Hey all! Thank you so much for your continued readership (& feedback!). In truth, I'm feeling pretty unsteady in some of these recent chapters, this one included, small scale & large. Read kindly?

Morning came, late, it felt, finding all in camp still alive, and Michael feverish from the pain. Though they spent the night in the red zone, never fleeing their camp or putting distance between themselves and the rounds fired, no further ambush came. The remoteness of their position, so far from town and road, attracted only stumbling stragglers to the echoes of the gunfire, no large horde in a second-wave nor sign of the living. Tension abates in camp as light breaks through the dark haze of early morning. First the night sky turns lighter grey, then slowly, the distant forest ground in the east begins to glow and warm, then rays of light, misty and shifting, cut through the shadowy outlines of trees and brush, and new light comes, ending the night, and with it their watch.

"Hey," Daryl's voice rumbles like stone, breaking silence he sat with too long. He nudges Beth, stirring her from her waking doze, "Better g't movin'." He shifts the crossbow, gripped too many hours at the ready, and sets his hand at her elbow. "Get the blood movin'; take a piss." Beth's eyes close in an effort to fully awake from only a semi-slumbered rest; she nods, and then moves to stir. Like him she's stiff, and chilled to the bone; it feels odd to stand after sitting so long, after waiting so many hours for the light to come. The sun is just barely breaking out through the trees, lighting the dark woods with just a distant haze of day, but the arbitrary relief it brings is real, and nourishing. The camp – still intact – crawls back to life. It was a long and labored night, but one they survived.

Though the morning light brings with it a sense of relief, a sense of reprieve from an attack they'd undoubtedly invited with their gunfire, the light does not lighten the weight of work that now rests on their shoulders. There are rounds to be made, patrols that must be sent to every walker trap to dispatch each one still caught and snarling on a pike or in a ditch or on a wire. More than that there will be the heavy lifting of the dead, the collecting of the corpses and the destruction of the remains. The night was long, the day also will be.

Standing, Daryl makes for food, his gut churning over the emptiness the forest tea left him with all night; Beth for the river, traversing gingerly the path on weary legs. "Mornin'," she gently smiles. On the lower riverbank, on her way to relieve herself, Beth meets Peter, washing the grime and the blood and the night in the tree off him in the cool creek water.

He squints into the east, "It is; finally."

She bends to scoop some water to her face. "It's been some time," she says, "since so many of them at once... You forget." She bites her lip and her eyes find the sky. With a somber twinkle she abashedly laughs at herself, "Don't know how. Careless. Get to thinking, they're almost not the problem."

Peter slurps from the water he's cupped in his hand and measures her. "You okay?"

"Mm,hm," she nods slowly, her face forming the shape of a smile. "You?"

"We made it through the night — nine for nine; I'm okay." Caught in lingering exhaustion and tension, memory and fear, not fully awake from the night she never really slept through, Beth stands there where the water pools and churns, shifting her weight back and forth on the unstable footing of the river rocks. Peter nods at her, "Go'ahead," he tells her, prompting her to action. "Y'didn't come down to visit." Beth glances at him, smiles through a nod, and with pistol in hand walks past him, rounding the river bend to the makeshift stone and soil toilets. "Hey, uh, Beth—" he calls to her.

"Ye-ah?" Her answer's unsteady; though having from the necessity of proximity long ago lost any demands of modesty, she prefers still her privacy if ever she should find it.

"Y'might think about finding another place to be today. Th' fires will be burning all day. You gonna be able to handle it?"

From behind the rocks Beth questions, "We'll risk that much smoke?"

"Can't have that many rotting on our doorstep," he says as she comes back into sight; "none of us'd be able to stand it. Or are you just lookin' to be in good company?" Granting him an obligatory chuckle in answer, she takes hold his hand as he helps her take the first step to climb the slope, gripping the knotted rope line in her other. "Only saying, day's gonna be unpleasant enough without watching you get sick."

"That chivalry?" Daryl puts it to Peter as he appears above, reaching his strong arm down to Beth. Gripping and heaving her up the rest of the incline, the muscles in his forearm strain under the exertion, "What you saying to this girl?"

"Nuthin," Peter chuckles as he climbs after her.

"Hey," Daryl catches onto her sleeve as she passes. "Get some sleep."

"I'm okay." She presses a light kiss to his shoulder then moves to make toward the center of camp.

"You keep sayin' that you're gonna fall down where you stand," the archer counters. "What'ch'ya doin', training for a marathon? You got something t' prove to somebody Greene? Go lay down." His arms swings in her direction, "Get outta my hair."

"Yes sir, Mr. Dixon," Beth rejoins, only, she doesn't make for their hut.

Daryl watches her go instead to Michael where still he lies suffering uncomfortably in a hammock. "Headstrong…" he mutters, then, licking his fingers from the jerky he's just finished, turns brusquely on Peter, "Whut'ch'ya lookin' at?"

"Nothing," he shrugs indifferently, "only, didn't know a person could talk to a girl that way and not get eternally shut down."

"Guess you ain't got my charm college boy."

"Right," Peter nods, "but… never made it to college."

"Then," Daryl walks away, hitching his waistband, "m'ybe ya still got some things t' learn." He whistles at Rob to hold up before going out to hunt, not holding out much hope that after last night there'll be anything in the snares. On his way to the bridge he passes the laid up Michael, "Hey," he nods with a grumble, "keep an eye on 'er."

White with pain, and sick from fever, Michael looks up from the hammock from which he hasn't budged all night, and grits through the effort it takes to smile. "Yeh," he chokes on the irony and the pain. "I'm all over it."

"Good man," Daryl nods again softly, his eyes creased. "Hang in there," he grunts. To Beth he barks as he crosses over, "Eat sum'in'."

Beth hands Michael another bottle of water and two coveted IB Profins. "It's not enough, sorry; it should help some with the fever." She watches him force down the pills voraciously; she waits. "Think you can eat?" Through shut eyes Michael shakes his head, his body can't do anything but hurt. "Sleep some," she soothes. "I'll fix some broth. It'll help."

While Rob and Daryl hunt and the others begin the work of piling up the walkers, Beth repositions the iron pot over the small fire John already got going. She drops in fish bones, two spoonfuls of collected fish oil, and a sprinkling of salt and pepper. Though in truth she is exhausted, her mind is alert, and as others are otherwise occupied and they all need to eat, she sets aside the lethargy. Leaving the contents of the pot to sizzle, she shakes in celery salt, minces wild onions, and finely chops greenbrier leaves, then dumps them all in. After adding water she removes the pot from the direct heat to let the broth simmer. As she waits she drinks. By the water she sits, and eats from the mason jar of fire-roasted hickory nuts. As the broth cooks she cleans her gun, then two more.

She sits amidst the camp's work, exerting herself as a part of it. They're staying, she and Daryl. She hadn't expected they would. She'd already slowly started extricating herself in her mind. Content as she's been, happy, even, as she's found herself, as close as she's grown to the seven here, she never fully let herself entertain the thought of truly staying. She's past that, one more thing she's lost in the rubble since the turn. Beth no longer allows herself to hope for permanence. She doesn't dwell on things lasting, she hopes instead for one day to pass into the next without too much trouble in between. And even now, with a baby expected before the return of summer, she's battling to keep her expectations in check. She has learned this lesson well: A house is a place from which eventually one runs. Home is where one's family is, and even family can change. She steels herself to the hard fact the road is as much a home to her now as anything. At least she takes care to tell herself this is so, meaning ever again to be prepared.

When the broth boils she serves some in a mug and visits Michael who'd been helped by John and Simon into the largest of the huts. "Hey," she smiles softly.

Michael grunts something as she enters, but it isn't discernable. Beth steps into the high-ceilinged hut and runs her cool hand over his brow. "You're no warmer," she says. "The fever will break."

"'Break…'" he agonizes.

Beth's dimples appear diplomatically, "You'll be fine." Her assurance is sober, not overly sanguine or encouraging, but it's honest. "It'll hurt, but your leg will mend. You'll heal, and you'll walk."

"Run?"

Her lips press into a tempered smile. "You'll do what you can." She hands him the mug and exchanges the damp rag at his forehead for a fresh one. "Drink, I'll replace those." After refreshing the baggies of cold creek water packing the elevated break she adds greens to her own mug, and sits outside Michael's hut, talking to him some, eating in the sunlight. "Think it'll rain soon…" She watches the dwindling fire, dunks a dense chunk of sun-baked bread into the soup, and concentrates on the moment. If she keeps eating, if she sticks to protein, if she doesn't have to skin the game, she can keep herself mostly balanced, normal, aside from the fatigue; she can mostly keep the nausea at bay.

"Hey—" Darly grouses, calling her out across camp. Returned from the snare rounds it provokes him to find her not only up and not resting, but supplying the fire and tending to someone other than herself "—whut'd I say? Ain't nobody around here handin' certificates out for martyrs. Just grave markers for dead girls."

"Hey—" Simon protests, unused to Daryl's rough belligerence being directed toward Beth.

"Com'on now," Tom cajoles.

"Daryl—" Beth addresses him, ignoring the tumult of interested parties around them "—quit babying me. I'm all right."

"Girl, maybe you do need somebody t' baby you, seein' as you're having a baby an' still walkin' round here like you've got somethi'n to prove, like you've got to outlast everybody in camp. Guess what?" he flings his arm at her as he leans in toward her direction. "You're a girl, smaller than anyone in this camp, one of em' younger 'an you by three years, and that little tired cowgirl body of yours, with no doctor, with nobody 'round who knows anything about it, is growing a person. Stop being a damn hero and take a damn nap." He stops pacing, "We will let you know when we got a job we can't do without you. It ain't pre-school – we don't all got t' be equal: you're having a damn baby, you get to take a break." Accustomed to his blustering Beth is less impressed by his outburst than are the others, but she does look at him, wide eyes indicating she indeed is sitting, and is eating. "Naw," he throws a feckless wave in her direction, "you got no sleep; lie down, don't sit. You got a couple mile walk ahead o' you; take a rest."

"I c'n stay in camp."

"No point to that," he counters sedately. "Being here, not being here, won't make no difference to the camp once the fire's are lit."

"I can clear," she tells him. "I can help with the piles." She's been keeping clear of walkers, but feels strongly the importance of clearing over catering to the sensitivity of her stomach.

"Hey now," Tom intervenes, "Mikey's not going anywhere, an' he's not being left here on his lonesome. Stay here, kill three biters with fifty-four bullets."

Daryl smirks, nods in her direction, then reaches out his hand to her, "Think you can handle that? An' some sleep?" With a quick solid tug he lifts her to her feet.

"Right," Rob nods. "We clear the pits, the trip wires, the traps. We get the bodies an' make piles."

"How many pyres we talkin'?" Daryl asks.

"Smart to just have one," John weighs in, "but that much transporting 's not realistic."

"It's dry," Peter remarks. "We gotta control these fires. Plan for wind shifts."

"You know how to do that?" Daryl challenges.

"What about the trailer?" Beth posits. "It's burnt out already; lightin' that, it could control it spreadin', right?"

"'s a good idea," Simon nods.

"Can't get 'em all all the way out there," James points out. "Distance is too far, terrain too uneven."

"In the pits then," Simon suggests. "Ditches 'll keep the flames from jumping as much as anything."

Daryl nods, "Could work."

Peter agrees. "Consolidate them; be ready with shovels to pile on dirt when the flames get too high."

"Right," Daryl grunts. "Work in pairs, use the carts, use the sleds."

"Will take hours," John wipes his brow, "b'fore we get any fires lit."

James looks into the sky, "It's not 9:00 yet; got the whole day."

... The sun nears its highpoint in the sky as Daryl and James partner to clear one trench and reset a tiger trap. Below ground Daryl inhales beneath his red bandana as he works to heave another body above his shoulders, pushing it over the edge. "Beth an' me had a talk las' night."

James strains, pulling with all his might, also muffling the stench behind a rag, "Yeah?"

Using his forearm Daryl wipes sweat off his upper lip before he starts with another. "We're set t' stay on." Briefly his eyes meet James', "If that's a thing you all could see takin' on."

James pauses fractionally to look Daryl in the eye, and then he bends and takes up another walker to transport and discard into the trench further south from their position. "You know it's not up to me. Consensus rules." He kicks off a walker as its body rolls lifeless onto his boot, then steps back. "Pete'll speak for you."

"Not worried about Peter. Or Michael. Or Simon," he adds. "Hell, half the camp's in love with her, one way or another."

"She's pretty terrible," James deadpans. "Both of you. Worthless." Daryl half smirks, but he can't find real levity in it till he knows for certain he Beth and the baby have the votes to stay. "There are—" James says with some sensitivity "—other concerns."

Daryl's head nods soberly, "Yeh," he grunts. "I know."

James drags the bodies out of the way to clear the rim for more corpses to get pushed out. He winces some as his body strains under the effort.

"How's that road rash?" Daryl asks, noting the pause.

James looks up from his task and down at the bruised and gravel-burned skin of his arm – the same marks covering the side of his torso and face and neck. He spits, "It'll heal if it doesn't get worse." It'd been a slow process washing out and picking out all the gravel and debris the wounds carried, but washed and cleaned the stinging beneath the stretching scabs means the new skin is growing. He nods; Daryl likes James, doubtfully having anything to do with his age – the oldest of teenagers is still plenty young to him. Pete's the one each boy feels connected to, the charismatic one, but James is the strategic thinker, level-headed and savvy. Daryl likes that. He appreciates all their capabilities, look at how long they've lasted. He wouldn't fault them for turning him and Beth away; pragmatically, a newborn's a big liability to take on. And all considered, he and Beth haven't been with them all that long a time. Still, he's fairly confident the vote will go in their favor, and that she and he could make a good case if initially it does not.

He wouldn't fault them, but he knows something he's not certain they do: The helpless need protection. Everybody's got to face reality, not hide, be a help as they can, and do what needs being done, but the helpless, the vulnerable, be it age or size or disability, forsaking them – in the old life or in this new one – is forsaking something in yourself, and something much greater than yourself. You can't be dumb, can't be foolhardy: Some people prove undeserving of help, and it's indisputable that not everyone can be saved. And there are times self-preservation demands tough calls to be made, when circumstances exact the highest price of living — leaving someone behind. They'd done that. Merle on the roof. Him at Woodbury. They'd left Andrea at the farm. They'd nearly surrendered Michonne. He and Beth left the prison at the verge of its collapse, knowing there might be others, even kids, even Judith, still behind. In those moments, the moving on isn't for lack of feeling, isn't for lack of guts. Unlike this decision to be set before the group, there is no choice in such moments, even when your mind and heart trick you into thinking otherwise. He and Beth might have been able to find the kids, Luke or Molly, Eryn or Owen, Mika, Lizzie or little Judith, but they might not have. They might both have died. It wasn't a choice, their escaping. Saving the life you know you can save in a moment like that is not a choice, it's instinct, primal; cowardice and heartlessness play no part in it. But a moment like the one they're soon to face – a voting moment, it is a choice. It's a choice to protect the unprotected, not because of debts and ledgers, but because to rally round the defenseless is to uphold humanity in its decline. Dale knew it. It's why Rick didn't give up on Sophia. It's what Merle never got, maybe not until the end. Daryl thinks this group has it in them, they'd already brought in two strangers. Housing a newborn in the open isn't easy, he grants that freely, but turning one away is harder. In the months of Lori's expectancy, the group was nervous, but they took it on. Took on Lil' Ass Kicker as one of their own, long before her mother and Maggie brought her into the world. This group of seven teenagers in the Georgian backwoods is equal to the same; Daryl sees it in them. He will bring it up tonight.

"Gotta say," James pauses to catch his breath, "it'd be nice to see a baby again." Daryl stops to pull a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of the remains of some filling station clerk. "An' Simon'll appreciate no longer being the baby."

Daryl snorts. He bends to lift another. "Not sayin' stayin's the answer. There's plenty wrong with bringing up a little one out here, never mind the walkers. Exposure f'r one—" he breathes in and pushes. "Can't wander all o' Georgia lookin' for some place that'll make it all al'right, some place that dudn't exist." He assists with the cumbersome hoisting, "Can't drag her along findin' nuthin' more than shit. We seen e'nough of that, and then some." With a jump and some arm work he climbs out of the pit and lends a hand dragging the last one out. He's talking more than he's want to, he's aware, but he's laying the groundwork for their case, and on top of that, he's alone in this – in his concern for his young family. There's no more Rick, no more Hershel…

James takes a moment to recover his breath. He looks at Daryl, squinting, "You think there are communities out there? Still? Ones that are safe?"

"Can't leave her behind while I look. Can't leave her, an' can't see how we could go. Could be there's nothing out there t' find." He pulls his gloves off and drinks from the canteen at their feet. "Beth'll kill herself trying to make way for this baby." After a pause Daryl's thumb rubs at his chin and he grunts, "Gotta be in'a place she won't havf'ta work so hard to do it. Li'l kids need families. Big as they c'n get 'em."

"Last night get you thinking about this?"

"Thing is," Daryl reflects as he dons his gloves again, stoops, and starts to drag a body, "after all what we been through — what we've seen, the carnage we run across — get to feeling, with jus' the two of us, with her like she is, it's the livin' what we got to fear."

James nods; there's a reason they ducked into the woods more than a year ago, why they gave up on larger groups. "Yeah."

"Out there—" Daryl drags the thing, heavy, over roots and rocks "we seen whole communities – one with kids an' old folks – ambushed and executed. We heard stories about rapists, brutal, violent stuff. Beth's own sister was nearly did for. Seen all kinds of shit done to people who never turned; bodies, killings, dismemberment. Found a storage unit, some poor thing had been held prisoner, chained to a bed. For what looked like months. People driving round with tanks, with sub-machine guns an' worse. Country's a war zone; playground for every psychopath that ever torched a cat." He shoves the rotting corpse into the pit, watching as it tumbles and falls hard onto the others. Daryl's haunted by the things he's seen, still though, after they were run off the farm, the group had stayed on the road for months without incident. They'd enjoyed long stretches in the prison too. "With walkers," he says, heading back to the pile, passing by James and the carcass he drags, "it's easy; you know what they want – ain't no existential crisis gonna tell you anything other than they're coming at you t' kill, you an' everyone that's yours. Th' livin' are diff'rent." He picks through the tangle of walkers till he can get a solid grip on one free enough to easily drag. "Could be harmless, could be an asset, could be – they's just like the walkers, only they're not killing you t' eat, just 'cuz they like doing it. Can't take Beth into that." What dogs Daryl is the knowledge that all anyone would have to do to get to her is kill him. One shot… they'd have her. They're all just one shot away…

James grabs his second and drags, using his legs to pull the dead weight. "You can deliver a baby?" he breathes hard.

Daryl pauses, re-gripping his hold, "Gonna have to. Ain't nothing to be done about that. Mothers been havin' babies long before there were doctors."

"If you're worried," James ventures, shifting the tone of the conversation with just a touch of well-intended critique, "probably better ways of handling it than hollering at her all day."

Daryl eyes his companion ruefully, resenting this editorial, resenting more his own inbred combativeness. Even with everything Rick never spoke to Lori out of hand. Glenn could never speak to Maggie the way he on occasion speaks to Beth. His belligerence was learned, but not from them, it was much earlier, and deeply ingrained. He shouldn't shout at and badger Hershel Greene's youngest daughter, even in the taking care of her. Daryl grits down and pulls. "It's like she feels she's got something to prove."

James kicks the body over. "Does she?"

"Hell no," Daryl's response comes quickly, followed by a more guarded grunt, "Not t' me. Girl's tough as hell." His face creases as he reflects, on the months, the years he's known her… "Can't keep her down."

"Could be she's coping. Pete gets all kinds of industrious when things get to him."

"Coping or not," Daryl mutters, "she's gonna wear herself out." He looks at James, "We get the 'okay' to stay, we'll earn our keep, but Beth's load is gonna change." He drops his walker in, the thud it issues is leaden and crackling as bones snap and crunch. "I'll take up the slack."

"No one has concerns about that. The pair of you have shouldered this camp since the day you got here."

Daryl only shrugs, unaccustomed to being anything but an asset. He pulls a cigarette from the crushed pack, and though it smells foul, holds it between his lips and lights it. He offers the pack to James.

James shakes his head, "Never liked it."

Daryl scoffs with amused derision, "Smoke bud but not tobacco?" He shakes his head with disdain, "Kids." He inhales deeply, taking great pleasure off these first few drags, remarking as he exhales, "Ain't gonna kill you ya know."

James chuckles some, shuffling his feet in place, "Guess it'd be pretty lucky if it did."

"Go on," Daryl's raspy voices urges, "put some hair on your balls."

"Short on occasions for concern for my balls," James retorts, but still he accepts a cigarette, lets Daryl light it, and inhales. He paces, above the rim of the walker pit, watching the smoke as it issues from his parted lips. He glances at Daryl. "You ever planned on having kids?"

Daryl's grimace is momentary, only a flinch. He paces some. He's not going there; he never has. From his youth every concept of family has been too raw, too deep, too volatile— Before this, before all of it, he never could have had this, this thing he has with Beth – this sort of connection, been the sort of man equal to being a father. Before, and for so long, he had been entrenched in his detachment. Family had been whatever Merle offered, and whichever lowlifes and skirts he brought around. The battered scowl that pierces through him misses James and Daryl whets his bravado, snorting wryly, "Yeh; jus' waitin' for the right time." He takes a careless drag. "Think I found it?" His irony is dark, but not caustic.

"Hmph. Right," James acknowledges, wiping his brow, holding his cigarette rather than smoking it. Once more his glance finds Daryl, "This your first one, or—"

"—No," he cuts him off numbly, his low voice rumbling with the volatility of thunder. "Never lost no kid."

James takes another experimental drag. "Weird timing, huh?"

Daryl's head shake contradicts him. He wouldn't be here, with her, awaiting fatherhood, had not everything else come before it - the turn, the loss of Sophia, the fall of the farm, Rick, Carol, Hershel, Glenn, Judith, Merle, the Governor. He reached this point because of them, because of the walkers. "Nuthin' weird about it." He takes a long final drag then flicks the butt into the heap of corpses, tugs on his gloves, and gets back to work.

A little past noon, sweaty and filthy, Daryl returns, appeased to find Beth asleep in their bed. Dropping to the ground he sits in the entrance, hanging his legs into the dugout where beside him she lies slumbering on her belly. He watches her sleep, then extends one hand and fondly touches her head, lightly moving his fingers through her lengthening hair. Beth stirs. A slow smile appears, half submerged in her pillow, then her eyes flutter open, once, then twice, then focus on him, and his dirty, sweat-stained face.

Daryl smiles her a smile of contrition. "I'm an asshole," he says plainly.

Beth yawns contentedly, then pleasantly buries her head deeper into her pillow. "I don't care." From under the pillow she's been holding close, her fingers emerge and search blindly for his. When she finds them she tugs them nearer to her and kisses his curled knuckles. He hadn't expected that.

"Yeah?" he balks. "You should. 'Cuz you're the only thing I've got I love. M'ybe I shouldn't be barkin' at'chya."

Well rested and awake, but sublimely comfortable and at ease, Beth continues to curl herself into her soft and nestled bedding. She yawns, thinking how supremely delicious sleep is, uncertain why she'd resisted it… "Maybe I'll just yell back."

"Yeh?" he grins sideways, his brow cocking up at her. "What for?"

"'Take a bath!'" she play shouts from where she lies, her mouth just clearing the folds of her pillow. "'Quit smoking!' 'Stop bossin'!"

He squints at her, amused but dubious, his belly arched as he makes her out, "That's it? Those're your complaints?"

His narrow blue eyes lighten as he smirks at her, and she, revived by her rest and the little adrenaline kick from yelling at him, smiles convivially. "If you give me time, I'll come up with more."

"Hell, Girl," he says through his charming squinted smile as he moves to stand, "you got all my time."

"Hey," Simon's quiet little face ducks down into their hut, flashing a goofy smile at the two of them. "Better get a move on; pyrotechnics start in T -5. Guess we'll see you at bed check."

Bleh! Like I said, despite knowing where I'm taking this, I am feeling lost in both the execution and articulation. Am I over thinking? Over detailing? Would really help to hear from you what's working and what needs tweaking / reworking. [Apologies also for the super-chatty Daryl in these last two chapters, a little OOC maybe, but I couldn't see a way around it.] xx