1. Thank you so much for reading! When I picked up this story again I really wasn't sure there'd be any readers to return to. This has been such a lovely surprise! I especially want to give a heartfelt thank to everyone interacting with the story! Even the smallest comment is such a boost and goes such a long way!

2. I'm getting a literal headache looking at this chapter at this point and I've lost my internet connection beyond my phone. I'm going ahead with posting, but if I missed something in editing that seems like it's a mistake or awkward or could be revisited, I would not mind a friendly pointer. Also, please feel free to nudge me anytime when/if B or D are feeling out of character (any chapter past or present). Sometimes I feel like I'm too far removed from the source material and I can't see the forest for the trees (so to speak) when writing them. TY!

Daryl wakes from a heavy slumber, untroubled since he'd fallen back asleep in Beth's embrace. Breathing in, filling his chest with the frigid air, he opens his eyes to the morning light, soft, and diffused, and already brightening the second-story south-east facing room. With a sluggish smile upending the corners of his mouth, he turns his head where it yet lies on his pillow and shifts his body toward hers. Already upright, her knees raised beneath the quilt and blankets, Beth sits, relatively unmussed for having not yet risen to do more than relieve her overactive bladder. She holds a yellow legal pad balanced in place while she writes. Her countenance is focused, if somewhat drained. Feeling him watching her, she lifts her pen from the page to look at him. She smiles warmly. "Good mornin'."

Daryl stretches and reaches round the back of her head to pull her into him for a groggy morning kiss. "Mornin'," he rasps.

When he releases her, his hand drifts beneath the writing pad to the swell of her lower abdomen. She watches as lazily as he traces her with his fingertips, smiling faintly as he does. "How're you?" She asks, cognizant not to delve any deeper than that, nor to be too earnest in tone.

Daryl rubs at his eyes and winks at her. "I'm good." He sits up, wrestles a loud and messy kiss into her neck that tickles a giggle out of her, then pivots his body to set his feet on the ground. "All good." Rising, he scratches his belly and pushes back his shaggy hair away from his face. "You gettin' up?"

"Not yet."

Daryl looks at her. "You good?"

"Mmm,hmm."

"That's all you got?" Daryl eyes her as he pulls up his patched and tattered trousers over his thermals and reaches for his belt. "How long you been up?"

Beth's attention has returned to her page of writing. "A while."

"How long's that?"

"A while."

Pulling on a heavy woolen shirt, Daryl's eyes narrow as he looks at her. "Whut's goin' on? You okay?"

Beth nods and forms just enough of a smile that her dimples faintly appear. "Ev'rything's good. It's gettin' hard t' sleep through th' night is all." It being the truth, her saying so was anything but a setup, but now having said it, she lifts her head to hold his gaze for a fraction of a moment, opening the possibility that they might talk more of sleep, if he would like… But no hint of indication comes, and she just as quickly looks away and takes up again her work. "I'm j'st a little tired. A little dizzy, m'ybe."

Daryl makes quick work of buttoning the brass buttons to his over-shirt. "Stay in bed."

Never looking up, Beth half smiles at the page, "I'h am in bed."

"Y'know whut I mean." Scratching at his beard, Daryl nods at the notepad in her hand. "Y' journalin'?"

"Uh-uh." After a moment, Beth looks up from her paper, giving him a sort of pursed sideways look as he continues to dress. "You know, I don't j'st only write poems an' journal."

Daryl pauses his morning routine, eyeing her as he parses her meaning. He crosses the room back to Beth, rests a hand on the headboard, and leans into her, intending to impress upon her his view of it. "There is no 'just' or 'only' about'ch'ya, Greene." He strokes her colorless cheek with his thumb, "An', I never said nothin' gainst a journal. Your poems neither."

"You'd never keep one." Beth does not in all honesty feel at all defensive or minimized, but for pointless argument's sake she states the fact nonetheless.

Daryl's mouth turns up in a half-smirk of appreciation. "Yeh?" he rasps softly. "An' you comb your hair more than me. And I swear more than you. An'…" he searches his mind for another inconsequential difference between them… "You're littler th'n me, an' twice as stubborn. Don't need t' be th' same." Having said his piece, Daryl straightens and moves away to resume dressing. He quips, as he fastens his weapons belt, "Don't think I'd enjoy that." Beth makes a face at him, one of mildly equal irritation and amusement. "So," Daryl adjusts the knives and holstered handgun at his hips, and nods again to her notepad. With quiet interest he asks, "Whut'chu workin' on?"

"J'st a list." Her words follow him to their bathroom. From her place in their bed she can hear the steady stream hitting water and porcelain as he relieves himself before washing up and vigorously brushing his teeth.

"I'ma walk th' fence line with Sy," he calls to her as he spits toothpaste into the sink. "J'st stay inside, take it easy." Twice a day, at minimum, they walk the fence line, checking for breaches and taking out walkers as they find them. Beth doesn't need to join them. Jaunty faces and morning banter aside, she looks a little spent.

Beth lifts her head and watches him emerge from the bathroom. His demeanor seems light, and as breezy as Daryl gets, but even so, as he walks past her toward their door, pulling on his leather jacket and winged cut, still she asks, "Everything's good?"

"Greene, you're th' one in bed." Turning back, he kisses his hand and presses it to where their child grows. Daryl then wraps his hand behind her head and kisses her. "See ya down there."

Daryl takes the stairs as quickly as his recovering leg and hip allow, carrying his boots down with him. "Si-monne!" Boisterously he calls a feminized rendition of the name as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.

"Yup," Simon nods over his mug of watered-down coffee. "Mornin'."

Dragging back a kitchen chair, Daryl sinks into it, dropping his boots to the worn floor as he moves to pull them on. "Y' set?"

"Sure." Simon offers Daryl a mug by way of asking if he's interested in coffee, to which Daryl shakes his head. "Eat after?"

"Huh?"

"Said, 'Fix breakfast after?'"

"Uh-huh, Beth's not comin' down til later. Walk th' property line, check the— What the hell?" Daryl straightens up in his seat.

"Whut?"

Daryl looks again, "What th' hell?" he repeats as he inspects the situation.

"Problem?"

"The damn laces—" Daryl looks up then. He gets it. "This is you?" Simon sips his coffee. "You?"

"'Me' what?" At playing out deadpan innocence, Simon can't be beat.

"Kid, you mess with th' laces? You cut 'em?"

"Cut nuthin'."

"But you did this."

Simon swallows a smirk with another gulp of coffee. So casually he feigns a disinvested observation, "You're gettin' paranoid."

Daryl abides the sass, and plays his role, "Not long ago these things tied. Now th' laces don't more than touch."

"Funny."

"Is it? I ain't laughin'."

"Me neither."

"Damn near choking tryin' not to."

Simon holds his mug hovering just in front of his lips. If he's grinning, it's not blatant. "Thought we was headin' out. Better get those boots on. Sorta cold for socked-feet."

Daryl glowers at the teen, but not without good humor, then proceeds to tug off his boots one at a time and inspect them for the mischief at hand. Pulling back the tongue in his left boot, Daryl spots the series of knots shortening the black corded lace. He looks up. "How long?"

Simon makes as though he's seeing all this for the first time. "Maybe an inch or so? Each side." Being that the prank itself was fairly rudimentary, albeit drawn out over some span of days, most of the merit of the thing comes from needling Daryl at the conclusion of it, which includes the intentional misinterpretation of the sort of measurement Daryl had asked for.

"How many days? How long you been at this?"

Simon shakes his head in disappointed humor. "You never blame Beth."

"Beth's got better things to do. As should you."

"Big talk from the guy cold-dumping me mid-shower and lacing th' fire with cap pellets and carbon snakes." Daryl's responding chuckle is less than muted. "Seven days."

Daryl squints at him as he works at undoing the series of knots. "Clown, ain't'chya?"

"You started it. Here—" Simon beckons, "give it here." Daryl looks at him, then, figuring the kid's already had his hands on them plenty, picks up his right boot and flings it underhand. Simon catches it and tucks the boot underarm in order to free both hands to work. "Y'know," Simon starts on the first knot, "you're not quite as observant as you might expect of a person who prides themselves a tracker. You didn't notice a thing til day five."

"Been able t' take my footwear for granted lately, I guess." There's a wryness in Daryl's retort, but truth resides there too. He hasn't forgotten the miles he and Beth traveled unshod. More than that, being now settled, off the road and mostly indoors through those days of rain, shoes hadn't had quite the immediacy about them that for so long they had. Finished, Daryl steps back into his boot, tugs it on, and re-laces it, this time able to tie it with his standard double-knot. He catches its right mate when Simon tosses it back and then ties it on as well. "Let's get a move on. I wanna be back b'fore she comes down if we can." As Daryl rises and crosses paths with Simon, he swats the blonde head lightly with the back of his hand. "Punk."

"'Whut th' hell?'" Simon echoes Daryl's reaction back to him, grinning as he pulls on his coat. Daryl unscrews a glass jar to pop a piece of dried trout in his mouth and Simon takes the final swig from his mug. Setting it down, he clasps his cupped hands together to catch the piece of fish Daryl tosses him. "She okay?" he asks, biting into the semi-brittle, semi-chewy fish.

"Mm,hm," he rumbles, "j'st catchin' up on sleep."

Otherwise ready, Daryl starts in on the daily process of unprying the boards from the kitchen door frame and shifting aside barricades to allow them access to the outside world. From the stash kept in an umbrella stand by the door, he takes up a crowbar. Behind him, Simon reaches past an assembly of other melee weapons, just one cache of many they have stored around the farmhouse and wider property. In other places they have machetes, hatchets, sickles, hay hooks, axes, pickaxes, digging bars, lawn edgers, and more. Stored here are two aluminum bats, another crowbar, several fire stokers, three steel rods, a brush axe, and a tire iron. Simon, having slung an oiled canvas satchel across his back, selects a wrought iron double-pronged fire poker. He follows Daryl, with his crossbow in tow, through the open back door into the crisp morning light. Simon closes the door behind him and together they shift a broken barn door into place to cover the kitchen entrance and impede ready access to the house. They latch it to the exterior wall and Daryl tugs three times at it as proof that they have secured it soundly. Should Beth need to exit, she can undo the latches from within. As fortified as they've tried to make the place, the lessons from the past were not endured in vain. They've worked several exit points into the ground floor, and additionally outfitted the upstairs with a fire escape rope ladder stashed in each bedroom, ready for second-story egress should it ever come to that. They've put a great deal of calculation into the balance of keeping the place as impregnable as they can with as many escape routes as conceivable.

With the house secure, the two of them head eastward in the yard to begin their rounds. Underfoot, the red clay dirt of the yard still holds muddy pools and puddles from the rain. Side stepping puddles as he walks, Daryl rubs and kneads his recovering shoulder. "Hey," he grunts, "my shoulder's pretty raw t'day." Simon looks over to him, but Daryl's quick to brush off the concern. "Probably stiff from th' cold. Take th' bow."

Simon nods and outstretches his hand to receive the weapon as Daryl unslings it and hands it off. "You okay?" Simon tethers the poker to his belt and walks alongside Daryl with the armed and notched crossbow halfway raised but aimed only at the dirt. "Only 'cuz, it's your left shoulder, and… you use your right one to fire."

"It's sore," Daryl is quick to gripe. "There's a recoil. Whut?" he smirks. "Am I not recoverin' quick enough on your timeline? Never mind, give it here." Daryl reaches out for the return of the bow.

"No, no," Simon amends. "Sorry, I've got it. No problem."

"Y'sure? " Daryl presses.

"I've got it." They walk on, nearing the treeline by now and the first of the network of alarm lines they've constructed.

"Man," Daryl spits onto the drying earth. "Try an' get a guy some practice without callin' him out…"

Simon's brow raises. "Now I need practice?" his arched brows convey his affable incredulity. "Which is it? Are you infirm or am I inept?"

"Th' second."

"Okay. Next walker we see, bet a ration 'f coffee I get it straight in the skull."

Daryl snorts. "Skull's all that counts. Think you get points f'r the chest? We ain't out here playin' at target practice. Shoot t' kill. Ev'ry time." Grown mostly impervious to Daryl's blusterings, Simon doesn't sweat the reproof. Experience has taught him Daryl doesn't wholly mean a large part of what he says. Daryl's certainly not under the impression that Simon doesn't know the difference between a kill shot and a waste of an arrow, or that he's in any need of a dressing down on the stakes they face. "An eye," Daryl states, resetting the terms. "F'r coffee, has t' be an eye." He spits again. "Takes marksmanship, and does less damage t' the shaft."

Simon nods. "Eye it is."

"We'll see," Daryl smirks.

A breeze nips at their ears as they travel. Simon kicks away a fallen branch from his path, dried twigs snapping off it as it crashes. The split-rail fence stands in good repair as they walk it, no signs of trespass or breach.

"Snares 're empty."

"Mm,hm," Daryl nods. Scanning the ground cover for any noticeable variance from the last time they walked their rounds. He sees traces of field mice, the possible trail of a mudsnake, the scurried scatterings left by ground squirrels or chipmunks. Nothing larger. No signs of rabbits, and still no sign of larger game. They move on, leaving the snares in place a little longer before they look for new paths in which to set them.

They're a mile on when they spot their first walker. Male, tattered, long since turned, its greying features seem to be drooping and caving in on themselves. The thing lurches and redirects, staggering toward them once their scent catches on the wind. The gaping chasm at the left of its torso appears not to impede its progress.

"Batter up," Daryl rouses. Simon raises the bow to firing level, sparing only a glance in Daryl's direction. Returning his focus to the walker, not to mention their bet, the teen narrows his eyes and takes aim, hovering his index finger over the trigger— "C'n taste th' coffee now," Daryl goads. Simon lifts his focus from the sight to turn and scowl at Daryl. "C'mon," he eggs. "'Best part of wakin' up'."

"Shut—up," Simon instructs tonelessly as he prepares to fire.

"Kid, y'already lost. Can't take a sabbatical ev'ry time y'gotta fire." Daryl swings his crowbar ahead of him to point as the thing steadily nears them. "Eye. Socket. Y' see it? C'mon, Sy. Make it 'Good to th' last drop.'"

"Shut. Up," he whispers, slowly depressing the trigger.

"CLOSE YOUR EYES, KID."

"Huh?"

"CLOSE 'em."

Simon shuts his eyes just as he fires and then— He doesn't know what… The arrow takes flight, the bow recoils by a fraction, and something undetectable overtakes him, dusting over him in a sort of cloud as Daryl's robust laughter takes over the morning. He opens his eyes and sees it. He only struck the walker in the jaw, no doubt thanks to shutting his eyes at the last second. But he sees right away there's more to Daryl's continuous cackling than a misfire. Looking down at himself, Simon sees he and the booby-trapped weapon are covered by an eruption of glitter and tinsel confetti. Covered. Daryl laughs on, even as he unsheathes his knife and hurls it into the still-stumbling walker, dispatching it with ease. Left to collapse and crumple onto itself, it drops heavily to the cold ground. Simon grimaces, and fervidly does what he can to brush off all the confetti and glitter he is able. He has a task ahead of him to be sure, as already it is soundly stuck on him, clinging to crevices and folds, sinking into the fabric of his sweater and sticking to his face, his eyebrows, his hair. "It's everywhere."

"Yup!" Daryl's laughter would be infectious were the humor not so squarely one-sided.

"You rigged your own crossbow? Faked an injury, faked a lesson, faked a bet—"

"My gunshot's real," Daryl corrects. "Bet is too. I'm claimin' my stake."

"—J'st so—"

"Yup," Daryl gloats, delighted in the absolute messy spectacle he has made of his unsuspecting companion.

Simon shakes more of it out of his hair and swipes it off his face. "But th' thing with your laces hadn't played out yet."

"Nope."

"I hadn't done anything."

"Not yet," Daryl continues to chuckle. "Knew you was workin' on somethin'."

"So, you got me back for something I hadn't even done yet?"

"Gotta be quick," Daryl laughs, making a point to brush off a pile of glitter collected beneath Simon's coat collar. "You're gonna be gettin' rid of this f'r weeks! "

"Dammit." Daryl slaps the kid on the back, unintentionally shaking loose another glittering cloud from Simon's clothes before Daryl hops the fence to retrieve both his knife and the fired arrow.

"What if I hadn't closed my eyes?"

"Huh?" Daryl cleans his blade, wiping it on the shredded clothes of the corpse before re-sheathing it.

"What if I hadn't closed my eyes?"

"You did." Simon has to snort his concession. He's aware he won't make any headway arguing hypotheticals with Daryl. "C'mon," Daryl jerks his head as he hops the fence again, "wanna get back sooner th'n later."

"Oh. Right." Simon follows after but not before reloading and notching the bow. "My bad, I slowed us up."

Daryl snickers. "Y' look like you had y'rself a little party."

"Great."

Daryl whistles. "Pick it up."

Simon snorts, shakes it off (or at least as much of the glitter as he can), and picks up the pace to walk abreast with his friend. Together they walk the acreage of the farm, predominantly on the outside of the fence as they slip in and out of the treeline checking their traps. Daryl has two squirrels lashed to his belt when they come across one of their snares, something tan and white twitching and alive. With a two-fingered quieting gesture, Daryl stays their progress. Simon unshoulders the bag he wears and with as little movement as he can manage, passes it to Daryl. Daryl takes the hand-off, sets down the crossbow and pushes aside his crowbar. Light-footed, he approaches with caution, crouching down to approach the caught and terrified cottontail. Frozen in place, its little dark eyes and small vibrations of rapid breathing are all the movement it makes.

"Shhhhhhhh," Daryl soothes, as he holds open the pouch, hovering it over the quaking body. Daryl eyes Simon, positioning him in place to make a move to corral the poor creature should it get free. "Shhhh, y're alright—" Daryl lowers the sack over the animal, he feels it twitch and dart as he blindly takes hold of the small body as he works to release its caught foot, rubbed down to the skin. "There ya go…" Simon grins as he watches Daryl carefully upturn the bag and settle the small animal within it as he shoulders the crossbody satchel, settling down the flap over their prized quarry. Daryl straightens up. "Ya wanted t' try that with a squirrel?"

Simon's smile spreads wider. Ignoring the ribbing, he declares with pleasure, "That's one."

"Mmm,hmm." Daryl's gratified countenance quickly shifts as his eyes narrow and focus. He jerks his head to redirect Simon's attention. Careening toward them come six — no, seven — walkers, unfaltering in their pace and steady in their footfall. Daryl grabs and swings up the crossbow, aiming and firing it in a fluid movement, sending the nearest of them collapsing, causing another close behind to stumble over it. Daryl tosses the unloaded bow to Simon who without pause rearms it as Daryl hurtles his knife into the already broken skull of a walker someone else had not been adroit enough to put down. It shudders from the impact and crashes down. Simon fires the crossbow, taking the third kill as Daryl cuts loose the squirrels from his belt then throws his second knife, quickly taking the kill count to four. Simon is mid-step into the stirrup to re-cock the bow when he sees it — a mass of walkers emerging from the woods. His focus now split, he doesn't note the mud underfoot and he loses the stability he needs to properly draw back the string and the momentum he had in pulling falters and before the string gets notched it propels back in place. At a wicked speed it nearly takes Simon's thumb off and were he in shirt sleeves only, his forearm might be a skin layer less from rope-burned. "Fuuuck! "

Daryl spares a glance in his direction to assess their changing circumstances, then he and his crowbar charge forward into the dead. He swings it in a rounding motion, striking a decaying head square in what's left of an ear, cracking open the skull. He withdraws, re-grips, and plunges in with the chisel end. Pulling the steel back out draws with it the ooze and gore of the active rot of the already dead. Simon, feeling as though his thumb really had been sliced off, does his best to shake it off and re-cocks and loads the crossbow as quickly as he's able. They can manage this number of them, he knows it. They can, if they act quick and decisive, keep moving, and avoid any further stupid missteps. Simon shoots down a figure lurching in behind Daryl just as Daryl hooks the bent claw of his crowbar into the gaping socket hole of the grasping, hissing remains of what now hardly seems ever to have been human. Daryl pivots and shifts, his body not tense but poised, ever agile and responsive. Adrenaline courses through them, muscle memory kicks in, and the assurance of experience takes hold and steadies them.

Simon's knife whooshes past Daryl, striking down a one-armed biter as Simon barrels into another. Knocking it over, he drives his fire poker down through its greyed growling face. Simon retrieves his knife and covers Daryl as he works his way through the throng to one by one collect his own two blades. Simon steps on fallen skulls, bracing them with his boot to best extract the fired arrows. He doesn't have time to add them to the quiver, he only holds their shafts flush against the iron rod of his poker as he wields it.

Moving in and out of a back-to-back formation, Simon and Daryl waste no time and expend no excess exertion in dispatching the dead. In effective dispassionate and seasoned succession they take them down, dodging, driving, swinging, and striking. Simon brandishes the two-pronged stoker, both impaling and battering, splattering putrid blood and bone through the clear brisk morning air. Behind him, with Daryl's efficiency hindered by the effort of prying loose the crowbar from the mess of the double-skewering of two heads, he releases it from his grip and reverts to his knives, double-fisting his way through first one— two— three— four walkers. A fifth. They're not overrun, not yet, but this is not a casual run-in with a few roamers. Simon kicks one back, he stabs another in the chest to stall it, then swings and strikes the first in the head then fights the momentum, re-grips, and counter swings to bash in the other. Daryl slashes with his left hand, moving his right for the kill strike, when a hulking, snarling walker gets ahold of him, shifting Daryl's balance and misaligning his knife with its strike zone. Daryl's blade mis-lands in the jawbone of his target, while one handed he wrestles off the massive assailant thrashing to get at him. With adrenaline and a great deal of leverage, Daryl forces his blade free, breaking away the lower jaw with it, then thrusts upward through the roof of the mouth and further to the brainstem. With two hands now, he fights and shirks the thing that's got hold of him. In all its thrashing it's tangled itself up in the satchel slung cross ways round Daryl's back and he can't easily break free. Daryl tries to get the bag off his shoulder but he can't get it fast enough and for expediency slashes the strap and shoves off the walker. It jerks and stumbles back. The bag falls and soon, breaking through the gnashing, wheezing, hisses of the animated dead, comes an urgent high pitched squeal as the pouch is trampled. With a critical thwack, Simon plunges his weapon into the lumbering aggressor as it once more lunges at Daryl. Brain matter and more spurt out as Simon retracts and resumes formation. Daryl nods an acknowledgement just before he cuts down another scrambling toward him. They could run, but if they choose the cover of the house, they'd jeopardize the fencing they're trying to maintain and only lead them to the house. If they outrun the dead into the woods, they'd be leaving them standing, just more open-ended threats to contend with later. Rather, they brace themselves and press on, kicking and jabbing, impaling and stabbing until finally all is quiet, save for their labored breaths.

Simon drops his weapon and lowers his upper body toward his knees, giving himself a beat to recuperate. He spits to the ground then straightens up and paces, still waiting on his breathing to regulate. Daryl, his chest also heaving, rubs and rotates his bad shoulder, shifting his standing weight off and back onto his right leg, giving passing relief to the shadow of an ache in his thigh muscle and the dull throb still in his hip.

Recovered enough to think beyond the immediate, Simon turns and scans the ground until he finds it. He rushes to the trodden satchel. Dropping to his knees, ever so gently he lifts open the flap, loath to uncover the pitiable state of things. The wretched creature, less than three pounds, is frozen in terror and pain. Disfigured from the trauma, the miserable quaking thing has been crushed. Most noticeable, its right hind leg dangles unnaturally. The small thing still breathes, but just barely, wheezing labored piteous breaths. Simon strokes it, likely giving more comfort to himself than the animal. "Sorry…" He lifts it, as tenderly as he can, and prepares himself to put an end to the suffering. In the moment though he hesitates, doubting only that he could manage it to be as instantaneous as the small thing deserves. And then Daryl's there, hand outstretched in a subdued beckoning. He can do it. Delicately, Simon transfers the cottontail, who now clearly would have been far better off had all along their snare been set to kill. Deftly, with a decisive twist of his wrist, Daryl snaps its neck. It's over, the little thing put out of its misery.

Simon takes a slow breath. The rabbit would have met its end eventually, intended first to breed and then to be a meal, but it was never meant to suffer. Rising, he looks at the sorry thing, at the rabbit's poor disjointed foot. "...No luck in that…" Simon then lifts his sleeved forearm to wipe his brow, managing mostly just to smear the gore and sweat. "That was th' most we've seen all at once like that in a while. We could've easily not been here. They coulda made it onto th' property, to the house even."

"G't that outta y'r head," Daryl rasps. He takes up the satchel and lays the rabbit within it. "Still need th' meat," he mutters. "We'll try again." Daryl pats his friend on the back. "We're alright. We had that. Didn't even take long. We only lost a rabbit." Once more, Daryl back-rotates his bad shoulder. "We make our own luck."

Conceding to the logic in all that Daryl's said, Simon nods. He would've spared the cottontail if he could, but barring that, everything had worked out. They're fine, the fencing's fine, the house, and Beth in it, are fine. It isn't as though battling the dead isn't part of every equation, a given they just live with. Simon rotates his right wrist, first one way and then the other, stretching the strain of battle from it, and then sets himself to the task of retrieving the stiffened squirrels Daryl had cut loose. He adds them to the bag, then wraps the slashed strap around it before tucking it beneath his arm for the walk homeward. As they wipe clean and sheathe their blades and account for their weapons, Simon surveys the accumulation of corpses all around them. "Whudda we do?"

Daryl spares a disinterested glance in their direction. "Nuthin' for now."

Not for a while have they had this particular problem. Never staying put meant slain walkers could be left just where they fell. During their time in town, it had been easy enough to drag bodies into nearby buildings or to dump them into cellars. But they had also left many of them exactly where they lay. It was in the woods where the smell would get intolerable, where their water source needed to be protected, where they couldn't afford to repel and ward off game, or needlessly signal the presence of their camp. It had been the disposal of bodies that had brought about the ruin of their camp, and their friends. Neither Simon nor Daryl makes mention of a pyre. If it comes to it they'll see it done, but even now, the subject is too raw to speak of without need. "Don't havf'ta work it out here; three 'f us'll make a plan." He jerks his head collegially, "C'mon, there's a headstrong blonde back home waitin' on us."

"Yup."

Daryl squints skyward as they walk, calculating the lateness of the morning. "Dunno 'bout you, but I could eat."

Simon rolls his eyes. "Thought I was in for another coffee remark."

"That too," he's quick to smirk. "'Celebrate th' moments of your life.'"

Simon snorts and walks on, ever scanning the fences and alert lines as he does. After several paces he breaks the silence. "You know I'm too young t' get any of what you've been sayin'."

"Mrrrhmm," Daryl grunts.

"I mean, how old are those ads you've been cribbing?" He turns round then, walking backward so as to address Daryl directly, waggishly taunting him. "Guess th' real question is, how old are you?" Simon cocks an arched brow at the archer as he snickers.

"Shut up." They walk on. It's not too cold while they stay in motion, they may even fleetingly feel overly warm after their exertions, but it is undeniably winter. Soon they may be donning gloves of some sort for this kind of thing. In their progress home Daryl shoots a third squirrel and they come across the bloody remnants of a snare that's been trampled over. The carnage of a gopher and the telltale signs of walkers being all that remain. Still no sign of any breaches of their safeguards evident.

Simon walks, twisting both his wrist and elbow so as to wield his fire poker this way and that, just for the variance it provides as they walk. "You always say that about her."

Daryl glances back at him, "Say whut?"

"Callin' her stubborn 'r headstrong 'r hardheaded."

"So whut?"

"Sayin' it like you don't think you are."

Again Daryl eyes Simon, taking measure if he should bear the observation in stride or expound on it. Daryl swipes a handful of amber-gold leaves from a new growth hickory tree as he passes. He holds them for a few steps, the late-autumnal mixture of limp and brittle vegetation occupying his senses until he opens his grip, releasing them to drift and flutter beneath his studied footfall. "What I'h 'think', is that hard-headed stubbornness of hers has kept us alive. More than once. And will do. It's one of the best things about her. She don't give up." Daryl adjusts the weight of his crossbow. "It's beautiful."

Struck silent, Simon stays apace. Though a little embarrassed at having been audience to such an attestation, no outward showing of it gives the teen away. He's not unaccustomed to Beth and Daryl's 'I love yous'. Neither does their physical connectedness nor their inner bond leave him often feeling out of place or shamefaced. Daryl largely isn't averse to speaking fondly of Beth with others as witness, but something in his saying this feels acutely intimate. Though nothing Simon could not have surmised on his own from purely casual observation, hearing this forthright statement feels all the same to have revealed something deeply fundamental and therefore innately private, and as a result of his own prodding no less. But Daryl had shared it freely and Simon would only dishonor the offering of frankness were he not to receive it as openly. Not as an aspersion, but as a point of pride does Daryl note and cherish her tenacity and resoluteness. She's not always brash about it, her adamance is often unspoken, but it is there, as steady and insistent as a heartbeat.

"Pretty bullheaded y'rself, kid. When you've th' mind t' be."

All but undetectable, Simon smiles. He doesn't need affirmation. With age, and even more from experience, he's grown into self-assurance. But praise from Daryl, even in the form of censure, is not accepted lightly. Simon makes no response, only keeps his eyes peeled for all he's been trained to scan and detect. The drumming of a woodpecker echoes in the trees behind them. The surrounding woods resound with a rapid two-part percussive hammering. A forest rhythmic Morse code, staccato and hollow. "We should draw 'em further out — hang more wind chimes 'nd all. Add 'em to the rounds, least once a day. Cut down as many of 'em as we can b'fore they find their way t' us."

Daryl nods. "We should."

Sobriety's fallen in step with them. With the realities of the work ahead of them on their minds, they're a long ways from the shine of tinsel and the humor of untieable shoelaces. "…Prob'ly need more than wind chimes…"

"Yuh," he murmurs. Reassessments and recalculations begin to whir and thrum about them as they complete their morning round. Not browbeaten or disheartened, not disillusioned or newly spurred, they resume their daily work, staying the course to their purpose, trusting in themselves.

The house comes into view, and the husk of Daryl's voice ends their settled quiet. "Hey, listen. I don't lie t' her. An' she don't need t' be shielded. But she hears how many were out here, that'll be it for her list'nin' to herself. She won't never sit anythin' out again." The methodical resonant pecking reiterates all about them, brisk, and decided.

Simon listens. He weighs Daryl's words, and their implications. "…Alright."

Daryl nods. "Alright."

They walk on. Simon pulls a patterned handkerchief from his back pocket, spits into it, and wipes at his undoubtedly splattered face, a sure giveaway there had been a skirmish. "Jesus," he swears dully. Daryl glances over. As answer, Simon holds up his bandanna. It bears the expected traces of grime, sweat, and gore. And also glitter. Obdurate, unabashedly it catches and reflects the morning light. Simon scowls as Daryl barrel laughs all over again.

Whew! It felt like a long time since I'd written a walker scene!
Non-walker related, I tried to work in a teeny tiny callback to Daryl's fraternal relationship with Merle; someone please let me know if it landed.
Lastly, I hope the prank exchange in chpts 77 & 79 is playing and not coming off as cheesy FF fodder. Erghhh.
Thank you!