelin that she's gonna burst out cryin again like that time in his truck, but she doesn't. She just stands there lookin heartbroken and pissed, her bones rattlin under her skin like she's bout to come apart at the seems. He doesn't know what to do, what to say, so he stands there with a ramrod spine and waits for her to talk again.

The cicadas fill the silence.

Shadows lengthen, the sun beats down, and the kid ain't talkin. The quiet gets to be too much for Daryl, his thoughts chaotic, and he grabs at one before he goes crazy.

"What'd ya wanna ask me?"

Audrey blinks, unshed tears clingin to her eyelashes, and looks up at him. For a moment, she looks lost, like she's forgotten why she's here, standin in front of him. Then, she looks guilty. Christ, the kid's the worst liar Daryl's ever met, could possibly be the worst liar left on the planet given the state of things. She wears everything on her sleeves, on her face, in her eyes. It's like a goddamn movie playin behind that emerald sheen.

"It's not fair of me to ask you," the kid starts after a moment. Daryl snorts cuz they both know how fair the world is. "Not fair to ask you to go in my place…but…but you can hunt and track. You're great at all that; we're all alive because of that fact." Something preens in Daryl's chest, something that only stirs when the kid says shit like this, but he shoves it down and away. "And I know that I have no right to ask you this, to ask you to put your life on the line like this, after all you've already done for me and after…after all I've taken from you." She whispers the last part like a secret, like it's painful, and Daryl realizes with a jolt she's talkin bout Merle. He can't, for the life of him, fathom how Audrey thinks she took his brother from him. He wants to ask; he doesn't have the balls.

The kid takes a deep breath, and then she's starin straight into his soul, all emeralds and fire and pleading determination. "I know I don't have the right, and neither does anyone else, but please…please will you help look for Sophia? I…losing her too…after Jacqui and J…Jim and Am…Amy," she says the names like she's chockin on them, chockin on all that guilt. "We can't take another hit. I can't. The other men are heading out soon, but they're all city folk, like me," she smiles sardonically, usin his own insult, eyes still sparklin with tears. "If you were there too…"

She trails off, can't bring herself to make a definitive assumption. Daryl can tell by the look on her face she's feelin scared to death that the little girl is already dead and guilty for havin zero faith.

Now that he thinks bout it…don't he feel a little guilty too? He pictures the tiny girl, Sophia, all blonde hair and hazel eyes and bruises left over from her dead bastard of a father. And he pictures the way she flinched from him that day near the RV…and the way she cried as he yelled at her in the darkened hallways of that old folks home. Now that he thinks about it…those harsh words were the last thing he said to that thin, bird-boned girl.

His grandmother's words come back to him again.

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

It makes him sick down to his very goddamn blood.

But then he remembers more recent words.

"I know you aren't the man you try so desperately to make the others believe you are."

"I know that you're kind under that asshole exterior."

"You're my friend Daryl."

Daryl's never had a friend before; he's never had no one but family and, most of the time, he never even wanted that. But he has one now, standin right in front of him, askin for his help. If Merle were here, he probably would of blown her off. If Merle were here, he wouldn't go out into these godforsaken woods lookin for some lost kid.

But Merle ain't here.

And, not for the first time, though he feels a stab of guilt, Daryl can't help but think…maybe it's for the better.

The memory of the kid's smile flashes through his mind, followed by the way she exhibits so much trust in him, even when he doesn't deserve it. Daryl wants to be deservin of that trust. He wants to be deservin of her faith cuz she's the first person, in his whole goddamn life, to put any in him.

Merle would call him a pussy. Merle can fuck off.

He takes a deep breath; he shifts his crossbow and clears his throat. Audrey glances up at him, and that preenin thing in his chest comes to life again. "Tch. At least," he begins, smirkin down at her. "Ya've finally accepted you city folk ain't got no business in the woods. If I didn't go out there, Walsh wouldn't know his ass from the goddamn sky."

It takes a second for the kid to realize what he's sayin. When it hits her, the idiot smiles so big, blood goes pourin down her chin, split wide as the fuckin Grand Canyon in the middle of her lip.

"Kid! Jesus fuckin—"

Daryl is reachin behind him, head averted, wonderin if he still has a rag tucked into his back pocket, so he doesn't see what happens next. The force in which Audrey collides with him sends them both slammin back into the 4x4 Daryl had previously been standin on. The bumper digs harshly into his lower back, and he grunts with the impact and the weight that's suddenly pressin against his ribs.

It's not until he hears Audrey gaspin, until he feels her arms tight against his spine, that he realizes she's huggin him.

"Thank you, Daryl," she's wheezin. Her face is pressed against his chest, and his shirt is half unbuttoned due to the excessive heat, so he can feel her lips—wet with blood—on his sternum and collarbone and what the fuckin hell is happenin. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Feelin tight and uncomfortable in his own skin, Daryl squirms awkwardly under her assault, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His cheeks are burin, like fire's beneath his skin, and his mouth starts movin so he can ignore the sensation. "Christ kid, ain't no one taught you bout goddamn personal space?" He says it gruffly, like he's angry, and the kid must think he is cuz she jumps off him faster than he can blink.

Her face is bright red underneath the freckles and bruises left behind by his brother. She shifts from foot to foot and wrings the hem of her t-shirt again. She won't meet his eyes, but Daryl wouldn't be able to even if she did. He settles for starin at the crimson drops slowly skatin down her chin but quickly has to stop cuz he's goin crazy and wants to reach out and wipe them off.

Still uncomfortable, he tightens his crossbow's strap around his chest and steps around the kid. "Gonna go see when we're headin out," he mumbles to her. Audrey nods, eyes still averted.

"Good luck and um…thank you again."

Daryl grunts and moves away but not before pausin long enough to say, "There's a clean rag in the right saddlebag on the bike. Ya can use it to clean up."

The last he sees of the kid is her still red face, green eyes piercin him as he leaves, and her thin wrist draggin across the ripped swell of her lower lip.

Oh and the gratitude in her gaze. That preenin thing in his chest won't let him miss that.

#

So here he is, hours later and nothing to show for it. Daryl tries not to feel hopeless, but somethin akin to the feelin is creepin up in his chest the closer the sun gets to the horizon. His eyes are in this goddamn constant loop: sky, ground, sky, ground, fading footprints to setting sun. He doesn't know which sight pisses him off more.

He and Grimes walk for bout another twenty minutes before a rustle has them droppin into a crouch. Daryl's heart jackhammers in his chest for entirely two different reasons. Is it a walker? Is it Sophia? A glance shows that Grimes is thinkin the same things, his eyes wild. Shaking, the cop brings his revolver back and cocks the hammer, just in case. Daryl tries not to snap at the man's stupidly. What's a gunshot gonna do but bring more geeks down on them?

Shifting the crossbow to one hand, Daryl reaches out and taps Grimes on the shoulder. When the cop meets his eye, Daryl motions for him to go left while he goes right. They'll surround whatever is makin the noise and deal with it like that. Grimes nods and follows his instruction, crouchin low and movin fast to the left. Daryl slinks his own way and soon…they find the source.

Daryl tries not to feel disappointed when he shoots the walker through the back of the head. He fails, for the most part.

"You think…you think this is why she ran?" Grimes asks as they draw up to the body. His face is pale under the dirt and sweat; he looks like he's gonna be sick. Daryl doesn't know the answer, doesn't want to entertain it, so he looks out into the woods for any sign of the girl near by.

The trees are silent and still, seemin to mock him. "Sophia!" he calls out into the stillness, the word awkward on his tongue. His voice comes back to him, echoed and isolated.

A noise beside him draws Daryl's attention. Looking down, he sees Grimes kneeled beside the walker, inspectin its hand of all things.

"The hell ya doin?"

Grimes doesn't look up as he says, "Checking for skin under the fingernails." He drops the walker's hand and flips it over to lie completely on his stomach. He exhales shakily after a moment. "It fed recently." It's not until he pries the thing's jaw open that Daryl notices the thick work gloves he's wearin.

And how Daryl suddenly feels short of breath cuz Grimes is sayin the condemnin words, "There's flesh caught in its teeth."

"Please will you help look for Sophia? The other men are heading out in a bit, but they're all city folk, like me. If you were there too…"

The kid had thought Daryl would make a difference. It seems he might not even matter after all.

"What kinda flesh?" he mumbles, stoopin down to look at the gory strings clamped between Grimes' fingers.

The cop presses his lips together, all the color gone from his face. But there's a steely glint to his blue eyes that surprises Daryl. "Only one way to find out," he responds and his voice is firm, unwaverin. Confusion burns through Daryl before he sees Grimes rip what is left of the walker's shirt off and reach for the small switchblade on his waist.

Daryl didn't think Grimes had the balls.

Maybe it's the awkward way the cop holds his blade; maybe it's the hesitation in his movements. Either way, all of the sudden, Daryl finds himself steppin forward and stoppin Grimes with a hand on his shoulder.

"Here, I'll do it," he mutters. Grimes blinks up in surprise at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, and Daryl scowls at the heat spreadin across the back of his neck.

Goddamn city folk, the hunter thinks to himself.

"How many kills you skin and gut in yer life?" he retorts. "Anyway, mines sharper so…" He jerks his chin to indicate for the other man to move away and, thankfully, Grimes does. And then Daryl is left standin over this walker, nothin between them but the stench of rotten flesh and the sound of his beatin heart.

Daryl's been huntin since he could basically walk. There is no way to count the number of kills he's made, skinned, and eaten. Huntin's probably his earliest memory, so Daryl doesn't even know what squeamishness is.

But he thinks he might be feelin it now, this churnin in his gut, this lightheadedness. He shakes his head, tries to shake it off, but it persists. After all, he's never had to fuckin gut a human being before. Or, at least, what used to be one.

Please will you help look for Sophia?

Daryl's lips twist and press together, creatin a blanched, determined line. Ain't nothin for it though. He's gotta do this.

With that thought in mind, he slides the huntin knife out of its sheathe, brings it above his head, and drives down. The knife slides through the walker's gut like butter, and Daryl feels his stomach jump for the first time at the sound of tearin flesh, the smell of decomp. He tries to think of it as any other time he's skinned a kill, tries to tell himself it's a buck or squirrel, rabbit, somethin else beneath him. It doesn't completely work, but he's not groanin like Grimes is, gaggin off to the side and tryin to hide it. Daryl tries to feel smug about that fact but can't completely manage it when Grimes hands him another pair of gloves and gestures for him to dig through the walker's now gapin gut.

He wants to down right refuse cuz who the hell does this asshole think he is, orderin him around like some bitch? But Daryl keeps his mouth shut cuz there are more important things at stake now. He can stow his pride for a minute, even if Merle never could. Steeling his nerves, Daryl also tells himself he won't seem a pussy in Grimes' eyes, in the eyes of anyone of this group. So, he pulls the gloves on and goes wrist deep without a second's hesitation, and if he's thinkin of the kid's green eyes or if she really did get his rag for that stupid split lip, instead of the slime between his fingers well…no one's the goddamn wiser.

"At least we know," Grimes says after they've found the woodchuck skull in the walker's stomach. He strips off his gloves and wipes at the sweat tricklin down his temple. Daryl grunts and does the same with his gloves, walks over to pick up his discarded crossbow.

"At least we know," he parrots.

They continue West, towards the settin sun. Daryl feels each moment like a grain of sand runnin through an hourglass; he feels like he's runnin out of time.

"Sophia!" he calls out at random intervals, again and again. It's always his own voice that answers back. He ignores the disquietin sensation in the pit of his gut and tells himself over and over, at least for the kid's sake back on the highway, that they will find that little girl, somewhere, tuckered out in a bush.

They will find her.

They will.

"Thank you, Daryl! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He has to.

---

"Here's another case of drinks."

I look up to see Lori set down a twelve pack of red Gatorade on the blazing, cracked asphalt. Her purple tank top is dark with sweat, and her hair is bunched up into a messy bun on the top of her head. There are dark circles around her eyes, and thin lines bracket the sides of her mouth. Seeing her, her exhaustion and weariness, guilt burns through my veins like fire.

"Thanks Lori." I haul myself out of the dirt besides the RV and walk over to the older woman, leaving the cache of toiletries I had been sorting through. My ankle throbs, but it's almost an afterthought. I've become accustom to the pain of bone on bone, uneven and grating.

Carl's mother nods and places her hands in the small of her back, stretching. "How many does that make?" she asks. It's half a sincere question and half perfunctory.

"Five cases of Gatorade, over thirty gallon jugs of water, about seven cases of random beverages, and an assortment of powdered drinks as well."

Lori cocks an eyebrow at me. "You memorized all that?" Although her voice is wearied and tired, her tone sounds impressed. However, I smirk and shake my head. Drawing up beside her, I flash the underside of my arm.

"Not exactly."

Lori laughs at the black scrawl of my handwriting smeared onto my skin. Sweat has made the ink run, so a lot of my list is illegible. I can still read most of it, but I don't really care either way. This is just a job to distract me. It's busy work. I should be doing something productive—searching for Sophia, scavenging at the least—but no. Here I am, sitting in the goddamn dirt, sorting through supplies while everyone works their asses off.

Grabbing one end of the Gatorade case, I drag it towards the stack of other beverages leaning against the bumper of a car not ten feet away. I straighten up with a wince once I'm done and go to put another tick mark on my arm. Six cases now.

At my back, Lori clears her throat and something in her slight pause after makes me tense. "So," she says and while others have stopped to talk to me in the past few hours, to take their minds off of what's happened, to make themselves feel better, I can tell this is something else. "How are you holding up?"

Such a vague, loaded question. I know she's done it on purpose. She wants me to ask what she's referring to: Amy, the CDC, my injuries, Sophia.

"I'm fine," I end up saying. Fine, fine, fine, my favorite, lying word. "Just...wish I could be out there helping." I gesture out before us, to the highway and the woods beyond. I'm vague on whether or not I mean the scavenging or the search. Unlike me, Lori asks for clarification.

"You mean searching." Those lines around her mouth deepen. "With Rick and…Daryl."

I grit my teeth at the way she says his name, and an abrupt irritation prickles under my skin. Not too long ago, Carl had sidled up to me and helped with the stock piling for a bit. He had asked about Daryl too, or more specifically, the ride I had with him on his motorcycle. With his hunched shoulders and a habit of brushing up against me, sticking close, I had thought Carl was just scared and upset over Sophia and looking for something to occupy his mind. Now, I'm thinking it might have been a ploy of his mother's. "I mean I'd rather be doing something useful," I reply diplomatically, distractingly. "It's getting dark."

Lori's eyes flicker to the setting sun, low on the horizon. Her face is illuminated by the darkening, orange glow. She crosses her arms in front of her and cups her elbows. "They'll be back soon," she says softly, as if to herself.

There's a sad quality to her voice, like she's resigned, so I feel the need to add, "With Sophia." Lori glances over at me and I lift my chin, hoping she can't see my pulse thudding in the hollow of my throat. "Daryl's an excellent tracker, and Rick's a good man. They won't leave her out there. They'll find her." I wonder if she can hear the way I'm trying to convince myself as I try to persuade her.

She nods but gives no verbal response. Without another word, she drifts off amongst the cars, bee lining to where Carl and T-Dog stand, drinking water and talking quietly. I sigh as I watch her go, spare one last glance at the tree line, before turning back to my task.

My expression must give something away because all of the sudden, Dale calls out to me. "Don't look so glum Audrey." I look up to see him wiping grease off his hands with a dirty rag. The RV's engine lies bare and open behind him. "You said it yourself, they'll be back soon!"

"Not glum Dale," I tell him. Following the footsteps I left behind, I go back to my spot on the grassy median, surrounded by scavenged items. "Just…frustrated."

And scared and depressed and prayingprayingpraying.

I plop down in the dirt and grimace at the way it jars me.

"There's nothing else you could have done," the older man tells me. I roll my eyes and try not to sound spiteful.

"I could have gone to look for her. Maybe with one more pair of eyes…"

"One more pair of eyes wouldn't have done any good if you passed out in the woods like you almost did here."

Dale is standing close to me now; his shoe brushes the scrapped curve of my knee. I stare at the ratty threads of his shoelace as I grumble, "I didn't pass out." My voice sounds petulant even to my own ears.

Sighing, Dale squats down, with dexterity that surprises me, and looks me in the eye. The rifle strapped to his back, sticking out over his left shoulder, makes the angle awkward but he manages it. "That's not the way I heard it," he says softly. "Glenn said he saw you collapse."

"Glenn was five cars away. He didn't know what he saw."

Dale blinks at my defensiveness. I feel yet another flare of guilt. "Well…regardless. You were dehydrated. I know I saw that. And besides…you need your rest." He pats my arm gently, at the elbow, just where the haphazard splint on my arm ends. I know he doesn't mean to sound condescending, but I hear it that way nonetheless. Maybe it's the lack of sleep; maybe it's my edginess over Sophia. I'm strung too tight, snapping at everything. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slow, I rub at my burning, tired eyes.

"Maybe I do." It's an admission but not a concession. "But that won't bring Sophia back any faster Dale."

Another pat, this time on my knee. "Making yourself sick won't either," he whispers. His brown orbs burrow into mine and for a second, just a split second, I'm reminded of Sensei. "So drink some water and take care of yourself. Sophia's going to need a good bed time story when she gets back, don't you think?"

Seems I had more of an audience than I thought last night. Smiling slightly, I nod my head. I still feel guilty, useless, frustrated…but maybe not as much as I used to. Dale smiles in return and stands up. "Thata girl," he crows. I chuckle, the sound just a little hollow, and watch as the older man returns to his Winnebago, banging around the insides and giving Glenn, who has just turned up, a few pointers in mechanics. The sight of my friend makes my chest feel suddenly tight and uncomfortable. I've fucked everything up between us; I know that. A part of me wants desperately to fix it…another part thinks maybe it's for the best.

That part of me thinks, "The less friends, the less graves I will stand and cry over in the long run." Because life is now a marathon, and I'm running out of endurance.

But then the first part, the part that remembers lounging beneath that tree in the quarry, that remembers laughter and bubble gum breath, thinks, "What about Daryl? You're friends with him." It's almost accusatory.

I bite my cheek at the thought. Whatever I have with Daryl is…complicated. It always has been. But I've worked hard to get it and…I don't want to lose it. Not now, when I have so precious few people left. I rub behind my ear and my finger comes back black. I stare at the smudged skin and think ashes, ashes, my friends all burn down.

Some more time passes; the sun begins to sink low behind the horizon. Finished with my sorting, both arms a mess of smudged black ink, I'm about to get up and see what else I can do when Andrea walks up. At first, I think she's heading towards me, but then she veers to the right slightly and comes to stand right before Dale. The two of them are almost within arm's reach. By the way Andrea is standing, I'm suddenly wishing I were anywhere but here.

"Where's my gun?" Her tone is sharp and demanding. I see Dale flinch under it. "You have no right to take it," she continues. Glenn, who had been handing Dale tools, slowly steps back and slides away. His leg brushes my back from where I'm sitting on the ground, and I almost wish he would stop and haul me up with him. But he doesn't and I'm left in the dirt, listening to Andrea build up to a full-blown argument.

Dale, looking to avoid a fight, says, "You don't need that just now, do you?" He sounds like he's both begging and trying to convince her.

Andrea, however, will not be swayed and is unmerciful. "My father gave it to me," she retorts. "It's mine." She sounds like a child that has had her toy stolen: righteously angry and equally whiny. I blink at my caustic thought and feel somewhat ashamed: Andrea's never been anything but kind to me. Mostly, I just wonder as to what's going on. I'm not left in the dark for long though.

"I can hold onto it for you." Dale proposes it like an offer; I can see he won't take no for an answer.

"Or you can give it back to me!"

Dale sighs and Andrea scowls and then, all of the sudden, Shane walks up and stands right in front of me. "Everything cool?" he asks, hands in his pockets but eyes dark, alert, and watchful.

Andrea turns on him. "No!" she practically spits out. "I want my gun back."

"I don't think it's a good idea right now," Dale counters and oh.

Oh.

"Why not?" Shane questions because he doesn't get it. But I get it. So very, very much.

"Because I'm not comfortable with it." Andrea scoffs with scorn at Dale's response. I see where she is coming from; I understand because I've more than once butted heads with Shane, and even Dale, in the past over things that they were barring me from doing. But…I also understand Dale. Because I remember that he stayed behind at the CDC, only to convince Andrea to leave. I remember his face, his ardent pleas, the agony in his voice and eyes. I don't know what he had said to get Andrea out of that building—I was a little preoccupied at the time—but I know he had to have said something from the bottom of his heart. You only put your life on the line like that for someone you really care about.

"So what does that say about Daryl?" my traitorous mind abruptly whispers. I shove the thought away as quick as it comes and try not to dwell on it.

I sit on the ground, between all three of these adults, feeling like the kid caught in the middle of her parent's argument. I try not to draw attention to myself as Andrea glares and Dale pleads with his eyes; I try not to breathe. I don't want to be drawn into this. I don't want that conversation.

Shane shifts his eyes between the two, like judge and jury, weighing his verdict. After a moment, he finally says, "Well…the truth is, less guns we have floating around the camp the better." He's delivered his sentencing, but Andrea is quick, and angry, to appeal.

"You turning over your weapon?" she demands.

Shane really could have done without the condescending laugh he frames his, "No," with. Andrea looks like she's about to start in on him when he cuts her off again. "But I'm trained in its use. That's what the rest of ya'll need: proper training. Until that time, I think it's best if Dale keeps them all accounted for."

The fire in Andrea's blue eyes—I try not to realize they're Amy's but I can't help it and I suddenly can't breathe—could melt cement. "Really? He's taking all the weapons? Keeping them all 'accounted for?'" Her fingers come up to make sharp air quotations. Then, suddenly, one of her hands drops and jabs right in my face, a foot away from my nose.

Fuck.

"So, you're taking Audrey's swords away too?" she seethes. My joints lock together so fast they click. "You said all weapons right? And even if you weren't sticking to that bullshit lie, she stayed behind too. Why don't you but her on suicide watch?"

There's a moment of stillness, of silence, and then, as one, both Shane and Dale turn their heads to stare down at me. I see in both their eyes that Andrea's words have stuck a chord with them and, suddenly, I don't feel understanding of Dale at all. I'm fully sympathetic to Andrea because I darethem, I dare them, to take my blades, these last vestiges of my old life. They are one of the only things I have left to remind me of home, and they are the only things between me and certain death in the form of snapping jaws and ripping claws. I will be damned if I hand them over just because these people think I'm suicidal. For the millionth time, I am not a child.

(I was suicidal, but I'm not anymore. I don't think. That's beside the point anyway.)

Perhaps Shane remembers the last time he tried to order me around; perhaps he doesn't think I need a babysitter, for whatever reason. Doesn't really matter. All that matters to me is, that after some silent consideration, he says, "No. Audrey can keep her swords."

I don't know who is more surprised: Andrea, Dale, or me.

"What?! That's a complete load of crap. If she can keep her swords, then I should get my gun back."

"No, because I stand by what I said," Shane argues back. He does not flinch under Andrea's righteous anger. "Ya'll need training. Audrey doesn't. She's skilled with her weapon, just like I am, just like Rick is. Also, I haven't seen many accidents where I knife goes off and kills someone. Have you?"

Realizing she has lost, that there is no way to persuade these men, Andrea drums up the rest of her energy for one last glare before spinning on heel and stalking off. Shane and Dale watch her go, and it is not until both of their eyes are off me that I realize I've pulled my katana into my lap and am clenching it tight. I relax my fingers, and blood flows into my white, bruised knuckles.

Above my head, Shane mutters something to Dale, and then I'm watching his boots walk around the RV and disappear. I'm left alone with Dale, and that's not a place I want to be anymore.

Silence settles over the two of us, tense and uncomfortable. I can feel Dale's eyes on me even if I won't meet them; they bore under my skin and straight to the bone. The shift in the air, right before he opens his mouth to ask a question, I can feel it. So, it's just as he's inhaling that I rock to my feet, unsteady and sore but a moment away from making a run for it.

I am, unfortunately, a split second too late.

"Wait, hold on a second Audrey." Dale reaches out and puts a staying hand on my shoulder. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

"I think Glenn needed help with something," I blurt out, not looking at the older man's face. I gesture out helplessly towards the cars. "I've finished sorting so—"

Dale's fingers tighten on the jut of my shoulder. It's not painful, but it makes me fall silent nonetheless. I brace myself for the inevitable. "Audrey," he starts, voice calm and gentling. The muscles along my spine clench in response. "I think we should talk for a moment."

And I really think we shouldn't. I don't say that though. I just purse my lips and keep my face resolutely turned away. If Dale thinks he can make me talk, he has another thing coming. I have perfected the art of stony silence, tested under more strenuous situations than seeming a little rude. Unless he's going to beat it out of me, and even then I still might not talk, my thoughts are my own. Dale is going to make a valiant effort, though, I can already tell. Before he can even start, however, Glenn's voice drifts over the hot, dusk air.

"Oh god. They're back!"

My head snaps around so fast that the bones in my neck pop like fire crackers. Dale's fingers tighten again around the jut of my shoulder, but I'm not stopping this time. I can't. Without a second thought, I jerk out of Dale's grasp, ignoring the way his nails catch in my shirt, ignoring the way he calls my name. I'm running without realizing it, a comical combination of a limp and sprint towards the highway rail. Glenn careens into me halfway there, but we don't even stop. I wonder if the same prayer is beating through our blood.

SophiaSophiaSophia. Please let her be ok.

We arrive to find the others already gathered: Carol stands apart, thighs pressed against the rail, straining towards the woods; Lori has her arms around the anxious woman's shoulders; and the others stand in a shallow semi-circle facing the trees. I skid to a stop besides Shane and wait with bated breath, eyes wide and chest heaving.

Rick is the first to mount the slope that leads up to the highway. He comes out of the dense grass and waist-high weeds like a survivor stumbles out of a car accident. He's covered in dirt and dried blood, drenched in sweat and water presumably from the creek near by, and the exhaustion in his face goes bone deep. I know that look: It's the look when you've reached your limit and can't go any further. By the way Rick stumbles, hands half out almost as if for balance, I would say he reached that point hours ago.

And that's when I know.

When I look into his eyes, see the shadows, the guilt, the exhaustion that is almost literally crushing him and making him unable to walk, I know. Even before Carol whimpers and asks, "Yo…you didn't find her?"

That sentence is like a punch to the solar plexus. It rocks me back on my heels and steals the breath right out of my lungs. My hand comes up, suspended in mid air, and I don't know if it's trying to clutch at my failing heart or to ward of Rick's next, condemning words.

"Her trail went cold," the cop explains. He's stepping over the rail now and reaching out as if to calm Carol down. The woman is about to come apart at the seams. "We'll pick it up at first light."

First light? First light?! Rick's words don't compute, not for me and certainly not for Carol.

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own!" she cries. Her voice is splintering like glass across the floor. "To spend the night all alone in the woods."

I try not to envision that: Sophia, huddled against some tree in the dark, crying and scared out of her mind. I try not to think of her odds of survival, twelve years old and lost in a world where everything, quite literally, wants to devour her. I try not to entertain any of these thoughts. The tears that burn at the back of my eyes are evidence of my failure.

Suddenly, there's a rustles of grass, a crunch of broken glass underfoot. My blurry eyes trail from Rick's defeated posture a few yards back, and they find…Daryl. For just the briefest of moments, I had forgotten about the hunter. As Sophia's fate circled an endless drain in my head, I had forgotten about my friend. Seeing him now, beaten down, filthy and exhausted, with nothing to show for it…my guilt threatens to buckle me.

"Tell her Daryl," Rick abruptly says. All eyes go to the other man, still standing in the grass on the other side of the rail. He responds with a scowl and an uncomfortable fidget. "Tell her what you told me about tracking after sunset."

Daryl shifts under Carol's teary-eyed stare, tightening the strap of his crossbow and moving his weight from foot to foot. "Out in the dark's no good," he finally grumbles out, and, god, he sounds like he's about to pass out, all parched tongue and slightly slurred words. "We'd just be trippin over ourselves. More people'd get lost."

His voice is soft and almost gentle, like he's trying to cushion the blow that he's delivering to Carol. It's so different from his usual demeanor—gruff and bordering on hostile—that I see everyone else do a double take. Personally, I'm not all that surprised. I've seen this side of Daryl before, in flashes and quick bursts: in the mercy he showed me that first day in the woods; in the way he let me climb into his truck, onto his bike, under his skin; in the way he pulled me from the CDC and it's larger than life red numbers, ticking down to zero; in the way he looked for Sophia today when he was under no obligation to do so. I've almost always known that Daryl is more than meets the eye. Maybe now, others will too.

"But she's twelve!" Carol cries and there's such desperation in her voice, it starts bleeding into anger. "She can't be out there on her own. You couldn't find anything?!"

Daryl purses his lips under the weight of Carol's condemning stare and looks away. In the tumult of other emotions that are running rampart through my system—fear, despair, heartbreak—I still find the capacity within myself to suddenly feel so very guilty for the fact that perhaps the others, instead of seeing the good in Daryl, will now blame him for not finding Sophia. And it's my fault. I had asked him to go; I never thought about the consequences.

I never wanted to think that they wouldn't find Sophia.

Some more words are said. Rick pleads for Carol to understand that he had no choice in leaving Sophia behind, that he did it to save her. Carol sees blood on the hem of Daryl's jeans; they speak of a walker, shot down and gutted, and it's too much for Carol. She collapses against the highway rail and weeps, loud and heartbroken, even as Rick says they'll find her in the morning, says it over and over again; even when the former cop, surprisingly, commends Daryl's skill in tracking. Nothing mollifies the despairing mother, and, helpless, people start to break off. Rick, the first to return, is now the first to leave. He spares one last guilt-ridden glance at Carol, and then stalks off between the cars, legs jerky, shoulders high and tight. Shane follows him not long after, and the women flock to Carol, arms around her shoulders, patting along her back. I make no move to join them. Not because I don't feel sorry for her; not because my heart doesn't break for her. I just…I have no idea what to say. Comforting was never one of my strong suits. It was conditioned out of me a long time ago, out of necessity. Now, I'm just awkward with compassion, sometimes even unknowingly callous with it.

In more ways that one, I've become that boy I knew over ten years ago; I've become Adam Keene (1). I'm not 100% proud of that.

As everyone either drifts off, back to their previous tasks, or crowds in close to consol Carol, I see something move out of the corner of my eye. Paranoid and still high-strung, I track the movement without even thinking. Unsurprisingly, it's Daryl, slinking off while no one is looking, hoping to draw the least amount of attention. I cast Carol one last look, feeling ashamed that I can do nothing for her, before limping off in the direction that Daryl disappeared to.

I don't have to look for long; Daryl hasn't gone far. I can see him moving around his bike from where I'm standing, leaning against the front corner of the RV. Biting my lip, I wonder if I should just leave him be and talk to him in the morning. That thought is only entertained for a moment. I'm selfish, and I know it, but I least make the effort for a small pit stop before limping over to Daryl and his bike.

When I arrive, Daryl has his back to me. He either hasn't heard me coming—which I very much doubt since I'm not exactly quiet on my twisted foot—or he's ignoring me. I'm just contemplating leaving the items in my hand on the car next to me when something catches my eye.

The sun is setting and it's doing something funky to the shadows. Everything is distorted, stretched, warped. The asphalt is like a fun house mirror of inverted colors. But even with that, even with my exhaustion and pain making my vision blurry along the edges and slightly skewed, there is no way what I'm seeing is a trick of light or a figment of my imagination.

At first glance, it's the tattoos that draw attention. Stark and black, two demons perch on Daryl shoulder, all sharp lines and elegant swoops. One looks to be chasing the other, reaching up to grab its foot from the bottom. Some distant, miniscule part of my brain remembers the small devil on his inner arm and wonders at the macabre motif. The rest of my brain, the majority of it, is screaming silently at the rest of Daryl's back.

Scars.

Everywhere.

God, how could I have missed them before?

Thick and thin and every variation thereof, scars stretch across Daryl's back, from shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Most are thick and ropy, knotted. They are the type of scars that are left behind from a belt or a whip, something long that lays open your back with enough force. I should know. My own spine tingles in discomfort, in empathy, and I can't tear my eyes away from the horror before me. It's like I suddenly can't breathe, suddenly can't see anything but Daryl's bare skin, everything fading to black around him. My head pounds with the roar of my blood, and the world shifts under my feet. I taste blood on the back of my tongue as I gaze at the worst ones, situated on Daryl's lower back. Two short lashes that have to be at least two inches wide each, reaching from beneath the top of Daryl's pants to about four or five inches up his back. The skin is puckered and raised and god I'm suddenly nauseous with the thought of how much blood the hunter must have lost.

Mind whirling with half crazed thoughts of who did this and how old was he and he's just like me, I don't hear Daryl's quiet laugh. I do, however, hear him address me.

"Ya seem to be makin this a habit kid."

I start at the sound of his voice, hoarse and tired, and look up to see him starin at me over his shoulder. A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and I scramble for a response.

"Wh…what do you mean?" I ask, voice cracking halfway through. I try to look confused instead of concerned. I try to lie and know, deep down, I'm horribly failing.

He snorts and turns around. There's a smirk on his face and amusement in his eyes when he says, "Showin up when I'm changin. Didn't take ya for a perv."

It takes me a moment to process his words, for my brain to stop screaming scarsscarsDaryl'sscars. When I realize what he's said, a small rush of blood infuses my blanched face. Embarrassment is a distant feeling, smothered by horror and this drowning sensation in my chest, but I cling to it like a buoy. I let it bob me to the surface of my mind and let it shove words off my tongue. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who decided to be an ass and bathe that day at the quarry. I was there first."

Daryl hums, and I suddenly see something in his eyes. For a second, I'm scared he's seen the emotions behind my transparent scowl, but then I realize the expression looks almost mocking, as if he knows something I don't, like he's privy to some secret joke. It's nothing angry, I don't think, but the look is gone before I can examine it further, and I'm left wondering if it was ever there at all. Something else suddenly tickles at the back of my mind—a flash of bare, wet skin and the taste of bourbon—but that too is gone as quickly as it came. Shaking my head, thinking I'm imagining things, I step closer and extend my hands. They shake and tremble, and I can't meet Daryl's eyes as I draw up to him.

"An…anyway, I brought you a couple of things." Plastic crackles between my fingers, and the setting sun gleams off the colored packages. "It's uh…noting much. Some food, water, and I thought you'd want to wash up a bit after…after all you've been through." The words feel like sand in my throat and suddenly take on new meaning.

Fingers brushing mine, the hunter takes the things I've brought for him. "Hmm," he says. "Jerky and protein bars. Dinner of champions." There's an undercurrent of amusement to his words, buried beneath the exhaustion, and I glance up at him through my lashes.

"Yeah well…it um…was either that or chips and tuna that's been baking in the sun for god knows how long."

Daryl grimaces and sets the food down on the car beside us before reaching for the last package I'm holding. He flips it over in his grasp and squints at the label. "Towels huh?" He glances up at me, and I shrug.

"Washcloths," I amend. My mind is still racing a million miles an hour, and I can barely keep up with our conversation. "I've taken enough rags off you. I thought I'd return the favor."

He grunts and tears open the package. The cloths are crisp and pristine, starkly white against Daryl's dirt streaked skin. He takes one and dumps the rest in one of his bike's saddlebags. The water I brought him is upturned on the cloth, but Daryl is careful about it, and only a quarter of the canteen is used. Pausing for a moment, he looks up at me.

"What?" he asks with a cocked eyebrow. "No soap?"

Something is his voice eases a bit of the tension from my muscles. I can breathe a little easier. My chest is still in knots, my lungs a size too small, but it suddenly occurs to me that Daryl's no different from who he was a minute ago. He's the same person. I just…I'm different or we're different or something like that. I know something that perhaps I shouldn't, but that doesn't mean I should treat Daryl any different. I always hated that, and something tells me so would he. So, instead of letting the apologies that had been building in my throat roll off my tongue, I roll my eyes at his cocky demand. It's a lot harder than it would have been five minutes ago. "Soap was in a different pile. I grabbed what I could on my way. I'm sorry Your Highness."

My voice is still off, slightly flat and higher pitched, but the hunter doesn't seem to notice.

Daryl smirks again and goes back to his task as if nothing. I look away as he starts to drag the wet cloth across his arms, scrubbing off layers of caked on filth. Around us, the cicadas hum their nightly melody: a steady vibration echoing through the air and singing the sun to sleep. My mind hums with a higher intensity, buzzing around and around in circles. Memories staring clicking into place, like a moving slideshow, things I didn't understand before that now make sense.

Why Daryl was so aggressive.

Why he hated people touching him or invading his personal space.

Why he was so adverse to personal relationships.

It had all been a mystery to me before, and I can't feel like a bigger idiot. How could I have missed this? How could I have not understood?

After all…Daryl and I are more alike than I could have possibly imagined. Looking back on it now, maybe I did know, somewhere deep down. Maybe that's why I was so desperate to try and befriend the hunter: I recognized a similar, damaged spirit and wanted to connect with it as Sensei had done with me. I'm such an idiot.

The minutes pass in silence as Daryl bathes and I get lost in my thoughts. It's dusk now, bleeding into twilight. The sky is a burnt orange, bruised with lavenders and deep indigos. Birds caw overhead, and I absentmindedly tilt my head back to watch them fly by. Their black bodies spiral down towards the dark line of the trees, and I can't help but trace their path. Eyes straining, I follow them until they are out of sight, lost in the shadows of the woods. The forest is dark, foreboding, and my mind abruptly and halfheartedly wonders how it must feel to be a twelve-year-old girl trapped in their depths, predators lurking around every corner.

The thought seizes my throat like fingers across my windpipe. Not even Merle's hand, as it tried its hardest to choke the life out of me, felt this painful. Swallowing against the pressure, I rip my eyes away from the woods and try valiantly to find anything else that will keep my attention. But there is no refuge and no salvation because everywhere are reminders that Sophia is gonegonelostdead?—the empty cars stretching to horizon, the huddled survivors consoling Carol, the stillness in the air, and the heaviness in my bones. Not even Daryl's revelation can eclipse the sudden, white-hot pain in my chest. I can't escape it. Because Sophia is missing, and here I am, doing nothing. Acid churns in my gut, and I find myself whirling on Daryl with thoughts that have nothing to do with our apparent shared past tripping off my tongue.

"Are you sure the search can't continue tonight?" The words are jumbled and hurried, frantic, desperate. They almost taste like blood coming up.

Daryl freezes mid-motion: his hand stops its harsh scrubbing movements along the jut of his collarbone. The blue of his eyes is sharp as he stares at me, and I see a flash of anger in them. "Ya think I was lyin before, kid?" he asks. His voice is low and deep. I wince at his accusation.

"No. No, that's not what I meant."

"What then? Ya think I'm just too goddamn lazy to continue?" This time, under his anger, I hear a note of hurt.

Reaching up, I try to run my fingers through my hair, but my wrist flares in protest. I hiss and bring my arm down to cradle it against my chest. My left hand comes up to scrub harshly against my face. "Daryl, you know I don't think that," I groan. "I just…Sophia is so young you know? And this world isn't exactly safe anymore. I'm just…" I trail off, unable to admit my feelings. "We've lost so many people already," I whisper instead.

I don't want to think of Amy, of Jim, of Jacqui even…but the memories come regardless, memories of smile and laughter, flashes of blonde hair and motherly hands as we put up laundry. Then, it's all drowned in waves of crimson and fire, soaring flames and fever, the white moon looking down indifferently from above. A lone tear trickles down my cheek, and I scrub it away, hoping Daryl hadn't seen it.

The hunter stares at me for a moment, his gaze hot on my face—I guess I wasn't quick enough—before he turns around and walks towards his bike. The scars shift on his back, twisting shadows, and I'm disoriented by my abject terror for Sophia and the way my heart's breaking over Daryl at the same time. "Yeah, well we ain't loosin her ok?" he calls back to me as he starts to dig in one of his saddlebags. The used rag, dark brown and filthy now, hangs on a handlebar. "It's one night. The kid's smart enough to climb a tree or somethin and just wait for us to find her in the mornin." Straightening up, he comes back towards me with something in his hand. My eyes, however, are fixed on his own blue orbs. The question that has been hanging on the tip of my tongue for hours comes tumbling off without my permission.

"Do…do you think we'll really find her?"

Daryl doesn't answer me for a moment. When he finally does respond, his eyes haven't wavered from mine. "I do," he says firmly. There is conviction to his voice, resolution. He does believe it. The terror I feel lessens, though the heartbreak remains the same. If Daryl, a realist like myself, believes…than I can find it in myself to follow his example. "Now quit makin yerself sick, take this, and sit the hell down."

His hand jabs out between us, brushin against my side. I drop my gaze and see that he is holding something white and small in the center of his palm. Confusion trickles through me. "What's that?"

"Pain pill. The good shit too: Narcos."

My head jerks up in surprise, and Daryl scowls at my expression, his thin, chapped lips all twisted up. "Don't give me any lip, kid," he growls out. "Yer gonna take this pill if I have to shove it down your throat."

I splutter at his ultimatum. "D…Daryl! Come on. I'm fine!" That phrase I'm so accustomed to; the lie that's ingrained in my blood and bones. "You should really save those for—"

"For what?" Daryl counters hotly. "For somethin more serious? Ya got a fuckin broken wrist, busted ribs, and a bum ankle. On top of all that shit." He gestures vaguely to my face, and my still tender nose throbs in acknowledgement. "The only thing more serious is a missin fuckin limb. Take the goddamn pill."

"I still don't think—"

"If ya take the pill, ya can go out and look for the girl tomorrow."

That shuts me up fast. Daryl almost smirks, and I want to punch him for his manipulation. "I'll make ya a deal," he says. "Ya take the pill and ya let me redo yer splints…and I'll take ya to look for the girl in the mornin."

Licking my lips, I glance down at the pill still extend between us. I can feel my resolve crumbling, my objections flaking away under the onslaught of SophiaSophiaI'llfindSophiamyself.

"What if Shane or Rick won't let me?" I ask. It's a rhetorical question pulled from the air. By the way Daryl snorts, he doesn't even take it seriously.

"Walsh and Grimes ain't the boss of me…and from what I've seen, ya don't take kindly to their orders either. Not if they don't suit ya."

Funnily enough, there seems to be something akin to admiration or pride in his voice.

It doesn't take long for me to decide after that. Not even verbally agreeing, I reach out and pick up the small white tablet between my thumb and forefinger. As Daryl drops his hand, I meet his eye and pop the pill in my mouth. I swallow it dry, and it tastes like chalk going down.

Daryl's eyebrows rise towards his hairline. "Ya pop pills like an addict, kid."

I shrug and feel the pill hit my stomach with a gurgle.

Daryl's hands are gentle when they undo the splint on my arm. We're sitting on the open tailgate of a rusted out GMC. Neither of us says a word as the highway descends into darkness and Daryl works in the last, fading rays of light. The hunter does scoff at my shoddy workmanship and crooked bandages. But before he can ridicule me, he catches sight of what lies underneath.

The skin of my wrist is an ugly eggplant color, splotchy and grotesque. It's still slightly swollen, and very, very tender. Darker lines are interspersed through the bruise, a distinct pattern, and both of us try to ignore the fact that they match the tread of Merle's boots. The skin isn't broken, but Daryl still doesn't like the look of it. As he finishes re-wrapping it—the splint now sturdy and perfect—he digs out another pill and shoves it in my hand, grunts that it's an antibiotic and to take it. I don't argue with the tone of his voice, and the second pill falls to churn in my gut with its brethren.

My ankle isn't as bad—still purple, still slightly swollen, but obviously not broken. It doesn't even look as bad as the first sprain I had, from falling out of that tree near Dalton. At one point, however, Daryl accidently presses on the darkest splotch of skin, a deep indigo oval, where Merle's steel-toed boot had made contact, and he jerks back like I'm the one that hurt him. He grows even more sullen and silent after that.

His hands, however, despite their calluses, become even softer in their motions. More than once, I have to quash the urge to reach out and touch him and that fact unsettles me. I tell myself it's only because of what I've learned. I tell myself it's only because I understand him now, or at least a part of him. I tell myself it's only because I feel bad for the horrors and pain Daryl had to have faced in his life to receive such scars. I tell myself all this…and ignore the way my mind keeps flashing memories of the two of us: Daryl and I down by the lake; Daryl and I laughing in the woods, me rolling in the dirt as he pokes at me with a homemade arrow; Daryl and I in his truck, leaving the CDC, me curled against his side; Daryl and I on his bike with my face pressed between my shoulders. All these things come to the forefront in my mind and I would be lying if I said it didn't trouble me.

When he's done, he grumbles for me to get some food and go sleep in the RV. I want to argue, but the pain pill has kicked in, and I'm feeling distinctly drowsy. I ask where he's going to sleep, and he says not to worry about him, to get some fuckin rest for the morning cuz he ain't gonna slow down for me. I stick my tongue out childishly, the motion sloppy as my muscles are quickly going lax, and he nudges me towards the Winnebago before turning around and slipping into the dark of the highway cemetery. Andrea catches me standing there, staring into the shadows, and shepherds me into the RV. Carol, Lori and Carl are asleep on the beds in the back; T-Dog tosses fitfully in the small hallway; Glenn sprawls on one side of the kitchen booth, snoring with his face pressed against the window, the bill of his hat tipped up; Dale snuffles in the driver's seat; and I can hear the quiet, deep baritones of Shane and Rick drift down from the roof. Taking the other side of the kitchen booth, Andrea, unsurprisingly, leaves me the passenger seat besides Dale. I curl up in the worn, upholstered chair as best I can, katana beside me and tanto still on my hip. The highway stretches out before me, dark and shadowed behind the smudged windshield. I stare at nothing and everything at once. Not long after I settle, movement catches my eye, and I see Daryl clearing out one of the vans two or three car lengths away. He disappears at intervals after that and always returns dragging something along the ground. He stops, after awhile, and climbs in the back of the van, shutting the trunk behind him.

It's not until the moon slides out from behind the clouds that I realize he's dragged walker corpses around the perimeter of his van. For a moment, I'm confused as to why. Then, I remember what T-Dog said earlier, as he was regaling his rescue to Carl.

"Man I thought I was a goner when that geek found me. Then Dixon man…he came out of nowhere and stabbed the thing in the back of the head like it was nothin. And then he threw the body on me! I was kinda pissed until he flopped down on the ground and pulled another dead geek on him, just before the herd passed. They didn't even know we were there, not even with my blood all over the place!"

It must have been the smell, he had reasoned: the stench of walkers—decaying flesh and putrid things—overriding the aroma of living humans. Daryl as always, was just taking precaution.

Sometimes, I don't even know why I worry about the hunter. If anyone was going to ride this apocalypse out, it's gonna be Daryl Dixon.

The thought, inexplicably, makes me happy.

The night drags on slowly; around me, everyone sooner or later is lost to sleep, as fitful and unfruitful as it may be. I continue to stare out over the highway, thoughts sluggish and erratic: Sophia's face and details from The Giver, Jim's last words, the burning CDC, Amy, blue eyes though I can't even tell whose they are, Daryl's scars and the demons he's inked into his skin, the demons he can't shake. Time passes like a glacier through the mountains. I wait for another herd to come shambling through the dark, or for Sophia just appear by the roadside like some miracle wished upon a star.

Sleep does not come.

---

The mornin dawns red, and Daryl feels like he ain't slept a wink. By the way the others stumble out of the RV, blurry-eyed and uncoordinated, he thinks they didn't get much shuteye either.

Breakfast is a quick affair of whatever ya can grab and swallow in five minutes. It's mostly granola bars or candy, a bag of chips or, if ya were quick enough, some Pop Tarts that had been pulled outta the trunk of a mini-van. Daryl settles for a bottle of Gatorade and a bag of pretzels and barely has time to finish them before Grimes is gatherin them around the RV. It takes a while for everyone to finish their meals though, so Daryl leans against the Winnebago and checks his crossbow, tests the sharpness of his knife. It's just as he's thumbing the tip of his blade that someone sidles up to him, and Daryl doesn't even have to glance up to know who it is.

"Morning," the kid yawns. Her hair is askew in several different directions, a dark tangle that frames her pale face. Daryl smirks at the way she childishly smacks her lips and knuckles her right eye.

"Mornin. Ya eat already?"

Audrey nods and cranes her neck from side to side, sighin in relief at the resoundin pops. "Yeah, Carl split his Pop Tarts with me, and I snagged a small can of fruit." She pats her stomach, and Daryl finds himself starin at the sliver of skin that's revealed between the hem of her light bluet-shirt and the top of her cut-off jean shorts. He tears his eyes away a moment later and repeats to himself he was just lookin at the bruises stamped on her skin, just makin sure she was ok.

Somethin nasty in his head whispers Audrey's ribs are higher up than her belt. Daryl bites his tongue.

"What about you?" she inquires in turn. Gruntin, Daryl kicks at the trash by his feet and watches the Gatorade bottle clatter and roll under a nearby car. He doesn't respond any other way, too caught up in the way he skin suddenly feels too tight, but the kid gets it. She hums and leans next to him against the RV, pullin out her own blade—the short one from her hip—and sightin along the edge. They fall into an easy silence, which ain't exactly hard with the kid, but more than once Daryl feels her eyes on him, heavy and silent, like she wants to say something but can't seem to manage it. Daryl ain't surprised. The kid probably was warrin with herself, wanting to fill the silnce but not up for idle chit chat this mornin. Daryl can sense it in the way she's holdin herself—all high, tense shoulders and stiff spine; he can see it in the way she her eyes are bright and clear as she inspects her blades. Audrey's ready and focused and determined to find this little girl.

And apparently so is everyone else.

"Ok," Grimes calls. He's standin next to an old station wagon with flat tires and spreadin out an arsenal of weapons along the hood. The sun glints off the black handles and silver blades like beacons, beckonin to be picked up and utilized. Chinaman's the first one to snag one—a small, but sharp, handheld axe. With the exception of the blonde, who Daryl really doesn't care for, everyone else follows suit.

The blonde, however, is quick to complain. Daryl rolls his eyes and wonders if she ever does anythin else.

"These aren't the kind of weapons we need," she snaps when Grimes holds out a large knife to her. "What about the guns?"

"We've been over that." Everyone turns to Walsh, leanin against the RV. "Rick and I are carrying." Daryl thinks about the small revolver in his waistband and smartly decides against sayin anythin. Ain't no way in hell Walsh was takin his gun. "We can't have people poppin off rounds every time a bush rustles. Might bring another herd down on us, and then it's game over. So get over it, alright?"

Sputterin in anger, the blonde looks like she's bout to retaliate, when Audrey, unsurprisingly, steps up from beside him. She has her katana still in hand, twirlin it in what Daryl somehow recognizes as an irritated movement. There's sweat already beadin along her brow, and the early mornin light makes the dark bruises along her throat and around her eye stand out in stark contrast to her slightly sunburned skin. It's her eyes that stand out though, green and gleamin and down right pissed. Daryl should know. He's had that look leveled at him more than once.

"Can we move this along sometime this morning?" The blonde gapes at her, but the kid doesn't miss a beat. Her other hand, the bandaged one, jerks up to point at the tree line. "Sophia's still out there, you know? And the longer we stand here bickering about pointless shit, the longer she's out there alone."

"I'm sorry? Is our safety pointless?" the blonde hisses, findin her voice. She turns to face Audrey with her hands on her hips, and Daryl has this idiotic urge to step in front of the kid. He doesn't, though, just shifts on his feet and flexes his fingers along the strap of his crossbow.

Audrey laughs, and there's a dark edge to it. People share anxious glances; Walsh and Grimes share a guarded look. Even the blonde seems a little put off by the kid's tone. "What's so funny?" she snaps, defensive. Audrey shakes her head.

"Nothing. " But the other woman is angry now, all bright blue eyes and self-righteous ire.

"No. Tell me. What could possibly be so funny?"

Daryl can tell by the way the kid shrugs, the tilt of her head, that what she's bout to say ain't gonna be pretty.

"Nothing," Audrey repeats, but when the blonde goes to snap at her again, she cuts her off. "I just found it ironic that someone who tried to commit suicide a day and a half ago is concerned about safety."

The air goes dead silent; the cracklin tension puts the ciacadas to shame. No one's said it out loud; no one's addressed what happened back at the CDC. It's kinda like outta sight, outta mind. But the kid's dragged it into the open now, the festerin elephant in the room. Daryl finds it amazin that she could be so diplomatic in some instances and down right callous in others. He finds it kind of amusin. This means the kid's done with bullshittin around. He almost smirks.

"Now I get it," Audrey continues. "I do." She puts her hand over her heart and stares straight into the blonde's eyes. "I stayed in the CDC too, remember?" That almost smirk slips right off of Daryl's face, and his knuckles clench, bone white. "And a part of it was because of Amy." The blonde blanches as white as Daryl's knuckles. "But just because you didn't get your way back at the CDC doesn't mean you get to be an antagonistic, bitch here ok?"

"Audrey!" someone hisses, and Daryl glances over to see the boy's mother, Lori, glarin with her hands over her son's ears. Daryl reigns in the urge to snort cuz really? The damn world's ended, and she's concerned bout curse words?

The kid doesn't even flinch. In fact, she seems to gain momentum. Twirlin the katana in her palm, the sun glintin off the metal like molten silver, Audrey squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. "This isn't about you. This is about Sophia. She's twelve, and she's scared, and she's lost. I don't know about you, but I'd like to find her as soon as possible. I'm sure Carol does too. Now if you're too good for a blade," Audrey shrugs and gestures behind her to the RV. "By all means, stay behind. Dale would probably welcome the help. But if not, grab something sharp, shut up, and listen to Daryl's plan for the day. Alright?"

The silence that follows her ultimatum screams. No one says a word; no one even breathes. Audrey doesn't seem to notice though. She turns to Daryl as if nothin and gestures at the map Grimes has spread out along the hood, folded and yellowed and torn. Her green eyes find his, clear and expectant, and Daryl finds himself movin without his own volition, clearin his throat and pointin out the path they'd take today, mutterin how followin the creek was their best bet since that was the girl's only landmark. The others shift awkwardly but don't say anything and after Daryl's done talkin, they all drift off, rummagin through packs, checkin their weapons, anythin to avoid the kid and the blonde's murderous expression.

"Ready?" Audrey asks him. The two of them haven't moved away from the station wagon, still lingerin over the map and the empty cache of weapons. There's nothin different in her voice, nothin off bout her expression. She gazes straight into him, and while Daryl outwardly shakes his head at her mood swings, somethin like concern unfurls in his chest. The last time the kid acted so harsh…Daryl shoves away the thought and resolves himself to not let Audrey out of his sight today.

"Yeah kid. I'm just gonna grab some water. Meet ya by the rail."

She nods in assent and wanders off towards the road's shoulder. Daryl watches her walk away, watches how the young boy slides up next to her, watches how she smiles down at him and ruffles his hair. That disquietin feelin squirms in his chest again, writhin like a nest of angry snakes. He tries to ignore it, like he ignores most of the other confusin sensations the kid brings out in him, but an overheard conversation makes it impossible.

It's that fuckin blonde again. Desperate and hard headed, she's bypassed Walsh's rule entirely and gone straight to the source, straight to her gun. The old man in his stupid, floppy hat, tries to ward her off, calm her down, but her words are razor sharp and bite deep. Daryl feels their sting from nearly ten yards away, frozen in place, canteen slippin through his sweatin fingers.

"Jenner gave us an option," she gritted out. There's less than a foot of space between her and the old man. Her words are hissed quietly, but they carry through the still air; they careen straight into Daryl's ears and embed themselves in his skull. "I chose to stay."

And suddenly, it ain't only the blonde's voice he's hearin.

"I'm not going. I'm…tired Daryl. I told you. Just so tired."

"You chose suicide," the old man argues back. His voice is frantic, desperate. Daryl knows what his words taste like and hates the fact that he does.

The blonde—Andrea, his mind supplies, so close to the kid's name—is hateful in her response. Her lip curls, her eyes cut, diamond hard and blue. Her words are practically acid when they ooze out, "So what's that to you? You barely know me!"

Daryl has to fight the desire to pinch himself cuz fuckin shit this is hittin too close to home to be real.

The old man sighs, eyes pleadin, and starts, "I know Amy's death devastated you," and Daryl can't help but think of dull green eyes, a distant expression, hysterical laughter and nonsense speech. Andrea ain't havin it though, is hateful and wants it to show.

"Keep her out of this. This is not about Amy. This is about us, you and me. And if I decided that I had nothing left to live for, who the hell are you to tell me otherwise? To force my hand like that?"

Daryl flinches beneath the weight of her words, and they ain't even directed at him. But they could have been; they still could be. He tries to shake off the feelin, but it eats at him, acidic, corrosive. The CDC looms in his mind, all big red numbers, tickin down to zero, and Audrey's voice, louder than the damn explosives that knocked him on his ass.

"I've been rolling with the punches all my fucking life and I'm done! Daryl, my family is dead. So are all my friends. What's the point?! Give me a goddamn reason!"

But no…Daryl did give her a reason. Embarrassingly and he'll never speak bout it again but…he gave her a reason; she came with him. For her Ma, obviously, but…Daryl bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood and does not finish his thought. The kid's alive and kickin; that's all that matters.

He is happy to leave it at that, half turns to do as such, but the arguin pair ain't. Not in the least. Daryl hates them for it, hates that he hears their next words.

"I saved your life," the old man states, bold as brass with a touch of humility. Andrea cuts him off at the knees, and Daryl feels his own legs tremble.

"No, Dale," she says. Her voice breaks around the words, shattered glass and a broken life. "I saved yours. You forced that on me. I didn't want your blood on my hands, and that's the only reason I left that building."

Doubt seizes Daryl like a hand around his throat, but he finally regains use of his legs. Startin forward like a colt on new legs, he stumbles towards the highway rail, leaves the blonde and old man and their words behind. They cling to him, however, whispers at the back of his mind, tuggin at his sleeve. He draws up to the kid without realizin, and his first thought is, "Does she feel the same?"

Does she blame him? Does she hate him? Does she wish she never let him drag her out?

Does she still want to die?

That last question is the one that makes him interrupt the conversation she's still havin with the boy, makes him grunt that they're leavin and nudge her over the railin, even as she's tryin to say some last words over her shoulder to Grimes' brat standin wide-eyed on the asphalt. It drives him straight into the woods, people scramblin to catch up, and forces him to glance back every five seconds to make sure the kid's still there, still livin, still kickin.

Audrey meets his eyes with a question in her own green depths, head tilted, hair fallin to the side and flashin that scar he gave her along the temple, three inches long and shiny. Daryl thinks about that bolt—his bolt—that almost took her life that first day; he thinks about his brother who almost finished the job. Subconsciously, he had thought maybe he was levelin the playin field by savin her life, literally pullin her out of a burnin buildin. He thought maybe, just maybe, he was settlin some of his debt.

Now, he ain't so sure.

Now…

"Daryl? You ok?"

"Fine," he grunts out, the kid's favorite goddamn word. He doesn't meet her eye, doesn't see her bewildered, concerned glance. "Let's get goin. We only got so much sun left."

He plunges into the under brush without another word and forces himself to concentrate on the lost girl, not on the one burnin holes in the back of his neck.

He doesn't quite succeed.

---

(0) The chapter of this chapter is taken from a song of the same name by the artist Hammock. All their songs are beautiful and were the soundtrack to this chapter.

(1) See beginning of chapter 19 for reference

A/N: Well...there you have it. I'm not very happy with this chapter (I swear I must have deleted it 5 or 6 times) but I thought you guys deserved SOMETHING. I hope it was adequate enough :/

If you noticed, I'm slowly but surely adding some breadcrumbs of attraction that will lead to Daryl and Audrey's relationship. If you didnt notice, then this chapter was worse than I thought.

That's all for now! I apologize a million more times again (bows in shame) and hope some of my readers have stuck around. As always, if you have an questions, comments, confusions, or concerns ( or just want to yell at me) feel free to PM me and I'll address them accordingly! :)

Until next time,

~Shadows