Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One

Seraphim

Someone’s out here. Someone alive.

I stop, one hand on the rough bark of a massive oak, steadying my breath. Still. Silent.

Sunlight filters through the canopy in scattered uneven patches, warming my back through the thin fabric of my shirt. Somewhere ahead—something moved. Not a groan. Not a shuffle. Too smooth. Too careful. Not Dead.

I wait.

Sweat drips down my spine, the heat from my discarded pack still lingering despite the cooler air. The season teeters on the edge of Autumn, ready to tip into something harsher. The fading warmth of summer made the long walk bearable.

I'm close to the lake.  There's so much to do still and not much time. I should keep moving. Slip away before anyone who's moved into the area knows I'm here.  I know how to vanish. How to move silently, how to hide, and if I have no other choice—how to kill.

I’ve had years of practice. Failure in this world doesn’t just cost you—it guts you.

But the knot of guilt in my stomach keeps me rooted to the spot. If it’s the Peacocks—or worse, someone they’ve taken in—then someone vulnerable might be nearby. We’re not far from the farm, not by line-of-sight miles. But we’re worlds away in every other sense. Wandering this far from safety and shelter isn’t something most people do anymore. Not alone.

I should go —avoiding people is how I've stayed alive.  People are dangerous.

Especially desperate ones.

And who’s left that isn’t desperate?

There’s a voice.  

How long has it been since I heard someone speak?  

"Come on, that's it." 

I move, slipping quietly around the trunk to get a better angle. A boy comes into view. Flannel shirt faded with age and grime, dark pants, and a too-big cowboy hat wobbling atop messy brown hair. Just looking at it makes my scalp feel hotter.

He’s walking backwards—of all the dumb things to do—and calling softly to a pair of the Dead trailing after him. He glances over his shoulder every few steps, but still keeps moving back, taunting them forward like some slow-motion game of tag with teeth.

Damnit.

There’s only one reason to lead the Dead like that. Someone else must be nearby.

Injured. Weak. Vulnerable.

He’s trying to draw them off.   

I watch the boy start to round the corner of the street, still backpedaling quickly. He's nearing a privacy fence with its gate hanging open, but still intact. He turns his head.  I can practically see the plan forming in his mind. I'm guessing he means to get them inside the fence; double back and close the gate trapping them.  Containment over confrontation. It’s not a bad idea. The wood won’t hold long, but long enough to get away. 

That's one positive for the Dead: When they get out, they won’t remember where the meal was.

Clever kid. Using the environment. Smart. He might have pulled it off. Until five more stumble out between two fence lines behind him.

Slower than the first two—older, more decayed. Long Dead vs. Newly Dead, with what I have always assumed to be slightly better vision, and muscle control. The older ones seem to have sound and not much else.

Seven Dead against one boy who’s too focused on the most obvious threat to see what’s behind him.

Shit.

I swing my bow around on instinct, slipping the wide leather strap from my shoulder.  Holding one arrow between my teeth, I grab another and nock it.  Stepping out from cover just enough to take aim. The first shot done before really thinking through the potential consequences of such an action.  

Thrum.

The first arrow lands clean.

Just as I intended, the Dead woman in a long, tattered skirt crumples with a growl, having tripped over her now fully dead companion. Her long skirt entangles her movements, caught on her shoes and knees as she attempts to take her feet again, snarling and snapping her teeth like a rabid dog.  

I’m already lining up the second shot, moving to a different angle as the remaining threat twenty feet in front of him, slowed by her tangled legs—is no longer the most pressing danger. The dead body dropping to the ground in front of him gets his attention. 

He startles flinching a few steps back, which is the opposite of what I hoped for here.  

I've taken down a second one—this time the staggering Dead man closest to his back—as the boy reaches for something.   The thud of the third body hitting the pavement has him whirling around and pulling a weapon from his side I couldn’t see before—a handgun.  

I can't tell the kind at this distance, but the thundering shot proving he has ammo echoes in my ears, seems to bounce off the houses, the trees, the very air vibrating with its intensity.  I'm grateful I haven't heard one in a while.

You don't realize just how jarringly loud a gunshot is until you hear it at close range.

Too loud. Too tempting.

More of them will come.

I move left, adjusting my angle. Draw. Fire. Go for the eye. Always. The temple is a much harder shot, even with the compound bow I'm carrying set to its maximum draw weight.  It might be the softest, thinnest bone in the head—but it's still bone—even if it's half rotten away. 

100 yards and a moving target doesn't improve the shot.

Living humans are so much easier to take down. I muse and fire again, immediately nocking a fourth arrow still moving.

The boy has also taken aim, fired again. This shot thwarting skirt-ladies' finally successful attempt to amble to her feet.  Her long skirt ripped in a jagged hem and tangled around one leg as she crashes back to the ground with a heavy final thump.  Another cracking report from the gun barrel echoes off the trees as he turns again back to the remaining and only obvious dead behind him.  

The sound is dangerous, potentially deadly.  Though with the echo off so many surfaces, it will be hard for the dead or anyone living to distinguish the exact location. 

I’m close enough now that using arrows feels like a waste. I move to take down the remaining threats. The more bullets the boy saves, the more he'll have in the future.  

Bullets don’t grow on trees, and you can’t yank them out of the dead and put them back in your gun.

I let the bow fall to the cracked asphalt with one hand and draw a machete from my thigh sheath. I move past the boy in a wide arc, cutting down the last two walkers with quick, practiced swings. One, two—wet thuds. Bone parts. Heads fall.

Silence falls harder.

I wait, watching the ones he shot. Making sure they won’t get back up. Slowing my breathing. Forcing calm into my chest.

Because now?

Now the real danger starts.

I don’t look at him yet.

My blade—slick with rot—hangs out and away from my leg, deliberately angled to appear nonthreatening. I keep my posture low and open. Passive.

Not a threat.

It was a big reason I dropped my bow to the ground. Right now, only one of us still holds a ranged weapon. That imbalance is a risk I’d never take with an adult man.

But this is a child.

He hasn’t spoken.

He also hasn’t shot me—a good sign.

I crouch near the closest corpse and wipe what gore I can from the machete before sliding it back into its sheath. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching—motionless, silent—as I move closer to tug my arrows from the slack bodies at my feet. 

He's returning his gun to his holster. Progress.

I’ll need to scrub the blades and my gear when I reach the lake. If I don’t, the stench will settle in.

I move with deliberate calm, turning away to walk the twenty feet back to my bow. I bend, pick it up, and slip the strap back over one shoulder. A gesture, small but clear: I’m not here to hurt him.

I consider leaving. Just disappearing into the trees. I’ve done more than most already—stepped into danger, exposed myself. Saved him.

But it’s not the Dead I’m worried about. Not really. The living have always been worse.

A breeze stirs the trees. Cool air brushes the sweat at the back of my neck, lifting the small hairs there. A rare relief in a stagnant, merciless world.

I sigh. If I were going to walk away, I would’ve done it already.

I finally turn to face him.

He can't be more than twelve—maybe thirteen.  Still a breath shy of the gangly awkwardness that turns boys into teens overnight. He’s already a few inches taller than me. 

Dark, shaggy bangs poke out from under the too-big cowboy hat slouched on his head. His cheeks are slightly hollow, pale. I can't tell if it's from sun-avoidance under that hat or from the shock of standing among bodies he should’ve been killed by.

He stares back with quiet intensity, expression curious, eyes bright and sharp. After a long silence, with neither of us making a move, he cocks his head slightly. Then speaks.

"I…I thought you were someone else." His voice is soft, but steady. He shifts his feet on the pavement meeting my gaze and not wavering. 

So he’s not alone, Shit. 

I should leave. Now.

“Sorry to disappoint.” My voice comes out rough, cracked around the edges. The sound feels foreign—thin and brittle. I clear my throat and swallow.

I haven’t spoken in… days? Weeks? Outside of muttering to myself or the Dead, it's been months since I needed words.

His hand rests lightly on the holster strapped to his thigh, near his weapon. Cautious—but not aiming. Which says something. Wherever this kid came from, someone’s taught him restraint. Maybe even manners. I’ve been wrong before, but it feels like… they might be good ones.

He shakes his head once. The gesture’s small, and his hair stays in his eyes under the weight of the brim. “No. Thank you. That would’ve been… hard, without you.” He lets his hand fall away from the gun.

I blink. A kid this young shouldn’t be this polite. Or this calm.

Maybe those were his last bullets. Maybe that’s why I’m still breathing. But whoever he’s with—if they’re alive—might still be armed. I keep my posture relaxed.

“Who are you with?” I ask carefully.

This area’s been quiet for a while. Too far from the last group I tracked to expect foot traffic—especially from someone this young. I don’t want to leave him if he’s truly alone, but getting involved could be suicide.

He tenses. The thin line of his mouth turns grim. Not ready to trust me, which is fair–smart. Even if I have just helped him, trust should not come easy. 

Caution is a good thing.  Someone has taught him well. 

Something about him reminds me of Tobin so much it aches, maybe it’s the dark locks of hair, the youthful face still clinging to hope. 

I clear my throat again and move to grab my bottle from my pack still hidden from him behind the tree.  The tree I was resting under when I first heard the sounds.  Where I probably should have stayed hidden.  I pick up my water from the side netting and unscrew the cap, rinse my throat hoping it helps my voice feel less stale.  

"Are they… injured?”  I ask, voice steadier now. They must be with him out here, moving the dead all alone.  “I've got herbs.  I might be able to help."  

I leave my pack and move towards him, this time holding out my bottle for him to take a drink.  

It’s a peace offering of sorts.  Precious resources: water, food, safety and shelter. An olive branch between strangers. A lifeline.

He hesitates for a moment then the line of his posture relaxes a little more, he takes it and drinks.  

“Why?” he asks, voice quieter. He hands the bottle back, half-drained. 

Why am I doing this? 

Why am I helping him?

Is this what loneliness does to a person—makes them reckless for conversation? For connection?

Why.

I ask myself that too. I’ve avoided people for years. The cost of exposure is always higher than the payoff. But he deserves an answer. Both truth and trust are a rarer currency than bullets.

“Not many decent people left,” I say. “I want to be one of them.”

He nods. “Me too.” He pauses, glancing down. When he looks up there’s a steely resolve in his blue eyes years beyond his young face. 

“It’s my dad. He’s… he’s pretty bad.”

His Dad. Family . This kid still has family.

I nod once and turn away, reaching for my pack again. My throat tightens unexpectedly. I blink hard with my back to him.

I swing the pack onto my shoulders, the weight settling against sweat-soaked fabric. When I face him again, I offer a small smile—awkward, uncertain. It feels rusty.

“Well,” I say, “let’s go then.”

.

.

Pretty Bad?  

Try Fucking Terrible.

I have to stop and stare at what’s left of the man laid out on the floor. For a moment, I think he’s already dead—until his chest rises, wheezing.

I step closer. That sound doesn’t reassure me.

I’ve seen roadkill in better shape than this kid’s dad.

His face is a swollen mess, more bruise than skin. Dried blood crusts most of his exposed body from multiple gashes—including a deep one over his left temple. His left eye is puffed half-shut. The cuts on his cheek aren’t actively bleeding anymore, they probably won’t need stitches. 

But his breathing? It’s absolute shit . 

I’m not sure if he’s been shot or stabbed in addition to a beating to the brink of death, but I think it’s safe to assume from his unconscious state that his injuries are severe and continue under his clothes. 

“What’s his name?” I ask, already dropping my pack near the sofa. I flip open the side pocket and dig for a penlight.

“Rick,” The boy—Carl, says quietly. The fact that his Dad won’t wake is clearly wrecking him. Understandably. The act of keeping his shit together through the crisis speaks volumes to his character. 

I crouch beside Rick and gently lift one swollen eyelid. One of his eyes is bloodshot all the way through. The bruising around his throat is thick, brutal—someone tried to choke him to death, and nearly succeeded.

When I pass the light over his eyes, the pupils react. Slowly. But evenly. That’s something . 

Not a coma. Not yet.

His breathing explains itself—ribs. Definitely bruised. Probably broken.

The herbs I brought won’t be enough. There’s a lot you can do with a solid knowledge of the natural world, but for something this severe—prevention and easing pain aren’t going to cut it.  I need real medicines, real medical supplies. All of which I have—just not here.

If I don’t act fast, he’ll die—Possibly even if I do act fast. I’ll need to patch what I can and then get what I really need from home and return to help. I definitely can’t move him right now.  

At least the house they picked to squat in has a gas stove—and propane still in the tanks I discover with a wash of relief. I light the pilot with a match from my bag when the click results in a soft hiss of fuel—but no flame.  

I need to sterilize as much as I can, if the injuries themselves don’t kill him an infected wound will.  I find a sizable pot, amazed that water still runs from the sink tap, though slowly after a bit of groaning protest. 

I set water to boil, then I set to work on the many injuries, rinse, wash, wrap and make the poultice to pack against the worst wounds. The swelling in his face and throat has to come down or he won’t keep breathing. I can already feel the fever in his skin—not infection yet, just trauma. But that window’s closing.

If he were conscious, he’d be in agony. Delirious. His whole chest is one massive bruise. The ribs beneath are wrecked. It looks like someone enjoyed kicking the life out of him.

And it gets worse.

There’s a crude strip of cloth tied around his upper thigh, stiff with dried blood. A makeshift tourniquet. It stopped the bleeding, sure—but if it’s been on too long, it could’ve done more harm than good.

I have no idea how the Hell he even walked here like this. There’s probably a bullet still inside—because why not ? God. I’m not sure I can fix this. But Carl’s watching me with those huge, hopeful eyes.

"No offense kid, but who the Hell did your Dad piss off? Looks like he lost a fight with the Hulk."

Carl doesn’t miss a beat. “Nah. One-eyed asshole with a militia and a military tank.”

…I blink.

That, can’t be real.

But then he elaborates—and by the time he finishes, I’m honestly shocked Rick’s still breathing at all.

I let Carl talk as I work. It distracts him. Gives me something to focus on besides the awful possibility that I’m just patching up a corpse.

The bullet wound turns out to be a graze, not a puncture. Angry and red, but no digging necessary. It starts to bleed again, the tang of copper thick in the air, settling on the back of my tongue and making my stomach twist. I clean it, pack it, and sew it shut.

I know the place he’s talking about. Woodbury . I’ve crossed paths with their so-called “enforcers” before—had to detour hard to avoid them ever since. Packs of rough men roamed the woods like wolves, and the one with a goddamn sword for a hand made my skin crawl.

But none of them held a candle to their leader. 

That man was a different kind of monster. Not the kind who enjoyed cruelty—the kind who needed it. Like something wired wrong. I stayed east to avoid them. And I’d assumed when the town burned to the ground, that was the end of it. Clearly, I was wrong.

Now, Carl and his Dad might be the only ones who made it out. Somehow, the worst of humanity always finds a way to survive and continue spreading misery.

My focus sharpens.

I haven’t done enough.

Rick remains unconscious while I work, and in many ways that’s a blessing. Not just for the pain. But because Carl? 

Carl is young. Open. Trusting, still.

And I need to understand who they are—who he is. Because once people have survived this long in this world, they’ve all touched evil, in one form or another.

I need to know how much of that has crawled inside them. 

How much of it has curled deep inside to rot—Especially if they will be near me.

Chapter Text

Seraphim

Two Weeks Later

I know they’re near long before I see them. Before I could ever hear them.  

It's like that sometimes–the itch .  

It makes all the hair stand up on the back of my neck.  There’s this tingle under my scalp like a wave of heat rolling over my brain, pins and needles and a touch of nausea… and you just know…or I do at least.  

I’ve never had a chance to ask anyone else.  Never risked it.

But the early warning—while we’re together in the woods—gives me just enough time to hopefully save his life. Again. 

I seem to be doing that a lot lately.

I've never been more grateful for putting a climbing harness on someone as a precaution. I've watched enough people die. Kids are the worst.

"Carl, Quick," I drop my bag, rip it open, pull the bow, and nock the rope rigged arrow—all in one smooth flowing motion.

I scan up. Locate my target. One short pull. Tilt. Breathe.

One shot. No time for mistakes.

The short arrow sails up through the air like a small comet, trailing the thin cord like a vapor trail. It snakes over the large limb in a perfect arch before gravity pulls it back down.

Practice makes perfect. I could almost do this in my sleep.

"Grab that. Now. " I tell him.

He doesn't argue. Good .

I’m already winding the line around my palm and elbow, removing slack before he even reaches it. He races it back to me, urgency in every step.

“What are we doing?” he asks, handing me the arrow again.

He can hear them now.

His eyes are wide, but his hands stay steady. This kid is braver than most adults I’ve met. Rick was right to trust him—but Rick’s trusting me to keep him alive. Rick—who was beaten almost to death, yet is trusting me to keep his only son alive. Trust does not come easy. For good reason. That’s a weight in my gut I can’t afford to drop.

Faster, I need to move faster.

"What are you doing?" 

 …Of course the first time I agreed to take Carl with me there just had to be a pack of Dead in the area. Considering how busy they’ve kept me for the last two weeks, it’s not that unexpected.

I’m keeping Carl alive, damnit.  

But I also need to keep myself safe.

I finish feeding the static rope over the branch, snap the clamp into the D-ring on Carl’s harness, and grab the coil back off the ground. 

He grips my arm, staring down at me. 

"What are you doing?"

Now I hear it in his voice. See it in his wide blue eyes. 

Fear .

"I've got to get you up that tree.” I say, fast. “They don't climb." and I need to hurry so they notice me and only me. Not the boy I’m leaving behind.

"You're not dying for me."  His tone is indignant, offended– he means it.

A sharp bark of laughter escapes me.  Carl's face twists in anger. He grabs the clamp, ready to undo it. I lunge, slam my fingers down over his.

“No. I’m not.”

I can't explain now. I can feel them moving closer.  

There isn’t time, and he wouldn’t believe me if I did. 

Careful lies. Partial truths. 

“I’m faster,” I say instead. “I run every day. You’ve only got a knife, and scarcely a decent meal in weeks." It's the truth, regardless of how he feels about it. 

He won't have the strength or skills to fight them all off. The endurance to run away.  He’s out of bullets and I only have one bow. I should have made the side trip earlier in the week to bring him one. But I’d been more worried about speed to aid Rick than getting him a weapon he wasn’t even trained to use.  

Like handing a gun to someone with no aim. The false security could get them killed.

He wants to argue. I see it. 

I tried not to overhear the conversation with his Dad after he finally woke up. Carl is trying to navigate that odd jump between boy and teen. His Dad might have called him a man; but he reminds me too damn much of my little brother at this age to let him run blindly into danger. 

"I'm not going to die, Carl.” I lace my voice with conviction. “I’m going to draw them off. I'll whistle every 60 seconds so you know I'm alive.”

And it will keep them focused on me.

“When I'm far enough, I'll give three short blasts to signal. Figure it will take the same time for me to double back around them quietly, so count the blasts okay?" 

"Whistle with what?"

I like this kid.  

I pull the white plastic whistle from where it hangs under my shirt, still warm from body heat.

Carl narrows his eyes in suspicion, like I just pulled a coin out of his ear. 

"Why the Hell do you have a whistle?"

I definitely like this kid.  I’m not going to let anyone eat him. It’s not just a promise to Rick now. It’s a promise to myself .

"It's my old campus rape whistle.” Hopefully–I don’t have to explain to him what that is, I realize belatedly a moment after the truth pops out of my mouth.  “It's loud." I add rushing past a fact I didn’t mean to give him. 

He'll hear it even if I run almost two miles. Everything will.

The memory of hearing one in the dead of night on campus my sophomore year stirs in my mind. I'd tried to pinpoint the direction of the sound for the campus Emergency phone operator; but it was so far away.  Seemed to echo off everything. 

I push memories away as the snarling grows louder. Those people are all dead. Carl is not. 

Yet.  

I need to hurry.

"There's no other way Carl. I've done this more times than I can remember."

It's not a lie…

… it's not the whole truth.

He nods, jaw clenched. "You’d better come back." 

Translation: Don’t get eaten. 

I nod to him. Taking the rope. Pull. Feet digging into the thankfully dry earth. Slippery Georgia mud would make this impossible. 

There isn't much size difference between us, but most of my weight is muscles.  The spike of adrenaline. The speed I force into well practiced movements, along with the pulley I rigged up combine in effort—he rises. 

When Carl hangs suspended maybe fifteen feet in the air—far too high for any grabbing hands to get ahold of him and maybe ten feet from the lowest Vee branch in the tree's thick trunk—I loop the rope around the tree trunk twice to add some friction. Then tie the rope end securing it so he's not in danger of tumbling back to the ground.

The Dead can’t undo knots.

I abandon my bag against the base of the tree. I’ll move faster without it. And it’s one more reassurance to Carl that my absence is temporary. I return to stand almost beneath him, picking my bow up again.

Carl needs a task. A distraction, and a goal. 

"Climb up the rope, like yesterday. That Vee in the branches?” I point and he glances up before turning back to me.  “You can sit there until I get back, or your legs might fall asleep." 

Something to think about other than just counting the whistle blasts and wondering if I'm being eaten. Something to focus his mind–other than fear.

“Sit in the branches. Stay quiet.”

"But…"

"Stay Quiet!” I snap.

He stills.

If he draws their attention, able to reach him or not, he will be even more freaked out when I return, if he didn’t try something stupid first.  

“I'm coming back Carl!"  

They’re way too close now for him to respond. I need to draw their attention, this won't work if they don’t follow me. 

I raise the whistle and blow. A piercing shriek cuts through the trees, a siren song to every Walker in a two-mile radius. 

They lurch closer. I wait until they're almost on top of me. 

I don’t want Carl to make any noise—so I don’t wait as long as I normally would. The closest one reaches for the sound.

I run. 

I whistle with each puff of air that leaves my lungs as I move to cover ground, dodging tree trunks, leaping roots. I make as much noise as possible until I'm certain they’re after me. Oblivious to the boy piñata I've left dangling beyond their reach.  

I keep whistling as I go. A dozen, maybe two dozen of them now. The group grows with each echoing blast.

The horde builds itself. They follow sound like moths follow light.

The number is manageable. A larger group gets too difficult to direct.

I drop the whistle, wipe spit from my lips, and check my compass once I’m certain I’m out of sight. I stand still for a moment and then once I've got my bearings, I raise the whistle. And I blow again.

A nearby Dead man turns at the sound, raising his arm towards my face with a clumsy swipe of a dirty hand. I tilt my head taking a step back, just out of his reach on reflex. 

"Not today buddy." 

The last thing I need is visible scratches or bites. Nothing ruins your day like a potential gunshot to the face.  

I need to be careful .  

More careful than I’ve had to be in months, Hell longer. I softly clap my hands together gathering all their attention—however briefly, before it wanders again.

Noise .

Movement .

At least then, they still notice me.

There were months when I'd wondered if they couldn’t see me. If I was already dead and just hadn’t realized it. If the world I was stumbling through lost and alone was some nightmare purgatory. There were weeks where I stared into mirrors, wondering if I was real. There was no one left to tell me. Just me and the Dead.

They’re not great conversationalists. Unless snarling counts.

I walk just ahead of them now. Close, but not too close. They lumber behind me like obedient shadows.  Their heads tilted like confused dogs unable to figure out a new smell. 

The dead don’t hunt me.
They just follow.

"Come on boys and girls.” I pick a path that’s as clear as possible, and hopefully won’t deviate on their own. “Let's go for a walk." 

They plod after me faithfully, not a snarl among them, hardly a sound other than the rustling wind and the occasional snapped twig under heavy feet. 

I jog ten steps ahead and whistle again for Carl. Trying to encourage them to move faster.  Every step draws them further from him. Every shriek of the whistle tells him I’m still alive. 

Every breath of wind in the trees reminds me—

I am not like them.
And I am not like the living, either.

I exist in the space between.

But right now? I exist to keep a promise.

And I am not letting anyone eat that kid.

Not today.

.

Daryl

They’re making good time. Like it matters.

No destination. No plan. Just… walking.

Existing for the sake of existence.

Dragging one more breath, one more step, one more goddamn day out of their bodies like it’ll change anything.

Like it won’t all end the same way.

Like he won’t eventually fail.

They’d had to circle around the main roads after losing the bike—his last link to Merle. God, that still burns.

Beth has been a trooper. Only breaking down once at nightfall the first night. 

He could hear her quiet sobs in the darkness. Though whether they're for her missing sister, her dead father—murdered right in front of her for fucksake, or the rest of them, scattered like ash. 

Didn’t matter.

Didn’t ask.

What the hell could he say?

Sorry the world’s shit, kid? Get used to it?

No words make it better. He’d just make it worse.

They hadn’t seen many Walkers this morning. The stretch south of the highway’s been quiet, thankfully. Which is good, because with no gas and no bike, they’re running on fumes.  

Outrunning Walkers exhausted and hungry is a piss poor idea. Too many days of barely staying ahead of them, just trying to keep Beth alive. It’s all he has left. 

Beth. Sweet, soft-voiced Beth. Who barely stepped outside the prison walls until everything went to hell. And now he’s all she’s got between her and what’s out there.  

He doesn’t know how to protect people like her. Not really. Not without the others. He can only hope Rick is still alive, Carl, Maggie and Glenn…the baby.

A high pitched blast of sound catches him off guard, pulls them both to a stop listening.

"What is that?" Beth stands close to him. Face pinched, exhausted, winded and afraid.

He listens—narrowing his eyes toward the dense treeline. It echoes oddly under the canopy, shrill and artificial. 

"Sounds like a God Damn work whistle."  

Except it isn’t regular. Not machine-made. Not consistent.

Beth’s breath hitches beside him.

It lines up, almost eerily, with the sound. Every exhale. A nervous rhythm in stereo.

"That ain’t automated” he mutters. “Someone's blowin’ that shit on purpose."  He feels his brow scrunch.  Irritation building. Fucking idiot. Drawing attention like that out here?

Worry it’s some new threat, some danger that will break the girl practically trembling next to him coils around his insides, suffocating him.

Beth stares up at him, eyes wide. Her voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. "Why would anyone do that?"

He exhales sharply through his nose.

"Walkers. Gotta be.”  It’s the only explanation that makes sense.  “Someone's tryin’ to get their fuckin’ attention."  Which… good. Let it be someone else’s problem. 

It’s deep enough in the woods it’s not aimed at them. They’re not the ones being hunted.

Not this time.

But that means someone else is. Someone still alive, maybe. Someone still running. Fighting not to give up…

His stomach twists.

"We should go,"  His voice is gruff, colored with guilt he can’t completely ignore.  

He’s already scanning for a decent shelter—somewhere to hole up before nightfall. Ignoring whatever the Hell that mess under the trees is—he wants no part of it.

Beth stares at him, brows raised. 

"Don't give me no damn look. Ain’t our problem. Hav'n enough shit to deal with,"  He’s barely holding it together now. Barely keeping her breathing. Adding someone else to the mix? That’s a death sentence.

“What if it’s Carl?” she asks softly. “Or Maggie?”

Her fingers dig into his arm, small and shaking. Trying to anchor him with desperation.

He snaps back. “Maggie ain’t got no damn whistle.”

Shit.

He doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to see what’s out there. Doesn’t want to know if the last people who mattered are already gone.

He’s balancing on the edge of a knife.

If they’re gone, there’s nothing left to hold the blade back.

"How many bullets you got left?"

"Three." She doesn't even have to look, good girl.

The whistle cuts out. 

Silence descends—so sudden it presses on the inside of his skull. He holds his breath, listening for screams. Gunshots. Anything. The wind pushes a few dead leaves down the road past his boots. Nothing. 

Beth is holding her breath. Waiting. Eyes wide.

There's one short burst of the same whistle…and still, no screaming.  

They wait.

Another burst. Even farther.

Timed, measured, planned. Someone’s leading them.

"That was about a minute apart?" Beth whispers, glancing sideways at him. Before returning her eyes to the shadows between the trees like it will hand her answers.

The whistle bursts again.

He nods. Slowly. “Yeah. Someone’s pullin’ ‘em.”

She swallows. “Can you tell how far?”

How the fuck would he know? He shrugs, annoyed. But offers something anyway. “Quarter mile, maybe more. Hard to say. Shit’s loud on purpose.”

He can’t shake it now. The thought that it could be one of theirs. Carol might’ve handed out whistles. Maybe one of the kids.

Could be someone small. Someone alone.

Like Sophia.

He can feel the phantom ache of that guilt flare in his chest.

"I can wait in that car over there if you want to go look."  

He hefts the crossbow, feet already moving. "You sure?"

"Yeah, before it's too late."

He gives a short nod and heads into the trees, heart heavy, stomach tight.

Behind him, the car door shuts with a quiet finality.

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

Seraphim

I've been going the same direction for a while now.

I wish I could jog faster to get this over with, but the Dead only move so fast with rotting limbs and stiff joints.

I’m still not sure how the Hell this even works. 

And, I don't want to lose them in the trees, too much distance between us and they could be easily distracted again. I silently count the whistles since I left Carl, judging the distance based on our average speed...calculate the rough odds of them circling back or changing course without me to direct them.

I can't risk leaving Carl too long.  Not because the tree isn’t safe—it is, at least from the Dead. 

I worry if I wait too long he'll get brave and climb down to help me and get lost in the woods…or worse; find me before I'm done with the others.

That would end our little truce real fast.

I stop to look at my compass once more. A vague direction is all I have time for right now. I've picked up a few more bodies with the commotion. Somewhere between thirty, maybe forty dead now? 

I don’t count exactly. It’s not important—I have no plans beyond sending them off toward the farm, and zero worries about what happens if they get there.  Good riddance.  

I add a burst of speed separating myself from the group, shouting, waving my arms, making as much noise as possible then blowing the whistle three quick times before dropping the whistle from my mouth and ducking between the tree trunks and out of their direct line of sight.

Noise. Movement. They snarl and lurch, pitched into a hungry frenzy before stumbling right past me and continuing in the direction I've set them. 

With any luck they'll reach the Peacock farm and take care of the monsters before I have to risk it. I’d be thrilled. The world would be a better place if they were eaten by a pack of Dead.  I'm not sure if that would be ironic or poetic justice.

Probably both.

I wait until the last stumbled footsteps are a good ten feet beyond my spot before slipping back the direction I originally traveled.  The tracks make it easy to tell exactly which direction we came from. They tend to plod and drag their feet, shuffling and  kicking up leaves and making it very obvious, especially in a larger group. 

I move as silently as possible for another few yards to ensure they don’t turn around again before breaking into a run to hurry back to Carl before anything else can go wrong.

It doesn’t take me long.

Carl is where I left him.  Which should be a relief when he comes into view again, but instead my stomach drops. 

Carl is not alone. 

There's a man with him I don't know.  But as I watch them interact even from this distance, it is very obvious that Carl is very familiar with this stranger,  I'm certain of it. 

My hand tightens on my bow, silently pulling the strap over my head and keeping behind the tree so I’m hidden. I’m torn between pulling an arrow so I’m ready to defend myself –and not nocking one; so I don’t appear as a threat to who-ever this is.  

Just because Carl knows him, doesn’t mean he’s safe for me to approach.  My stomach tightens with knots of unease at the continued risks I’ve been taking.

I pause again for a moment, unsure what I’m walking into, despite some similarities it is very obviously not Rick.  There is no way Rick could walk all the way out here, and absolutely no chance of him lifting his arms to untie the rope I left around the trunk to keep Carl suspended.  

Rick also doesn’t walk around in a sleeveless shirt and leather vest with a heavy crossbow in one hand. They appear to have similar builds though, and the same dark hair though whoever this is, his hair is longer, more disheveled even from this distance, and that’s saying something, considering the shape Rick has been in until most recently.  

Maybe they’re brothers? Rick had referred to the group as family once in a clipped tone, maybe he meant it in a literal sense?

I didn’t ask enough questions before—too busy patching Rick up. Keeping Rick alive and keeping Carl distracted while he was unconscious was a full time job. And then keeping both of them fed the last week since Rick woke up has kept me more than busy.  I’ve been moving back and forth between home and their location cautiously observing them and trying to learn who they really are, asking doesn’t always get you the truth. 

I was just starting to feel more comfortable with the two of them. Relaxing just a little bit the last few days and categorizing them as not open threats to me—as long as I remained cautious and kept my activities quiet. But once again, I’m lacking the information I need now that the situation has suddenly changed. I don’t know if I should announce myself or run and not look back.

Carl is talking animatedly with the man as he spins slowly at the end of the rope. I'm too far away to catch the words. Too busy making sure my footfalls remain silent on the ground to try to concentrate on what's being said right now. They haven't noticed me yet and this man must be a part of his previous group. 

This is a good thing, I tell myself.  People are safer in numbers out here—when they’re not me. They can all leave together. He could keep Carl safe while Rick is still healing and then… they could move on… go before they cause me problems. 

I don't need any more problems.  

It would be the smarter thing to do...so, why doesn’t this possibility make me feel any better about the current situation then?

I move a bit closer. It’s almost like I’m the one being drawn in now. I shove that thought away.  Rick isn’t safe to move around yet, and can't defend himself, maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I can walk away. I can hear their voices now from where I’m hidden behind a large tree trunk and kudzu vines.  I watch them carefully through the leaves.  

"Hell’d you get up there?" The man's accent is all Southern Georgia. The tone gruff, and raised. He looks irked by the situation he’s found Carl in, scowling up at him like he purposely put himself up there as some kind of prank.

I watch him set his crossbow down beside his feet before moving to handle my knotted rope. Whoever he is, he makes quick, clearly experienced movements.  As it lets go, dropping Carl’s weight against his arms; He slides a bit in the leaves, cursing under his breath at the effort. 

His movements bring Carl down in a rush that has the kid gripping the rope in front of him with one hand and the brim of his hat with the other before stumbling a bit as he hits the dirt. 

"Fin! We have to help her!" Carl’s already fumbling with the buckle at his waist. Starting toward the direction I ran with nearly two dozen Walkers the last time he saw me—even as the man holds up a placating hand to stop him from rushing off.

Shit. Kid's got morals that will get him killed out here. 

Maybe the man without sleeves will show more sense since I just took off with a bunch of Dead people trailing after me.  If they decide to return to Rick I will let them go. It's the smartest move for me. I’ll just slip back into the trees and disappear again.

I can't see his face from this angle, but he pauses only a brief moment before scooping his crossbow off the ground. The bright green fletching on its arrows catch my eye—one already loaded and ready to fire turns my stomach. 

"Which direction they go?" He asks Carl. 

Double shit.  

Man has enough sense to carry a crossbow to not attract more of the Dead to him and clearly at least some knowledge in survival craft with how fast he disassembled my knot…but not enough self-preservation instinct to just worry about himself.

…of course, I'm also out here right now because I was protecting someone else I barely know so… yeah.  

The hypocrisy’s not lost on me. It just feels more ridiculous when other people do it. 

Damn edible people and their values. 

I’ve been so worried about running into more monsters out here for so long I never stopped to consider the consequences of finding good people. People worth saving in this world. 

Make a decision.  

Stay or go.  

Run and leave these possibly good people to figure it out on their own…or…take one last chance…

Try—just one more time. 

I draw a deep breath and tighten my fist on my bow but keep it lowered and locked at my side. If I was going to run… I’d have done it already. I’m simply standing here delaying the inevitable out of fear.

I step out from behind the trees about fifteen feet away before either of them can take off after me. I call out calmly, aiming for a conversational tone—even if I’m out of practice, 

"I'm fine."

Mr. No-sleeves whirls so fast my breath catches in my throat. He has an arrow aimed at my head before I finish the words. I manage not to freeze mid-step and drop to the side, but the instinct to do so claws at me—prickles under my scalp like pins and needles flooded with a rush of adrenaline at the very real threat to my life.

"Daryl! Wait!” Carl practically yells it at him, grabbing the man’s arm with his hands.  Despite Carl's tug on him, Daryl only bobs slightly to the side with Carl’s tug before adjusting his stance to compensate. He keeps the bow raised, his loaded crossbolt and glare–equally sharp, pointed at me. 

I feel my eyebrow arch but I don't stop walking towards them. Keep my bow down by my side, not a threat, and not afraid. Which doesn’t stop the frightened knots twisting through my stomach.

At this distance he could kill me with a single shot, assuming he knows what he’s doing…and it looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing with that weapon.

“It's okay!”  Carl still hasn’t let go of his elbow, but he’s not yelling anymore.  

I try to keep my posture relaxed, my face calm. Inside my heart is pounding so hard I don’t know how he can’t hear it.

Daryl still hasn’t lowered his bow.  His crystalline blue eyes watching me with an intensity that sets what feels like a flock of birds loose through my insides. 

His eyes are lighter than Carl's, but close enough to be related. I'm more convinced this must be Rick’s brother…but the accent is throwing me off. They sound completely different.

“Daryl, This is Fin!" Carl tries again to defuse the silent stare off.

Daryl’s bow drops suddenly to his side in one hand, his other falling to his side.  Thankfully not near the giant knife at his belt that would make Crockodile-Dundee proud. Guess he’s decided I’m not a threat. 

“What the hell kind of name is that for a girl?”  Daryl frowns at me as I move closer. His accent comes out even thicker that time with his apparent exasperation while he all but glares down at me. 

Rick hasn’t been super friendly, but this guy is just ornery as fuck.  At least he’s nice to look at?  Even if he looks like he would benefit from a bath…with a hose. 

There’s something about him—despite the prickly attitude, even without the weapon pointed at me—that still twists in my stomach. Makes me nervous for different reasons…Maybe it’s those eyes like chips of glacial ice that haven’t left my face.  Watch me move closer like he’s cataloging every movement, every expression and looking right inside my head trying to understand who I am.

Just my luck. Now I get to add a grumpy but attractive—and entirely too observant for my safety, redneck to my growing list of problems. 

I could glare back at him, but his expression is sour enough for two people, so I smile sweetly instead. "It's a nickname."

He huffs in answer looking somehow even more poleaxed by my reaction to his surly tone, then if I’d snapped at him.  

He’s still watching me, but he shifts, moving his feet to keep me in sight and backing up out of arms reach as I approach Carl.  He’s hovering, still considering me an unknown threat, and keyed up for a fight I don’t want to have, so I try to ignore him at this point. 

Give him time to assess that I know Carl and I’m not a threat to the boy standing between us now.

I grab the rope from the ground and begin unclipping the remaining hooks from Carl's harness. "We have to go," I remind him.  

We've lost too much time with the pack of Dead, and Rick is alone in no condition to defend himself.  The cabin is remote and should be safe, but should be and are don’t always align out here.

I wind the rope over my arm feeling the picks where the rough tree limb's bark has snagged the line; not that it could be helped. There was no time to set it up differently. No way Carl could free climb a tree without a lot of practice.

“How many Walkers were there?” Daryl asks from behind me.  

I can feel him watching me still.  It’s more than a little unnerving the way I can feel his gaze like a weight against my skin.  

“We need to worry ‘bout them turning back around to follow us?” Daryl’s tone is slightly less gruff, but I wouldn’t call it conversational.

“I took them pretty far, but we should keep our voices down.”  The Dead—or Walkers, as they keep calling them—are always attracted by noise.

"’S pretty quick thinking hiding in a tree like that." He adds, perhaps some kind of peace offering. Maybe just an observation—it’s hard to tell from his tone, and a glance at his body language doesn’t help either.

"Fin's idea. She led the Walkers away. I would have fought them—" 

"--No one's questioning your bravery Carl." I cut him off. "There were too many of them to take on with just two people."

"Yeah, but you did it." He looks at me while I frown. 

I don't need hero worship, that could get an impressionable young boy killed thinking I'm something I'm not.  There’s too much blood on my hands already…

"No." I add. "I ran, something I practice every day. Track star that's me."

Lie.

I hated running. I never did it before this shit went down. But I've gotten good at it, and it's safer than having him think I killed off 20—something dead single handedly. Even if I could have—it feels too much like slaughter when they just stand there. I have nightmares about it at times, of all the asinine things to dream about.  I still wake up nauseous and shaking.

I keep talking as I work to wind the rope so I can pack it away and we can move. "I got far enough ahead of them I was out of sight and went up a tree. I was lucky most of them kept going so I could sneak back down and get back here."

Carl's mouth pinches tight; he'll remember that, which is good.

I don't want the responsibility of being Batman. I don't need a Robin. I just want to get them where they're going and be gone. Before they kill me.

"Where's Rick?" Daryl asks Carl. The way he says it. It's as much a statement as it is a question. He must have a lot of confidence in Rick to not even question his survival. Rick is alive—he just needs to know where.  

I answer for him since I’m the one responsible for their current location. "House north of here, by the lake. He's still pretty banged up." I've finished stuffing the rope in my pack, and zipping it closed. I slide my bow back over my shoulder with my pack.

"We came out to get more herbs to help. Fin makes them into this medicine." Carl tells him.

Herbs for tea that are now stuffed in the front pocket of my pack. 

"Let's go." We can talk about this later.

I start off toward the lake, eyes alert for Walkers. I get the feeling I'm going to have to play my part a lot more convincingly with Daryl around. Most people don’t walk through the woods without glancing around frequently to check for bodies. 

O ne more thing to worry about.

Carl follows me with quick steps to keep up with my pace. Daryl follows bow down, but ready.

We've gone maybe 400 yards when he speaks. "Hold up a sec,"

Carl stops immediately, so I pause.

"Left Beth over here when I heard the whistle." He tilts his head off to the side.

"Beth's alive?" Carl lights up.

Daryl jerks his chin once. Man of few words.  He steers us east for a few hundred yards until we hit a road. I know this road. I know how to get us back to Rick from here without returning to the woods. As long as we don’t run into a group of Dead wandering around, traveling with kids is a little faster over paved ground.

Daryl approaches one of the cars parked on the grassy edge of the road, rusted and covered in a thick layer of yellow Fall pollen that even Georgia thunderstorms don't wash off.  A skinny blond climbs out of the car's backseat. 

She heads towards us quickly grinning.  She's taller than me—not difficult to accomplish, but I realize she's not much older than Carl. She'd probably be just finishing High School in another world—so hopefully not his girlfriend, and yeah societal norms are a bit fucked at this point, but still.  

"Carl!" She flings one arm around him holding a small revolver by her side in the other. She pulls back, "Your Dad?" Carl doesn't smile, but his face softens as he nods.

"He's alive. I'm sorry…"

Beth shakes her head quickly, her cheeks flush, clearly fighting back a wash of emotion. "It's okay." She croaks. 

I recognize that look. It's not okay. But what else can you say when you lose someone? Words fail. Emotions cripple you—and that gets you killed.  You honor the dead by not becoming one of them.

"We have to go," I remind them all.

Carl nods. Beth eyes me, she's a very pretty girl even with the dirt and grime. She should be waving palm palms at a football game, not shoving a revolver into her back pocket. 

"Beth, this is Fin. She’s been helping me and my Dad."

"Thank you." Her voice is soft and southern, her smile is more neutral than friendly. I nod.

"Let's go." Daryl all but growls the words, he obviously isn't one for emotions—other than grumpy.

We're already on the road now so I jog up its edge. The others follow until we reach the lake's gravel turnoff. I veer down it, my eyes alert for people more than any dead. Thankfully, we reach the cabin where we left Rick in the loft without further incident. 

Only one Walker passes anywhere near us as we cover the distance in silence. 

He's far enough away I don’t consider him a threat.  I'm tempted to ignore him.  Continue on unnoticed if we move silently enough. But as I’m watching him through the trees he falls from an arrow through his eye socket. 

Right through the eye in a single shot.  

From at least 140 feet away—through the trees.

Well, fuck. Somebody knows what they’re doing.

Daryl leaves us also without a word.  Moving off to the side quickly to retrieve his arrow from the Walker before joining back up as we continue on. 

We keep moving while he deters to the side, yet he catches back up without issue, making almost no sound as he approaches us.  If I wasn’t watching I’d have never realized he’d walked away and returned to the group. 

Not just a little experience out here I realize with a complex tangle of emotions. 

He can move just as silently as I can, even quick. His movements aren’t relaxed—they’re practiced, confident, efficient.  

He has as much experience out here under the trees surviving as I do and made a shot that would have probably given me trouble without pausing for more than a split second to aim. 

I'll keep a closer eye on the hunter from now on.

Rick is healing. 

Bruised and broken ribs take time, and all of that waiting hurts. You can’t stop breathing, just because it’s painful, and the constant pain wears even the toughest person down. 

His face at least no longer looks like a rotten pumpkin. Just the slight hint of purple still darkens one brow, most of his jawline. 

The herbs have taken down the swelling, but he still moves with the jerky caution of someone guarding injuries—reaching, shifting, then freezing as pain bites too hard to ignore. It's still sharp, still fresh, even after weeks of rest. 

I can hear it in his breathing when he moves. He's sitting up at the table, despite the fact that doing so causes him serious discomfort. The others sit with him, trying to decide what to do.  I considered leaving them to figure it out themselves—but Rick asked me to stay, so I did. 

He’s trying to include me, but I’m not one of them.  

Leaned against the wall, trying to stay out of the conversation but still listening for potential complications that could cause me issues. I wait to see what they decide.  

They could move on now, there are four of them. They might decide to leave or wait another few weeks for Rick to heal more.  I could get them a car, pack them off to parts unknown and be done with it. 

I could simply decide to leave too.  

Rick’s no longer knocking on death’s door. Taking my pack and returning to my solo routine should feel like relief—a return to quiet, to normal. So why does the thought sit in my stomach like lead?

Apparently the main focus for all four of them is finding as many of their old group as possible. 

Any possible survivors that might still be out there on the roads or in the woods.  Not finding more food. Or discussing if this temporary shelter I’ve led them to will get them through the cold of winter, protect them against a possible swarm of walkers.  

They want to find their friends and family alive. That’s the kind of people they are. The more time that passes the less likely it will be. 

Rick is clearly agitated by the lessening probability, the time lost to his wounds. Even now, he can't help them search. A single Walker out there in the trees, on uneven ground, with his limited mobility would be the death of him. 

Daryl is the most likely candidate for any searches through the surrounding woods. When he suggests it though Rick looks even less happy. They just found each other after weeks of uncertainty. The idea of the Hunter taking off again…judging by the set of his jaw–Rick hates the idea. Resists the inevitable best solution to their problem.  

If they’re going to search it would be ideal to not do it with kids or Rick.  They need to search quickly, and efficiently over wild terrain with questionable weather moving in soon, and whoever isn’t searching needs to survive as well, or there’s little point.

I should not care.  I barely know these people, but the idea of him stomping back into those woods alone to search…The hunter might be capable alone in the woods, but a swarm can kill anyone, except me.  

And that is a very likely scenario. I’ve purposely kept those woods teaming with dead. They helped keep me safe from outsiders and scouts from places like Woodbury.  

I’ve been moving them away from the Cabin the last week to help prevent them being drawn in by the sounds and smells, so I didn’t have to risk exposure. But the woods he plans to search through are a far larger area to control, and they wander in odd patterns when not directed.  There is no telling what may or may not have drawn their attention the last few weeks—where they might be clumped up or scattered.  

I’m going to have to go with him to search, or Daryl’s death will be just one more blood stain on my hands, indirectly or not. I don’t think any of these people deserve to die.  

I can keep him alive, and then they can leave with whoever else we possibly find out there…but that would mean leaving Rick and the kids alone in the woods. Without me.  

Well…Fuck. 

I let out a heavy sigh and Daryl's attention immediately jumps to me again.

"How many were in your group?" They've been talking alone for a while, arguing softly about Daryl going out there alone. This is my first attempt to join their quiet conversation.  Despite Rick asking me to stay. I haven’t involved myself in their plans.  Remained silent as they spoke in hushed or animated voices together.  

He answers me immediately as if I were sitting at the table and a member of their group instead of hanging back against the wall, arms clasped behind my back, a strange interloper to their lives. 

Half in their world, half out. 

"About thirty before the attack." His voice is still a little hoarse despite the swelling around his throat going down.

I frown. That's a lot of mouths to feed , a lot of beds. Four and thirty are two different worlds.

“Be lucky to have even half of that survive what went down.” Daryl interjects again. 

He’s quieter with Rick here. Seems more settled now that he’s seen him alive.  It was like watching a large dog finally relaxing its hackles, no longer snarling and threatening to bite everything that moved.  I’m still not sure if they’re actually brothers or just good friends. 

His eyes still snap up to watch me as I move forward towards the table. The way he tenses, you’d think I was approaching them wielding a knife.

I lean over the space between Carl and Rick’s chairs to look at the road atlas they've spread out on the old wooden table top. 

"Where exactly is this meeting spot?"

Carl leans forward and points to the place on their map when the attempt to reach makes Rick hiss in pain.

"And the prison?"  I know roughly where it was located, but I need to see the two points in relation to determine how close it is to the Peacock farm and the areas I know from experience they actively patrol looking for victims.

Carl points to that too. Just across the river from Woodbury.

"There were a few escape plans in place in case we were attacked. If anyone made it out they should be headed there." Rick nods to Carl who traces his finger over the routes; all three of them. 

One of which takes them entirely too close to the Peacock’s farm. 

My stomach turns to acid.

"If they're still alive. They'll be here." Carl taps the map, stares at his own finger. As if the act of staring at the spot on paper will somehow tell him if that's where their lost family is now waiting.

It's been more than two weeks now, and I've been sending Dead that way long before this, not knowing there were others to endanger. But I'll keep that dangerous knowledge to myself.

Beth looks upset. Carl told me she still has an older sister.

"They might not even be there." Daryl adds.

"We have to try, we found each other again after the farm." Beth's voice is quiet, almost pleading.

"If they were headed there it would take them time, this area is packed with dead that moved through recently." I run my fingers over the stretch of road I know holds two groups of dead at least 50 if not more by this point. 

"They'll most likely have to double back, take the longer route which means more time. Scavenge for food and water. If they didn’t abandon that bus and move through the woods.”  

Which I hope they did not, for all kinds of reasons.  

“I'd suggest working our way up here, and then crossing over the creek at this small foot bridge to the intersection." The path I’ve pointed out is also through the woods, which means possible Walkers in larger groups. But it's a Hell of a lot better than traveling on the open roads that close to the Peacock farm. 

“If you want to search this area, It’ll be rough. There’s no structures out there for shelter if you run into trouble or shitty weather. One person alone sleeping in the open is a bad idea.”

Rick pauses considering. Daryl is silent again.

"Either way, you're in no shape to go far." I continue looking at Rick. He can barely sit upright in a chair; there's no way he can hike through the woods and sleep on the ground and fight the dead. 

He sure as fuck can’t climb a rope ladder.

"Can't stay here, there's not enough food."  He points out. 

And, yeah. Most of the area around our current location has been thoroughly scavenged already.  Not something I was normally worried about when it was just me stopping here before moving on, but with five people or three over multiple days it will quickly be a problem.

Food, water, shelter. It always comes down to that.

I sigh. Look at Carl, then Beth before returning my eyes to Rick. He’s watching me, waiting. I’ve been disappearing and coming back with supplies that are hard to get for the last two weeks.  He hasn’t asked directly, and I haven’t offered before this moment.

I'm going to regret this. 

I tap my fingertips against the tabletop for a moment before dropping my eyes to the map spread out before us again and drawing in a deep breath.

"I can get you over here by car." I tap the map with my finger northwest of our current location. "There's food there. And a shelter that will keep you safe 'til we can find any other members of your group."

"What kind of shelter?" Daryl's voice is gruff.

"My home.” I pause, “For the last two years." I stare at Rick, but I can feel all their eyes on me now, not just his. 

We're all well aware of the magnitude of what I'm offering.

"You've done so much already.  I can't ask you to do this too." He doesn't look away though. He knows they need shelter and assistance as much as I do, but he’s not pushing me, hasn’t tried to strong arm me once into giving anything more than I’ve freely offered without them asking.  

I can practically feel the holes Daryl’s gaze is boring into the side of my face watching me now. I keep my eyes on Rick and refuse to look at him.

“Yeah, well. Winter’s coming.” I straighten up but keep my palms flat on the table, in full view—just in case Daryl gets twitchy. “You’ve got nowhere else to go. And I don’t turn away kids. You seem decent. Don’t prove me wrong.”

The last part slips through my teeth.

It’s a threat. The only one I’ve ever given him. But my point is clear.

The monster inside me is sleeping, not dead.

He just nods.

I’m an idiot. But what’s the point in hunting monsters if I don’t help the only people left in this godforsaken world?

"Alright, we have to ask you three questions if you're going to be with us." Rick tells me.

"Shouldn't I ask the questions since you're following me around?"

He didn't ask them before, maybe he didn't expect me to stick around. I didn't either. We stare at each other over the map for a full minute. The sun will be setting soon and I still need to feed them.

"Whatever,” I respond keeping my voice carefully neutral, “what's the first question?" 

I can't help but wonder what kind of information he feels is important enough to base someone's character on, like I haven't shown that already the last two weeks. They’ve been watching me just as closely as I’ve been watching them, or at least Rick has been while he’s been conscious. 

Carl seemed to have fully accepted me after the first day, he reminds me so much of Tobin.

"How many Walkers have you killed?"

I almost laugh. "I don't count." 

It would be unbearable to count. 

Rick pauses for a moment, maybe expecting me to say more. When I keep silent he continues, "How many people have you killed?"

"Directly or indirectly?" I ask.

He stares back at me. Across the table Daryl shifts in his seat again and I wonder if he’s considering reaching for his knife or wishing he had his bow instead of leaving it leaned against the wall.

Rick draws a slow deep breath, his jaw ticks and he starts again slowly, quietly.  "How many people have you personally killed? Not someone you feel like you failed to save." he finally elaborates.  

His guess at my hesitation to answer so far off the mark I feel a twist of both relief and guilt all at once.  

I didn’t fail to save them. Not all of them at least...They want to know about the ones with intent, to know if I’m a threat to them; but it’s the ones I lost, that I couldn't save that haunt my dreams. 

The rest of them…I lost no sleep for that blood on my hands.

I’d wanted them all dead, with every fiber of my soul.  

But, if we’re only counting by my hands or bow…

"Eight."  My voice is quiet but I can't keep the sharp bite out of the answer. 

Rick stops. Carl is staring at me eyes wide. I think Beth stopped breathing.

"Why?" Daryl asks it this time. 

I turn to face him, straightening up in case I need to move away from this table quickly.  

We stare each other down for a long moment. The late afternoon sunlight coming through the high windows into the cabin’s kitchen makes his eyes look so pale and bright. They're like two bright windows of clear sky on a winter day.  

The look he’s giving me is just as cold.

I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Because they were monsters."  I'm a little surprised at the slight shake to my voice as I answer him. But I refuse to look away.  

They might think it’s fear, and maybe it is a little bit. Some fears never go away once they’ve crawled inside you and taken root. 

But it’s not fear that coils in my chest at the memories that still haunt me. Not fear that stings my eyes threatening to close my throat. 

I can feel it burning me inside out.  

It's tightly wound Rage . 

It’s conviction. It's the weight of knowing they’re still out there; because I haven’t stopped them all yet. They’re out there hurting others just like me.

"Who hell decides if they're monsters?" He spits back at me.  I don't care for the look Daryl's giving me right now. 

I Do. 

The words sear through my mind like a brand, but instead I offer him a softer answer, one less likely to get me killed.

“There’s two types left in this world. There're people that do what they have to, to survive.” I draw in another breath. “The monsters? They have no lines, no remorse. They do whatever they want, whenever they can, to anyone they can get their hands on. They don’t need to, they want to. They’ll do it over and over again, because they enjoy it. Unless someone stops them.”

I thought his expression was cold before, but his dark expression now burns right through me.  Too bad for him—I’m not afraid of the fire.

"The Governor?" I stare back at Daryl unblinking, unsure if he’s about to take a swing at me from his glare, though for a split second his expression falters, some emotion pulling at his eyes, flattening the edges of his mouth.  

Guilt? Pain? It’s gone so fast, it’s hard to tell.  

"He started out like everyone else, trying to survive,” I continue my voice quieter.  He wasn’t a total monster, at least, not the kind I’ve been after.  He was just an asshole, but he'd been sliding into that dark hole for a while.

"He was never going to stop, it would never be enough."

Even considering what he did to Rick—to all of them, the man wouldn’t be in my top ten. But I doubt they would agree with that assessment; so I don't elaborate beyond a final quiet, “The world’s a better place without him.”

"He was a monster." Carl is looking at his Dad who’s leaned back in his chair now. Though whether from acceptance, to get away from me, or simply pain from sitting too long, I’m not sure.

I stand silently waiting to find out if I passed their little test, and despite the sudden weight in my chest, I tell myself that I don't really care. 

They're supposed to be going with me; not the other way around. 

Daryl is still watching me, and I watch him right back waiting.  I don't need to pass his judgment to sleep at night… I sleep like shit already. 

I could leave tonight and they’d never make it to my home. I pointed to the map—but kept my finger a safe distance from the real spot. Just in case.  They would struggle to find it without me. It’s not obvious, and well protected.

Rick clears his throat drawing my eyes away from Daryl before he inclines his head to me, so I guess I passed muster. 

"You want to ask something?" He sounds tired.

I pause for only a moment. Considering, I might as well find out now if this has even a chance in hell of working out.  Maybe some basic rules will improve my chances, or at least make it easier for me to run away if I need to.  

"No questions. I have two conditions: You must accept them."  Or I’ll leave tonight, I don’t add.

"Alright, let’s hear them." Rick watches me. He's sweating a bit more heavily now. He needs to go lie back down and freaking rest, man was a bloody piece of meat not that long ago.

"First; I come and go as I please, alone.”  I don’t need them always sticking me with a partner or a guard. I need space to breathe, and a chance to get away and do what I need to do to keep my home safe without anyone watching me.

He nods his chin. This isn’t that unsurprising a request for him to hear.  I’ve been doing exactly that for the last two weeks already. 

In my peripheral vision I see Daryl sit back in his seat, one of his hands raised to rest on the table top like he might interject or say something, but when I glance at him he remains quiet.  His expression closed off, but less hostile than before.

 “Second, and this is non-negotiable.  Everyone agrees here and now or you will not be anywhere near me.”  I watch Rick’s jaw tighten and he nods for me to continue.  “If I get bit? I get to walk away. Nobody tries to be a savior and hack off my limbs or blows my brains out. That's MY deal or we part ways tonight."

"You'd rather be a Walker…" Carl starts.

"-I'd rather not be murdered before I'm dead." I snap, eyes never leaving Rick. 

He’s clearly the leader of this group.  No matter what council they had before; it’s Rick they all look to automatically, without thinking. He’s the unspoken leader in this group. But I can feel Daryl's stare like a heavy weight again. 

Rick’s obvious second, staring me down with a simmering anger I try my best to ignore.

"It's a take it or leave it offer." I remind him.

Rick looks tired as he rubs a hand over his face.  He doesn’t like my request, but he doesn’t have to like it.  He just has to abide by it. He turns to look at Daryl.  

They know each other well enough that after a moment without words Rick turns back to me and nods finally. 

"Okay, it's a deal." He looks ready to pass out. I’d send him upstairs to rest, but there’s one more detail we need to work out.

“You need two people to search those woods.” I don’t look at the hunter as I say it, simply tapping my finger over the map. “The area is crawling with dead. One person could be overwhelmed too easily.”

“I’ll go–”  Carl starts only to have all three of us cut him off immediately. 

“--No!”  

Beth is the only one that says nothing. Her face twisted up like she’s eaten something sour.

“That is so unfair ! I want to help!” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“Sorry, Carl. If we’re going into those woods we need silent weapons. The ability to move quietly, and we have to track. This will take days. We’ll have to sleep out there. My solution for that problem only works for two people. And you will be helping; You have to keep your Dad alive and out of trouble while I’m gone.”  

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Rick mumbles and I snort.

Carl scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine.”  

"You should go rest,” I back away from the table again. “We'll leave tomorrow." 

Rick nods but doesn’t move.

Carl’s up in an instant, practically vibrating with excitement.  

"Come outside Beth! Fin can show you how we escaped those Walkers!"

I guess I can spend a few minutes outside with them first, the water isn’t that far away. 

There’s still a little time before the sun goes down.  Maybe it will help distract her from whatever thoughts or worries put the prickly expression on Beth’s face.

I leave Rick and Daryl alone at the table; from the look that’s passed between them, they obviously need to talk about me.  

Depending on how tonight goes, I’ll decide if I need to disappear by morning.

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

Daryl

Rick gets up slowly, obviously in pain. Sitting at that damn table for over an hour trying to plan things probably didn’t help—not when he’s barely been out of bed in weeks.

Daryl follows him upstairs after the girl goes outside with Beth and Carl.

Rick slowly ascends the stairs one step at a time, using his good leg to climb each one before bringing the bad one up behind him in an uneven shuffling gate. Clearly still in pain from the gunshot he took at the prison. Rick grunts softly and sits down on the double bed tucked into the corner while Daryl follows a few feet behind, waiting and looking around the area he hasn’t seen yet. 

It's obvious Carl must be sleeping on the floor next to Rick’s bed from the pile of loose bedding. The sleeping bags rolled and tucked in the far corner are probably the girl's if he had to guess based on the pack she carries and the skills she’s already displayed. She might be going and coming back frequently but she’s leaving things here, and sleeping near them both, he frowns unsure why that thought bothers him. 

Why does that even matter to him? Ain’t like it’s his business where she sleeps. Hell.

He’s not sure if he trusts her yet. He wonders for a few moments if it's safe to leave Carl and Beth outside with her. They're both armed, and she left her bow leaning against the wall by the door before they stepped outside.  He's not sure he could be that trusting around strangers he just met.

She's obviously not helpless. He recognizes that fact, despite her size. The fact that she didn’t use her bow earlier in the woods and ran from the Walkers instead of trying to take them out alone. She’s smart. Careful. Hell. Eight people. He leans his back against the wall watching Rick sit.  

Eight people she called monsters.  How many people has he killed?   Has Rick? Did he consider them all monsters, or just in his way at the time?  Did they all really deserve to die? The cyclical thoughts trailing through his head makes his skin itch. 

Not like it fuckin matters, what’s done is done.  

Carl seems to get along great with her, and she seems generally friendly towards the kid. 

From what they’ve both said without her help Rick might not be sitting here. She helped them when she didn’t have to, had nothing to gain by it. That alone should be enough for them to accept her into their group.  She certainly had skills they could use to survive.

He's pretty certain the way Carl stares at her all the time the kid's fighting his first crush.  Not that Daryl could blame him. Girl was fucking memorable to say the least, and she'd saved his life—twice. Which tends to leave an impression on someone. He'd learned that himself.

He leans his back against the wall beside the bed a moment longer, then slides down to have a seat on the floor. Knees bent, arms resting on them picking at his nail for a moment before his gaze follows Rick's out the window. 

Carl and Beth are visible through the large second floor loft window.  His brow furrows trying to understand what he’s seeing.  They’re hanging by ropes…sort of sitting just like Carl was earlier today, held up by identical belt harnesses.  Ropes suspend them from the large oak tree's nearly horizontal limb, the damn thing thick enough around it probably used to hold up a tire swing or bench. 

The view from the loft is partially blocked by leaves and the angle. Beth spins slowly in her harness, and Carl nudges her shoe every time it swings by, making her spin faster. They're both laughing.

God, how long has it been since he saw them both laugh?

Hell, since any of 'em had much of a reason to laugh?

Rick's gaze doesn't move from the scene as they sit in silence, eyes locked on Carl. 

The girl–Fin, he should get used to using her name if she’s staying, is using some kind of strap braced around the back of the tree to climb straight up the trunk, hands framing either side, as she shimmies right up. Her boots braced against the rough bark with some kind of metal spike. She climbs with a practiced ease–like a cat, positive she won't fall.

Carl stops spinning Beth with her shoe and mimes shooting towards the ground with his fingers like OK coral pistols. Fin is laughing at whatever he's saying as he gestures wildly at the two of them.  

She uses her arms to hoist herself up onto the top of the limb they’re hanging off of with an impressive display of coordination. 

Girl moves like something wild—quick, quiet, sure-footed. Too damn confident. Too damn comfortable. And why the hell is he still watching? He drops his eyes to the floor.

"Not sure if it’s genius or dumb, cornering yourself up a tree like a damn coon with Walkers below." He frowns. If she’d been up there earlier, silent and still—hell, he might’ve walked right under her without even knowing.  

He found Carl easily enough, but the kid had called out to him the second he’d been in sight…He certainly hadn’t been looking up .  He could have walked right under her and never known.

"Almost three years. Most of it alone?"  Rick responds introspectively.  

He’s not sure if it’s awe or pain keeping his friends' words quiet.

His mouth tightens into a hard line, as much as he’s drawn to being alone, it’s been a damn long time since he was truly alone for any length of time. He's not sure he could have lasted that long, alone with just his thoughts. 

Obviously she's found something that works. And he's not convinced she’s ready to give that up after tonight. Despite her offer of assistance, he half expects to wake in the morning to find her long gone. 

He can't decide if that would be a relief or a disappointment.

Rick continues after another moment. "Carl says she's as good with that bow as you are, figure you should know that if you’re going out there together."

He knew it would be him going out to search, with Rick all banged up.  Figured he’d be doing it alone. Until she said something. Why is she helping them? His eyes are drawn to the window again. 

He watches her shift her weight on the limb that Carl and Beth are suspended from walking across its surface over both their heads like the thick oak branch is a sidewalk and not some twisty circular balance beam 20 feet off the ground.

"It's not a bad bow." He forces his eyes back down to his hands in front of him.  He won't comment on her shooting. She didn't fire a single shot in the woods while he was with them, but that didn't mean she wasn’t capable. 

There’d only been one walker in the woods earlier.  It hadn't spotted them from that distance. He’d watched to see if she’d let it go or take it down…only making his move when it appeared she wasn’t going to act. 

He could have let it go too, but part of him wanted her to know he could make the shot. 

"Can she be trusted?" They've been burned so many times by strangers, even friends.

Rick is quiet for a moment considering his answer, he’s spent longer around the girl.  "She saved Carl when he was alone. Then patched me up and helped Carl while I was unconscious for days.  I don’t even remember it. Woke up with a damn IV in my arm keeping me hydrated and alive.  She gave me stitches, antibiotics from God knows where—maybe wherever she’s from. She left several times and kept coming back–” He pauses drawing in a slow pained breath as he leans back to lay flat. 

“She didn’t have to, any of it. She could have walked away, before I was conscious or after, but she stayed around. Hell she’s been feeding us both the whole damn time or I shudder to think what could have happened to Carl alone trying to scavenge food.  She’s been sticking her neck out for the two of us since day one, and now she’s offering to go out… help find more of our people.”

“If she wanted to hide from us, she could have. Carl had no idea she was even there 'til the first Walker fell in front of him. He told me: he would have been ambushed from behind by five more. He thought it was you when he saw the arrow."

He's not sure what to say to that. Must have been a shock to the kid, obviously. 

Tiny redhead shorter than he was dressed like Damn Rambo? Cargo pants, boots, loaded for bear with machetes and a black compound bow. He probably would have swallowed his tongue had it happened to him. 

Hell, just having her suddenly appear from thin air earlier today was startling enough. Those bright green eyes staring him down from ten feet away.  He's starting to see how the crush developed...Shakes his head trying to clear it. 

"I think the only reason she came out was because it was Carl…not sure if it had been me or you, or even if we’d been with him she would have interfered…I think she lost someone. A little brother maybe…” Rick pauses for a moment, rubbing at his eyes carefully with one hand.  

They’ve all lost someone.  

He doesn’t respond, just letting Rick talk. 

“She told Carl she'd get him a bow a few days ago. Teach him how to use it. We could use something other than guns. Not many bullets left."

That's always a problem…ammo, like food was getting harder to find. 

"It’s smart,”  If he had a spare bow he might have taught one of them ages ago. “Quiet." Time and opportunity; one or both always seemed to be missing.

"That was what she told him; said not to use his gun because people could hear it for miles. If people didn't know you even exist, they wouldn’t look for you, couldn't hurt you… If it had been me or you on that road…I don’t think she would have come out,"  Rick pauses again. “I know she wouldn’t have.”

"People always been Assholes. World going to Shit don't change that." He'd been stabbed in the back too many times long before it all went to Hell for everyone else. 

They both pause watching the three outside. Weighing the choice between them.

"What do you think? As much as I want to find anyone we can. I don’t like the idea of you going out there alone. She knows the area, she can track, and hunt." Rick adds softly. 

Daryl's still watching her in the tree. Rick turns his head to look at him. Waiting him out while he collects his thoughts. 

She's more than okay on her own. She's not asking them for help.

"I think she's takin’ a bigger chance on us."

He heads back downstairs while Rick rests.  Resists the urge to walk outside and remind them it’s going to be dark soon and they better get their asses inside.  

He takes a few minutes to more closely observe the cabin they’ll be sleeping in for at least tonight. Points of entry if Walker’s show up, furniture he could move to block windows, or doors.  He checks the cabinets and drawers for things that might be useful to them and easy to take. There are already blankets or sheets if not curtains over the windows down here, candles scattered around on flat surfaces to provide light to see by as the sun goes down. All of them clearly used over the past few days or longer.

Her bag is still sitting against the wall near the door and keeps drawing his attention.  Inside it is everything she considered essential before going out alone, and more importantly, anything she might’ve added after deciding to help total strangers. 

The bag's contents could possibly tell him more about who she was than anything she’s said so far.  A glance out the front window shows them still by the tree in the side yard. 

He kneels quickly beside the bag. Checking the side pockets, and the front pouch. A ferro rod for starting fires and a multi-tool in the side zipper pouch, both look well used.  More of that climbing rope she uses.  Some sturdy metal clips, he pauses for a moment before recognizing them …hair ties and a small unusual flashlight that’s see-through? He stares at it a moment longer. One of those fancy damn things you shake to make it charge he realizes, so she doesn’t have to hunt down batteries all the damn time. 

There’s a… Ziploc bag of…dried leaves? A few of them. There’s also an odd tiny hollow metal ball with patterned holes over its surface on a thin delicate chain… 

The fuck is that? A Christmas ornament?  

He frowns…. And some small jars. He takes the largest zip lock bag out to inspect the contents in better light. It’s not weed he knows that, which is too bad…but what it is he isn’t sure, opening the seal and sniffing it tells him nothing useful–he’s pretty sure it’s not poison. 

He’s not finding anything particularly insightful, useful as hell, yes–girl is prepared for life in the woods, but none of it is telling beyond that.  Glancing up to make sure they’re still far enough away from the house to give him time, he flips open the top of the bag.  Pulling the draw cord loose so he can see the main contents of the bag, not expecting much more than what he’s already found–survival gear probably, maybe a jacket or something with the weather on the verge of turning colder.

The cover of the book sitting on top gives him pause. 

What the hell is this?  

He snorts at the ridiculous image on the front.  Some shirtless dipshit with tattoos, rippling muscles and probably shit for brains. Bad Boys? He scoffs at the damn thing. This is clearly not survival content. 

All the practical common sense things to carry around with you weigh enough, but she’s dragging around a damn paperback book for…fun? 

He scowls, turning it over to read the back. Can’t help himself. 

What the fuck.   

What kind of girl carries a machete in one hand and a smutty romance book in the other? He doesn’t know what to make of that. Doesn’t know why he cares.

The urge to throw it out of her bag or open the cover has him dropping the book back inside and yanking the draw string aggressively closed before dropping the flap back down in the original position.  

Walking away from any temptation he moves to sit in the other room, as far away as possible.

He feels self-conscious suddenly. Guilty, though he’s not sure why—it’s just a damn book.  

Can't be worse than that shit Dale had on the Farm. Slightly different content, sure. Hell might be better, more entertaining at least. Been a fucking long time without any porn, but still… is that what she likes? Enough to carry it around with her? Shit . 

He’s still puzzling over why this fucking bother’s him, resisting the urge to pace the floor with lack of anything else to do to keep himself busy when Carl and Beth come inside, closing the door behind them. Carl sets the ropes and nylon harnesses on top of her bag. 

He immediately notices who’s missing.  Irritation claws through his insides.

"Where's Fin?" He practically barks it at the two but they hardly seem to notice his tone.

"She said she needed to get something for dinner, that we should boil some water so we can all get cleaned up a little." Beth smiles at him and moves to do just that.

Daryl yanks open the front door, steps out onto the porch looking around for her. Towards the now empty tree in the yard, then out under the trees surrounding them, up the gravel drive…It will be dark soon. It's no Damn time to be alone in the woods.  Her bag’s still here. She wouldn’t run without it…would she?

He’s been out in the woods with nothin’ but his bow before and made it…Fuck, her bow.  It’s by the damn window. 

“Son of a Bitch,” he grumbles.

"She'll be okay Daryl," Carl apparently followed him out onto the porch.

He scowls still watching the trees around them. "There's Walkers. It's getting dark. No one should be out there."

Especially some Damn girl shorter then fucking Carl.

Shit.   

“Which way did she go?” He’ll just grab his bow and go get her ass. What the fuck could she possibly be getting for food without her damn bow? Is she planning to catch shit with her hands?

"She said she'd be back in 30 minutes." Carl leans on the rail to wait, obviously not bothered by the withering look Daryl shoots him.

Except the girl is the only one still wearing a watch…he has the light filtering through the trees, and the sky overhead. 

30 minutes. It might not be completely dark by that point, but it will be damn close.  If she isn’t back by then, he’d have a hell of a time tracking her through with shrinking light. Couldn’t track her in the dark. He’d have to wait til morning, by then she could be long gone… 

“Not by herself.” He turns to go back inside and grab his bow but Carl follows him.

“She’s fine. She’ll be back.”

He scowls at the kid. “You don’t know that.”  Of course if she didn’t want to come back, he didn’t have a right to drag her back here. She’s not his responsibility. Not his problem. So why the Hell is he still standing out here tearing himself up? 

If he goes out there to find her he’s leaving Carl and Beth alone, and Rick can’t defend himself. That loyalty alone keeps his feet firmly on the porch watching.

“She’ll be back. She always comes back.”  Carl sounds completely confident, like he’s telling him the sun will rise in the morning.

He hopes the kid is right.

She's back. Just as it's turning from dusk to dark.

She's carrying something off to the side. Her arm—stiff and a little awkward, held away from her side like she doesn’t want what she’s carrying to touch her pant legs as she walks. He’s seen that walk before, though it’s been a minute.

Carl jumps off the porch steps and jogs toward her while Daryl waits. He set his bow against the railing after retrieving it earlier but didn’t go to search for her, despite the instinct clawing at him to do so.

She’s gotten close enough now that he can hear Carl’s voice. Other than her words, the girl is silent on her feet. Explains how she damn near snuck up on him earlier with Carl…

"Is that fish?" Carl's practically bouncing. He needs to calm the Hell down and lower his damn voice. It's just fish.

"How did you catch that so fast?" Carl’s walking beside her, hands shoved in his pockets, tripping over sticks because he’s watching her more than the damn ground.

She waves her free hand in the air and wiggles her fingers dramatically, grinning. “Magic,” she announces.

They’re both ridiculous. 

He remains silent, waiting for a real answer. She sure as Hell wasn’t gone long enough to catch what she’s carrying, and she didn’t have no fishing pole hidden in her damn pocket. 

It used to take Andrea and her sister all day to fish. She’s barely been gone long enough to make the trek to the lake and back, but she’s holding four large fish, each nearly the length of his forearm. Most useful magic trick he’s ever seen.

"Seriously, how’d you do that?" Carl leaps onto the porch.

She looks at Daryl for a moment, eyes flicking up like she sees more than she lets on, then answers Carl.

"Had the nets already out. I just had to pull them in."

"The Hell’d you get fishing nets?" he blurts.

She stares at him calmly. "Made them. Volleyball and tennis court nets from the local schools."

"That is so awesome." Carl’s voice is giddy, irritating Daryl even more. The kid needs to pipe down.

"Alright, 'nuf of that. Get inside," Daryl growls, ready to toss the kid in by the collar.

Damn girl. Had to be smart, resourceful, and gorgeous. And now he's going to have to go out in the woods alone —with her. Try not to get distracted and trip over his own damn feet like an idiot.

He shouldn't care that she's small. He shouldn't care that she's quiet, or smart, or goddamn adorable when she waves her fingers like a wizard. And yet here he is—caring so hard it makes his jaw ache. Caring is dangerous.

"What's his problem?" he hears Carl whisper.

Fin doesn’t answer. She just heads for the kitchen.

Damn girl knows how to gut a fish and cook it too. 

Of course she does.

Beth tries to help, but Fin has her assist Rick instead, changing bandages and washing the old ones. He approves of that at least. The idea of her hands on Rick, though—

He snatches one of the fish off the counter and guts it in silence, matching her fillets with his own. Keeps his hands and mind busy while she instructs Beth behind him.

The weird metal ball from her bag turns out to be for tea. And so are the leaves.

She returns to the counter and stands beside him, resuming her work with fast, precise movements. He’s not sure why it irritates him. The way she makes dinner, tends to Rick like she’s babysitting them all.

"Can you grab the jar in the front pocket of my bag? It’s got a black lid."

The question freezes him.

Did she know? Did she know he’d been snooping? She has to . Women always know that kind of thing. Jesus . He feels like a teenager caught sneaking a peek at a lingerie catalog.

He stomps across the room, snatches her bag, and drops it onto the table with a heavy thud. 

She carries this all day? She definitely needs to throw out that damn book.

He unzips the pocket and pulls out the jar with the black lid. Unscrews it, sniffs cautiously. It doesn’t smell like anything. 

"Hell is this?" he mutters, looks up then blinks—startled. 

"Fat. For cooking." Her voice is close. Too close. He didn’t even hear her move. Again .

She’s close enough to count her freckles. Small enough his chin would rest right over her head if he leaned in—not that he ever would. A whiff of vanilla and something sweet, something spicy he can't name tickles his nose every time she draws near. Something about the scent makes him want to inhale deeper. He scowls instead watching her through narrowed eyes.

“Where the hell’d you get that from?” 

Why can’t he stop snapping at her?  Not that she seems to notice.

"Made it.” She responds calmly, plucking the jar from his hand without even touching him. "Mostly Crisco and olive oil. Won’t spoil."

She moves back to the stove top and the counter. Scoops out a glob and the pan starts to crack and fizzle with angry noises. She drops the gas flame down and raises the pan to let it cool for a few moments before adding some of the fillets. 

She flips fish like she’s done it a thousand times and doesn’t even flinch when the oil pops. 

He shouldn’t be watching her hands this closely. Or the way her hair curls at her neck. He needs to go outside. Lie down. Punch a tree. Something. 

Girl makes his skin itch.

The pan hisses. The smell is unreal.

Carl’s hovering again.

His stomach growls. Loud. His insides feel like they’re eating his spine.

"Out the damn kitchen before you burn yourself." He snaps, pushing Carl gently but firmly back towards the table or the front room, anywhere but in here. 

"Jesus, go wash or something." 

Just get out of here so he can breathe, fucking think straight maybe.  

She's biting her lower lip, the corners of her mouth upturned when he turns back to the countertop barely a foot from her side. 

"What?!"

She shakes her head, not looking at him. Definitely grinning now.

He can feel his cheeks heating. "Damn Kids." he mutters. Not sure if he means Carl. Or her. Not that she’s a kid. 

She’s Maggie’s age, probably. 

Old enough to carry a dog-eared dirty smut novel in her bag like it’s field medicine. Old enough to make his brain short-circuit with indecent ideas he definitely shouldn’t be thinking.

That’s part of his problem.

"What's cooking?" Rick has hobbled his way back downstairs looking cleaner. 

Daryl moves to stand against the wall, hands tucked against his side, arms crossed as Rick leans around the stove on her other watching Fin flip the fillets grilling in the pan, a nice golden brown skin on one side.

"Some kind of Lake fish." Fin tells him.

"Lake fish." Rick repeats. Staring at the pan.

"Well," She leans over the pan, mirroring him, her tone all serious. "It's fish." She leans back and arches her eyebrow at him. "And I pulled it out of a lake."

Rick grins. It shouldn’t bother him.

It doesn't bother him. 

Shit . It bothers him.

"Carl said something about a volleyball net?" Rick is still grinning.

"Volleyball fish then."

"Well, it smells amazing." Rick leans against the counter to steady himself with a shaky hand.

Too damn close to her. Daryl scowls. 

Why t he Hell should he care? Damnit.  

"Thanks. But it’ll be bland. No salt. Sit down before you fall over." She points her spatula at Rick like it’s normal. Like they’re normal. Food is food, but she’s in here making a damn meal like the world didn’t end.

"What are you, Martha Stewart of the Apocalypse?"

Fin doesn't pause or look at him. "I'd rather be Alton Brown." She says flipping another fillet.

What?

Rick gives him a look . Fin laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes something twist in his chest.

"Anyone but Bobby Flay." Rick chimes in still looking at him . 

Daryl's had enough of this Shit. He’s about to bolt when Beth and Carl return, blocking the way.

"Do you need any help?" Beth offers.

"You wanna set this out?" Fin nods to plates on the counter like this is a damn Thanksgiving, or Sunday brunch.

Beth moves around the kitchen table placing plates and finding silverware to put out. She grins at him, and then at Carl, telling the boy to sit when she almost runs into him the second time, he does thank God.

Daryl was ready to chuck him from the kitchen again, with both hands.

Fin pulls the food from the oven and stove serving them at the table, like they do this all time. Maybe they have been the last few days. Family dinner by candle light. 

It reminds him painfully of the Prison common area. Dark shadows dance across the walls with each movement.  Carl and Beth talk about climbing with Fin, a safe topic. Carl recounts the earlier fight with the Walkers, how Fin saved him again. 

He can’t even look at her chewing without picturing her curled up under a blanket reading about tattooed idiots with swords and smoldering stares. And then he wonders— is that what she sees when she looks at him? Some grizzled idiot with a bow and no clue how to talk to a girl?l

Around him conversation flows. Rick listens. His friend glances back and forth between Fin and Carl as they talk. 

Daryl's gut twists. He drops his gaze to his plate, surprised to see he's eaten it all but doesn’t really remember the bites. They haven’t had a meal this good in a long damn time, yet he scarcely remembers it.

Then her chair scrapes.

She dumps her food between Carl and Beth.

Beth protests.

"Stop it. It won’t keep, and you could both use a few pounds."

Daryl scowls. They’d been running. No time for snacks. Beth’s always been skinny, like Maggie. Still It feels like his failure. Like she's calling him out on it.

He gets up and leaves the room.

He needs to get his head on straight.

He doesn’t know if he’s pissed off because she’s too good at all this—or because she’s not his. Not even close. Never could be. And she’s worming her way into places he didn’t even know still had doors.

He swears he can feel her eyes on the back of his neck as he walks out.

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Seraphim

He's leaving again, like my presence offends him.

At least he finished his plate. No telling the last time they all ate that well.

Time to wash up. Time to stop the rambling, circular thoughts still spinning in my head, questioning this decision—if I’m doing the right thing. I’m certain it’s the right thing for them . Not so sure about me. 

It’s a good thing I checked the woods around the cabin earlier when I headed to the lake. Judging by Beth and Carl’s heavy lids, they’ll be out cold soon. With Rick still injured, that leaves only me and moody Robin Hood if something attacks in the night.

And he could definitely use a nap.

I stand up, start to grab the plates.

"I'll help," Carl offers, already gathering dishes and following me to the sink.

We rinse them by hand—there's no sponge or soap, just cold water and fingers. I swear there was a sponge here the last time I used this place. It’s been a while though. I’ll have to remember to bring one if I ever come back.

Beth helps Rick up the stairs, probably straight to bed. Carl yawns four times before I even get to the pans.

"Go to bed. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow," I tell him.

He goes without protest, leaving me in blessed silence to collect my thoughts—and breathe. Thank God.

 Being around four people again is a lot . I’ve spent so much time alone that having to interact constantly feels unnatural. It wears me down, leaves me raw and exposed.

And now there’s Carl’s maybe-crush adding a whole new layer of awkwardness.
My fault for popping out of the woods all Xena Warrior Princess .

A snort escapes before I can stop it, remembering Eric’s dumb joke from years ago and how it stuck, even if my hair’s more Gabrielle than Xena .
I clamp a hand over my mouth—not wanting to wake the others by accident. 

Also, giggling to myself in the dark probably isn’t normal.  

The ache in my chest follows quickly, like it always does. I take a deep breath and press my cool, wet fingers to my eyes, trying to push the grief back down.

I let myself lean against the kitchen wall, breathing slowly in the quiet. Just for a moment.

My first crush wasn’t much less embarrassing than Carl’s anyway. I mean… who has their first crush on a cartoon Wolverine ?

Another soft laugh escapes me—right before I nearly leap out of my skin.

"What's so funny?"

God damn it. I flinch hard, eyes flying open.

I didn't even hear him come in. The man moves like a shadow.

"I, uh…" I clear my throat, completely flustered. "I think Carl’s got a crush."

He just stares at me.

I can feel my face heat. Thank God it’s dark in here. His face is half in shadow, the other half kissed with candlelight—eyes darker than before, almost endless.

Which is very distracting.

How does someone so grumpy have eyes like that?
I am not going to stare. I’m not.

…Except I am. I’m absolutely doing that. Shit.

I blink and force myself to look away—only for my gaze to dart back again the moment he speaks.

"Well," he shrugs, "not many girls left."

Anger flares through me—hot and sharp.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?

I know I’m short. Pale. Plain. Maybe he likes taller girls like Beth. Whatever.
My glare snaps to him.

And then something curls in my stomach—jealousy.
Wait. No. I’m not jealous.

…Am I?

Oh shit, I’m fucking Jealous.

It’s like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over my head. 

I don’t even know this man! Why would I care what kind of girl he likes?

Clearly, I’ve been alone too long. Or reading too many damn romance books.
Why is he still just standing there, staring at me like that?

I have no idea what to say. My brain short-circuits. The urge to flee hits me like a flash fire.

I shove off the wall, planning to brush past him without a word. If he can storm out of rooms like I’m contagious, I can return the favor.

He shifts his weight backward as I approach, like he means to step aside. Like he’s keeping the distance. But the tension between us coils tight—like magnets pulling, repelling, then catching again. One breath off from collision.

I move too fast. Too flustered. Too caught in the pounding of my chest and the weight of his eyes, still on me.

I catch my foot wrong.

It’s the kind of clumsy I haven’t been in years.

He was backing away—then he stops.

When my balance pitches forward, he doesn't take the step.
He braces .

I slam into him shoulder-first, solid as stone. Before I can fall, his hand snaps out—locks around my upper arm with an iron grip.

Firm. Calloused. Steady.

The contact hits me like static to the skin. A live wire. My breath catches. My stomach flips, helpless.

It’s probably instinct. Or maybe he thought I was trying to hit him. Or maybe— just maybe —he didn’t want me to fall.

I never touch anyone.
Not really.
Not since everything changed.

His grip should scare me. It doesn’t.

And that’s the problem.
A big fucking problem.

I brace for a shove. For him to snarl something cutting—push me away, prove me right about the walls he hides behind.

Instead… he freezes.

Like I shocked him. Like he shocked himself .

His eyes lock on mine, wide and stunned. Caught.
A deer in headlights.
Then—just like that—he yanks his hand back like I burned him.

I bolt. Right past him.

I need out of here—out of his orbit, away from this moment before I fall apart entirely.

My bag’s by the door. I almost grab it.
But if I do, he’ll stop me.

So I don’t. I just run.

Out the door. Into the sharp night air.
Let the cold wind rip the heat from my cheeks and pull my lungs back open.

Behind me, the door rattles. A curse cracks the silence.
Then something low—guttural, feral—catches on the other side as I shut it gently behind me.

The cold hits like a slap. Sharp. Bracing. My breath leaves me in a visible rush, shoulders still tight with the residue of whatever just happened.

What did just happen?

I brace my palms against the porch railing, lean forward until my forehead touches the cool, splintering wood. Close my eyes. The air smells like pine and ash and lingering fish. Not helpful. Not grounding. I’m still buzzing.

His grip on my arm... it shouldn’t have felt like that. It shouldn’t have felt like anything . And that look —like he was just as confused by touching me as I was by touching him. Like I was radioactive. Or worse... like it mattered.

A noise behind me—quick, muffled movement—and I freeze, expecting him.

But it’s not Daryl.

It’s just the wind. The trees shifting. An owl calling from somewhere too high to see. Still, I can’t make myself move.

I stay there long enough for the air to sting the tips of my ears, my cheeks. Only when the tremble in my hands subsides do I finally make myself go back in.

The door clicks softly behind me.

The cabin is quiet again. Still. Beth and Carl are certainly asleep on the loft floor. Rick's breathing is deep and even from the bed in the corner. The low candlelight casts long shadows that stretch across the rough wooden walls.

Daryl isn’t in the loft.

Of course he’s not. 

He’s on the couch now. Moved it to face the front door while I was outside, probably dragged it across the floor without waking a soul. He's lying on his side, back to the room, one arm draped over his eyes. His crossbow rests against the side of the couch, within easy reach. Ready. Always.

He’s put himself between the stairs and the door. The last line of defense.

He doesn’t look up when I walk in. Doesn’t shift or speak or react. But I know he’s awake. I can feel it. The whole room is tense with it.

I step around him carefully, pretending not to notice how his hand lifts slightly off the crossbow when I pass, only relaxing once I’m halfway up the stairs.

I don’t say goodnight. Neither does he.

I crawl into my sleeping bag still fully dressed, minus the boots and harness. The nylon smells like woodsmoke and vanilla shampoo. Familiar. Safe. I try to let it lull me. Try not to think about his hand on my arm, or the look in his eyes.

Sleep takes me faster than I expected.

I’m in the woods. Barefoot. Alone.

The ground is cold beneath my feet. Damp leaves cling to my soles.

Hours may have passed, or minutes. It’s hard to tell.  I close my fingers into a fist at my sides and startle finding my hands empty, reaching up to feel for the missing familiar weight over my collar bones. My bow is missing... Where is it?

I look around, try to get my bearings, knowing somehow this is a dream. 

Hopefully not a nightmare. I get enough of those. 

I blink at the sudden change. There are Walkers all around me now. 

I remain motionless as they stumble aimlessly in all directions.  Then without warning as one they turn and lurch, arms outstretched; gnarled fingers and extended jaws.  

But not towards me—I barely ever dream that anymore. 

I whip my head around following their direction.

Carl and Daryl are on the hill. 

Panic rises like bile. I run. Weaving through the bodies. Racing forward to warn them. 

Carl turns, eyes wide in terror, raises his gun…why is he pointing it at me?  

But it's Daryl that hits me with an arrow between the eyes.

I'm falling.

Keep falling, there’s no ground, no woods, no orientation.

Farther and farther through darkness, 

so far I might fall forever…

I land flat on my back, winded. 

Roll up gasping for air.  Look around and immediately forget how to breathe again. A choked sound croaks out of my lungs, strangles in my throat.

I'm in my old house, my childhood home. My stepdad scribbles in a notebook. Next Sunday's homily. Air finally rushes back into my lungs and with it I can smell eggs, and coffee.  I turn my head feeling dazed…my Mom is at the stove. 

My brother laughs as he snatches toast off a plate.

I scream again. The sound dies in my throat. It's white noise.  

This is wrong, all wrong.  I shouldn’t be here, and why is my brother so young? He was about to graduate high school…yet he doesn’t look more than twelve…what is happening? 

I blink and it’s Carl standing next to my Mother laughing like he belongs here.

What the fuck? Movement through the glass backdoor catches my eye. 

The Dead are everywhere, stumbling across the yard, climbing onto the deck. 

I scream to warn them. Tell them to run.  Bang my fist on the tabletop, shouting and screaming, crying as they swarm the deck pressing against the glass…cracks form under the weight of their pressing hands… but no one hears me...

Glass shatters.

But it’s behind me…wha…

"Fin, Come on!" 

Abby. 

No!

I whirl around towards her voice.  

It's a deserted street. Midday. My home is gone.  

The sun is boiling hot. 

Sweat drips down the back of my neck, down my face.

Oh God, Abby…I don't want to see this, not again...

How can the sun be shining on a day like this? It's all wrong for what I know is coming.  It always happens. I can't stop it, couldn’t stop them…I hear the snarls….Abby screams…my feet…they’re too heavy to run.

I can't move. 

Why can't I move? 

Abby is screaming, and screaming. The sound is terror, and pain and then the hopeless agony and dying sounds of an animal, no longer human sounding at all…drowned out by the snarling, and then gurgling wet sounds...

I smash my hands over my ears, eyes squeezed shut.

Make it stop. Make it stop. Please, just… Make it stop…

"Hey Pretty, What's wrong? Don't want to watch?"

No . 

No, no, no, no, no, no…not this...Anything but this...

Wake up, Wake up…I have to fucking wake up now.

I'm pinned. I try to struggle, scream but my body is dream heavy.  Powerless. They tower over me. I hear a belt buckle clasp, it cracks like a gunshot to my ears. I’ve never heard a louder sound.

"I've got something for you, Gorgeous! Bet you're gonna love it."

No. No. No. No NO! Stop it! Get Off of Me!

Screams finally bubble up from my chest. 

That only seems to encourage them, excite them.

Makes them laugh harder.

Someone is pinching me, hands... everywhere; groping…burning…stabbing

It's all horrible…I can’t escape, I can’t get away, I’m going to die like this.

I scream, and scream until my throat burns too...until no sound comes out anymore.

The splash of hot liquid hits my body, sprays my face, some of it falls into my mouth and I gag, choke and retch...Blood. So much blood. 

The air smells like iron, and rotting flesh…

Someone else is screaming now. They're ALL screaming…

I'm pinned by the heavy thrashing body of the man who was just assaulting me. He flails uselessly trying to dislodge multiple Dead from tearing into his back. His fist connects with my temple.

The world spins in bright white hot pain, blurs around the edges…he falls away and they pounce on him. I squeeze my eyes tight. 

They're all screaming, ripping…tearing…

Guns fire off like staccato thunderclaps as they all die…and I'm not sorry…I'm not sorry at all...

Something wet and hot lands across my bare skin as overzealous hands rip at insides that tear like wet tissue paper with the force.

I roll to the side and puke for what must be hours, 'til I'm just dry heaving into wet grass soaked with bile and dark black blood. I curl into a ball the best I can. Just lie there waiting for something to eat me. 

I wait.

And wait. 

When I open my eyes the world is a blur of black and white frenzy, bleached of color and life in the dancing firelight…there’s death everywhere, there’s nothing left. They’re all eating, ignoring me completely. 

All I see are dead eyes…

Except for Him.

Daryl stands between the trees. Watching me. 

I scream for help. But this time, it’s not a dream scream—it’s real.

I jolt awake.

My sleeve is wet beneath my cheek. My face is stiff with dried tears. I don’t move. Just lie there in the dark, heart pounding like I’ve run miles, chest tight and aching.

Something pulled me out. But what?

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dust. And I feel it— that sensation. The unmistakable prickle of being watched.

I roll over and almost scream.

He’s there. Crouched beside me. Too close. Too quiet. Elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. His eyes fixed on me, unreadable.

The flinch cuts through me before I can stop it. Recognition hits like a punch to the gut.

The moonlight sharpens his face into planes and shadows—too much like the dream. But this isn’t a dream. I’m not tied down. I’m not helpless.

I’m not that girl anymore.

I wait, trying to slow my breathing.

He says nothing.

“What?” My voice is thick when I finally ask. I clear my throat, but it doesn't help. He still hasn’t moved.

Was he shaking me awake? I can’t remember. The nightmare still has claws in me.

“You were talking in your sleep.” His voice is low. Careful. Like I might break.

Shit. “Nightmare.” The word tumbles out, instinctive and automatic. A shield.

He pauses. His whole body goes unnaturally still again. Like he’s weighing something. Or maybe recognizing something he’s seen before.

I rub at my eyes with the heel of my palm. Stupid tears. At least it’s dark. I always turn beet red when I cry, and I hate that.

I glance at him again, uneasy—and find him still watching me.

“You said my name,” he says.

Fuck. 

My breath catches. I didn’t know that.

 “It’s nothing,” I say quickly.

He doesn’t push. Just watches.

Then: “Who’s Abby?”

The question slices right through the dark.

My breath leaves me in one long, silent exhale. That name— her name—it lands like a punch straight to the center of my chest.

I look away.

What the hell is this? An interrogation?

“No one,” I say. “She’s dead.”

Final. Flat. Not up for discussion.

I turn from him, curl deeper into my sleeping bag. Pull the nylon up to my shoulders like armor.

“Fin,” he pauses.

I don’t answer. I Can’t.  Not right now. Not without closing my eyes and seeing her torn apart right under my hands—

Stop. 

A full minute passes. Maybe more. Some part of me doesn’t want him to leave. But I need him to.

Then I hear it—the faint creak of the floorboards beneath him. He rises, slow. Retreats. The boards groan like even the house resents the distance he puts between us.

Then he’s gone.

And I’m left with the dark. The echo of my own name on his lips, and the ache in my chest where all the ghosts still live.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Daryl

The girl was up and gone before dawn.

He finds her missing when the gray light filters in. Tension snaps through him—sharp, sudden. He does a quick pass through the house, silent, breath held. No blood. No mess. No signs of struggle.

Her bow is gone.

But her heavy pack is still propped by the door. Sleeping bag rolled and ready next to it. The harnesses from yesterday packed away again.

She left it all neatly organized, like she'd taken her time, quietly working while everyone else slept. Him included.

She managed to wake before he did.

If she even slept.

He’d wondered if she’d bolt. After last night, after the nightmare, after she looked at him like she didn’t know whether to scream or run—he wouldn’t have blamed her. She’d been wrecked, hiding it behind clenched teeth and silence, but it’d leaked out anyway. He didn’t want to think about what could’ve caused that kind of crying.

Didn’t want to know.

Still…part of him worried she’d vanish without a word. That her staying, helping, feeding them was just some temporary mercy. A fragile thread too easy to cut.

But she left her pack.

He exhales, lets himself lean back on the couch again. There’s nothing to do but wait.

Sleep drags at him. He hasn’t had more than a couple hours at a time in days. Every blink comes slower. Sandpaper lines his eyes. He lets his head tip back against the armrest.

Just for a minute.

He wakes with a jolt at the sound of gravel crunching outside. Muscle memory kicks in—crossbow in hand before he’s even on his feet.

He peeks out through the curtain.

It’s her.

Climbing out of a beat-up, pollen-dusted station wagon. Alone.

He stays at the window, watching her cross the gravel, eyes sweeping her posture, her gear. Similar pants and an olive green long-sleeved shirt. But now the harness is back on, strapped tight around her waist and thighs. Two long machetes ride against her legs, blades so long they nearly brush her knees. Secured at the top and near the knee—smart. Keeps them from swinging while she climbs.

Bow in one hand. Quiver in the other. She shrugs the strap over her shoulder like she’s done it a thousand times.

The movement shifts her neckline. Just enough to reveal those pale pink straps crossing her collarbone. Some kind of undershirt. He catches himself staring again, scowls, looks away.

Her braid from yesterday is gone, hair coiled into some knot at the back of her skull now. Good. That braid was an easy handhold for a Walker.

She opens the front door without knocking.

Their eyes lock.

She stares for a beat too long. Then bends, grabs her bag by the collar and mutters, “We need to go.”

Turns. Walks out.

Doesn’t close the door behind her.

He watches her go. Momentarily mesmerized by the swing of her hips, the purpose in her stride, the way she doesn’t even glance back. Rolling across the yard like a force of nature. Nope. He needs to focus.

He mentally shakes himself—She’s not wrong. Daylight’s wasting.

Carl and Beth are still out cold. The girl’s cooking knocked them flat. That, and the safety of four walls.

Beth probably hasn’t slept properly in days. Might’ve dozed while he kept watch, but it wasn’t real sleep. Not the kind that helps. He hates to wake her. Can’t be helped though.

They’ve got another long day ahead.

He climbs the stairs.

Rick’s already moving, half upright as Daryl reaches the loft. Must’ve heard the door earlier—or maybe the man’s been up for hours.

They nod at each other. Quiet understanding.

Daryl crouches next to Carl, taps him awake with two fingers to the arm. The kid jerks a little, then relaxes when he sees who it is.

Beth’s up the second she hears them moving. Already asking what she should do, like he’s suddenly the damn camp coordinator.

“Blankets,” he mutters. “Take ’em down to the car. Might need ’em. Don’t leave anything behind.”

She nods and goes, nudging Carl into motion. They shuffle off, arms full of rolled bedding and supplies.

When they’re gone, Daryl stoops beside Rick again, grabbing one of the man’s boots. “You hear her last night?”

Rick’s quiet a beat before answering. “Yeah. Heard.” He winces as he bends forward, breath hitching when it tugs at his ribs.

“Don’t think Beth or Carl slept through it either. But they had enough sense not to get up and make a scene.”

Daryl looks up sharply at that, jaw ticking. He’s not sure if that’s judgment or just a statement.

What was he supposed to do? Just lay there and let her scream like that?

She sounded like she was being ripped apart.

He couldn't ignore it. Not that. He’d listened for over an hour afterward—waiting for Walkers, for another scream. For anything.

But the rest of the night had been silent. Except his thoughts.

“Might explain why she’s been stayin’ the hell away from people,” Rick mutters, rubbing his face with a wince.

Daryl grunts. “Think those were the bastards she killed?”

“Let’s hope so.”

They stand, heading downstairs.

“Still don’t know why she said my name,” Daryl mutters. “Didn’t do nothin’ to her.”  It’s been bothering him. Stuck in his brain like a splinter. The way she flinched, the look in her eyes. She hadn’t even known it was him.

At the bottom of the stairs, Rick stops.

“It was a nightmare, Daryl. It’s not always logical. Few nights ago I thought I heard her say Carl’s name. And someone else. Tobin.” He exhales, gaze distant. “Sounded like she was trying to save him.”

Daryl frowns. “She talk to you about it?”

“No,” Rick says. “She doesn’t talk about herself much. Like someone else I know…”

He grins sideways, voice pointed.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “What, we tradin’ secrets now? Maybe later we can braid each other’s hair.”

Rick snorts—then winces, hand snapping to his side.

Daryl smirks. “Serves ya right, old man.”

They reach the door.

Fin’s already outside, lowering the passenger seat. Shoving pillows into the footwell for Rick like she’s building him a damned nest. Then she circles around to help Beth wedge extra blankets around her bag in the trunk.

He watches her in silence, jaw tight.

He doesn’t know why her nightmare’s gotten under his skin. They all have nightmares. Hell, he counts them as proof he’s still sane. Why should he give a shit what hers are about?

“You know,” Rick says, too casual. “There are worse things than liking a pretty woman.”

Daryl’s head snaps around. “The hell you tellin’ me for?”

Rick shrugs, eyes fixed on the dirt like he just commented on the weather.

“No reason.”

“Uh huh,” Daryl grumbles.

Rick doesn’t answer. Just smirks like he knows exactly what he's doing, then shuffles past him into the yard.

Fin helps him into the passenger seat without a word.

Carl and Beth are already tucked in the back, half-asleep again. Daryl stalks across the gravel, throws open the car door, climbs in, and slams it harder than he means to.

He doesn't apologize.

The station wagon pulls out, tires crunching down the gravel drive. They head east—away from the lake, toward whatever comes next.

There ain’t much gas, and the vehicle backfires often—sputtering like it’s about to die before catching again.

Rick, from the passenger seat, comments, “Sounds like the engine needs a little work.”

She’s grinning at the road. “It’s probably ‘cause I had to use Jim Beam instead of fuel.”

“You can do that?” Carl’s leaned up between the front seats, eager like a damn Labrador. Daryl grabs the back of his collar and yanks him back with a dramatic choking sound. Kid cough-laughs.

“Not really,” she answers, just as the car backfires again—loud enough to wake the dead. At least the damn thing drives fast enough to keep them ahead of anything it draws.

“Jim Beam?” Daryl mutters. “Saw some idiot try that once. Ran like shit and wrecked the engine.”

“What were you—a mechanic before all this?”

He nods once rather than answering her out loud. Catches her eyes in the rearview mirror for a split second watching him before she looks away. 

“And what about you?” She’s asking Rick. “Were you a mechanic?” She leaned forward to see over the hood carefully pulling off the road to get around three cars smashed together in a twist of metal and shattered glass.

"No, I was a cop."

She glances over at Rick with a sly grin. “Well, that’s a problem, officer, ‘cause this vehicle’s stolen.”

“Is that so?”

“Yup. And I’m pretty sure there are unlicensed weapons in the car.” Her voice is all dry humor and mock concern as she turns to Rick with a dramatic wince. He laughs, then coughs, the sound rattling in his chest.

She guns it to pass a few Walkers lurching across the road, tires spitting gravel as they hit asphalt again. The dead fall behind, forgotten.

“Well,” Rick says, catching his breath, “since you’re bein’ so honest, guess I’ll let you off with a warning.”

“That’s a relief.” She’s still grinning. Daryl looks out the window, jaw clenched, trying not to notice how damn bright she gets when she smiles like that.

She weaves them around more blocked cars, down a twisty back road without hesitation. Girl clearly knows the area—knows it too well to be faking. If she’s really been based out here for two years, it’ll help finding the others. Assuming she plans to keep helping.

It ain’t long, maybe two hours with all the off-roading, before they enter a small town that looks picked clean. A few more Walkers shamble after the wagon, arms out, missing them by a wide mile.

They wind through a couple cross streets before she turns down a narrow paved road marked with a battered old sign. Then down another lane choked with pine trees before turning into a wide, open lot.

An empty gas station stands at one end. Long-abandoned. The pumps are dead, rusted. A hand-painted sign reading “No Gas, Sorry” is still taped inside the cracked glass booth.

The attached parking lot stretches wide—nearly empty, save for a few old cars baking in the sun. Weeds burst through broken medians. But the space is flat. Wide open. Nothing to sneak up unnoticed.

Dead center sits one of those massive warehouse stores, the kind people used to go to when they needed sixty rolls of toilet paper and a gallon of peanut butter.

She pulls into a spot, still parking between the faded lines, like that matters anymore.

Rick huffs a laugh as he leans forward to unlatch the seatbelt. “Nice parking job. Think your license is safe for a while longer.”

Daryl jerks open the back door with more force than necessary, stepping out into the hot sun. Scans the perimeter automatically.

The front of the warehouse is rigged with homemade fences—two overlapping chain-link lines bracketed by thick bars welded into H and T shapes. Barbed wire loops over the top like tangled halos. It’s decent work.

But the whole front is crawling with Walkers.

His frown deepens. So much for a safe place.

“Don’t know when the last time you were here,” he says as she hauls her pack from the trunk. “Looks like your fence failed.”

She glances over at the horde with zero alarm. “No it didn’t. They’re exactly where I left ‘em.”

He stares at her. “You keep Walkers on purpose?”

“They’re not pets,” she says dryly. “They’re a visual deterrent. Anyone passin’ through sees fifty Walkers packed in at the front entrance, first roll-down already open? Looks like a death trap. Most people’ll take one look and move on.”

Rick’s frown matches his own. “What if someone gets in ?”

“They’d have to break through cinderblocks, or the second steel shutter—which is blocked on the inside behind a pallet wall stacked three layers deep. Ten feet high. Nothing Dead is getting through that.”

“And if they did?” Carl asks.

“They’d have to fly. Everything important’s stored up high. The Walkers can’t climb shelves. I’ve lived here two years and none of them’s gotten in—or out.”

She swings her pack over her shoulder and walks off without looking back.

Carl and Beth follow without hesitation. Daryl and Rick exchange a glance before trailing after. No point arguing with someone who’s lived to tell about it.

She leads them around the back, climbing onto the roof of a shipping container and then up to a roof-access ladder bolted into the side of the warehouse. Daryl helps Rick up behind them, who’s panting harder by the time they hit the roof.

“Sorry,” she says, pausing under a shaded awning. “There’s no other way in without compromising the barriers.”

Rick’s flushed, sweating, leaning hard on the ledge. Beth rushes to check on him, her face tight with worry.

Fin disappears through a missing skylight.

Carl climbs down after her and pops back up a few minutes later, beaming like a fool. “Dad! You have to come see this! It’s awesome! ”

Rick groans but straightens. “Alright,” he says with a breathless grin, “let’s go check it out.”

“Careful.”

Beth helps Rick straighten up slowly, bearing more of his weight than someone her size should probably manage. It takes both of them to get him safely down the ladder and onto the plywood platform.

It creaks—but holds.

Daryl glances around. It’s… a hell of a sight.

Girl built herself a goddamn rooftop apartment on top of industrial shelving. They’ve landed on the top level, a hundred-foot-long stretch of steel and wood, four shelving units wide and maybe forty feet deep. There are benches around iron yard-style fire pits, and several of those plastic garden sheds at the far end. No railings, just open edges that drop straight to the concrete below.

He edges toward the side, peering down. One wrong step and you’re dead. The warehouse floor is still littered with supplies—folding tables, racks of shoes and clothing, what looks like a pharmacy aisle.

“How the hell’d you do this alone?” he asks, still not sure how she’s alive.

She steps beside him, eyes on the space she built. Shrugs. “Some of it I moved with the forklift. The rest I took apart and rebuilt piece by piece.”

“How long’d that take?”

“Still working on it, honestly.” She breathes out a tired little laugh. “But the big lifts—first eight months, give or take. Once I figured out how the bolts worked, it wasn’t so bad.”

He just grunts. Girl doesn’t know when to stop. He respects that. Maybe even envies it a little.

“C’mon, I’ll show you downstairs. Beth? Can you sit with Rick and Carl?”

Beth nods immediately, already helping Rick get settled while Fin leads him down the first ladder to what she casually calls the living room .

There are actual couches, chairs, and overlapping throw rugs. A table with bowls of candles. Battery lamps. Almost an entire wall dedicated to pressboard bookshelves. 

It’s comfort they haven’t known in years. Cozy in a mismatched, post-apocalyptic kind of way.

She moves suddenly—quick, and deliberate. Snaps his attention up. His gut clenches, scanning for a threat on instinct—But there’s nothing. 

Just her scooping a book off the table.
In one hell of a rush.

Unfortunately, not fast enough.

Thanks to a lifetime of trauma reflexes he really wishes would cut him a break for once.

Because fuck .

Her cheeks probably flushed when she was reading it. Curled up in that chair. Legs tucked underneath her…

Stop. 

She glides across the room and tucks the book back onto the shelf without a word.

Turns to face him again—calm. Except for those hands pushing loose strands of hair behind her ears. A nervous tick he’s starting to recognize.

“Ready?” she asks, all casual, like she didn’t just leave him with that image.

He doesn’t say anything.
But his ears are burning.

And now that he’s looking…
Dozens of bright-colored spines—rose golds, pastels, deep reds. Titles with words like ravished , surrender , and sin .

He’s no expert. But there’s no hidin’ what kind of books they are.

Woman didn’t just build a library.
She built a damn bunker of literary porn.

This is what she does with the end of the world?
Survival and paperback smut.

He swallows.
Suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. Or his eyes.

So he just nods.
And follows her down the next ladder.

The next level down catches his attention in a different way.
Damn. 

The universe clearly sent this woman to drive him mad. 

“Shooting range,” she says, like that needs explaining.

Mattresses line the far wall—riddled with holes. A few targets stand in front of them, makeshift dummies. The front-facing side of the level has chain link fencing bolted into the steel frame.

“Where’d the fencing come from?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Dog kennels. Store had a bunch, still collapsed in boxes. Figured they’d make good walls. Let in the light. Better than plywood.”

He grips one of the chain link panels, tests its give. It’s sturdy. They’re still twelve feet up. The barrier might not stop a determined Walker, but it’s another layer.

“I ran outta motivation after the second level,” she adds quietly, almost to herself.

He gets that, too.

“I need your help,” she says. 

And something in him answers before his brain does—an instinct to move, to act. He’s already shifting before he realizes it.

Which is ridiculous, since he’s already standing.
She’s still talking. He should be listening.

“—want to teach Carl how to shoot before we go.” 

He nods. She turns, starts walking, and he follows—half out of habit, half trying to figure out if he missed something important while being a dumbass.

She leads the way down the final ladder to the warehouse floor. It’s darker here, boxed in on all sides. Pallets rise high like fortress walls. Hard to see much until she grabs a lantern and lights it.

Food.
Mountains of it.

Beans, rice, sugar, flour. Shelf-stable meals. Canned goods by the thousands. Glass jars full of what looks like home-canned vegetables line shelves. Even the air smells like dust and dried spice.

“You did… all this?”  He doesn’t mean for it to sound like awe. Doesn’t like that it does. But hell . He’s never seen anything like it. Not from one person. 

“Most of it was already here. I just moved it. Organized it.” She sets the lantern on a shelf. “I needed something to do. It was either stay busy, or go crazy.”

He follows her through the maze of pallets as she speaks. She unlocks a gate and steps through—he follows.

“I worked my ass off to make this place safe. I know you and Rick don’t like the Walkers out front, but they keep people out. If we clear them? We might as well hang up a welcome sign.”

She’s not wrong. At the prison, they cleared the yard and still got rammed through by assholes in a truck.

“The food’s not bottomless. We’ll need to ration carefully with more people, but I think we can make it work.”

She definitely hasn’t been wasting her time.

“This place wasn’t looted?”

She shrugs. “A little, yeah. Looks like it happened early. Electronics were the first to go—no TVs, laptops, iPads. Jewelry’s gone, cash tills smashed. But most people didn’t bother with the food.”

Daryl scoffs. “Idiots.”

She glances at the shelves, amused. “Well, they also took almost all the wine.”

He lets out a disappointed sound before he can stop himself. “You even old enough to drink?”

Damn mouth.

She snorts. “You need to see some ID?”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t help now.” 

It’s too easy to react to her. She leaves him feeling giddy and scared shitless all at once.

“I’m old enough to know better,” she says, voice lighter. “Wrecked enough to say—if we had some? I might get shit-faced just to cope.”

He understands that more than he wants to admit. “Probably for the best.”

She nods and keeps walking, then stops at a stack of boxes along the far wall. Starts tugging one loose.

“Help me with this.”

“What is it?” He already has a hand on the other side when he reads the label. The image answers everything.

Memory foam mattresses.

Real beds.

He exhales something between a sigh and a laugh. Prison cots were garbage. These? They might actually get some real rest for once.

“Just lean it for a second,” she says. “How many do we need?”

He glances at the stack. Not heavy, but awkward as hell. Four people here now. Might be more.

“Four. I’ll handle it. Move.” This is something he can take care of for her. ‘Couldn’t be easy getting them up there at her size.

She pauses—just a second longer than she should, glancing sideways at him. Her shoulders drop slightly, her voice quieter now. “Good to know.”

He frowns. Wasn’t that what she wanted?

Women were confusing as fuck.

Before he can ask, he grabs three more boxes and starts hauling them out. No sense letting her strain herself.

“Grab one end,” she tells him as he fumbles with the cardboard. “Too wide for a good grip. If you drag it, the box’ll tear.”

“Pfft.” He waves her off, already adjusting his stance. It’s awkward—too long for his wingspan—but manageable.

“I got it. Where we goin’?”

Fin shows him the rig she set up—rope pulleys looped through steel rafters that let them haul the mattress boxes to the upper levels without fighting the ladders. She leaves him with the last three to lift and disappears to fetch other things.

He brings up the boxes and—hell, might as well make the trip worth it—some extras too. Small comforts. Found a rug he liked, a couple blankets that still smell fresh and new, softer than it had any right being and not a hint of mold. It’s not much, but it’s something.

The second of the two plastic sheds she assembled is cleared out by the time he’s back up. She’d been using it to store dry goods. Now the cans and boxes are stacked neatly against the wall. The space feels more private than the open-air setup, like the bare-bones idea of a bedroom.

It doesn’t take long to get things set, especially with Carl and Beth helping. A few sweaty hours later, Rick’s resting upstairs on a mattress that started out flat as a damn pancake and puffed up like magic. Sleeping for the first time in months on Fresh sheets—floral, ridiculous —and some throw pillows Beth found—he told her no. The damn girl had laughed at his protest and threw them at him anyway. 

At least she’s in a better mood, distracted and less worried about her sister.

Daryl’s glad he brought that rug up. Makes the floor feel less like plywood, more like a room. He’d set up three mattresses inside the first shed for Rick, Carl, and Beth. One more’s been left outside, tucked against the shed wall and away from the drop-off.

The second shed’s got room for more, but… he hesitates. Taking it would mean stripping her privacy. He’s not sure she’s ready to give it, and he doesn’t want to take it.

At least the job’s done. The work helped. Stripped away some of the tension she’s worn like a second skin since letting them stay.

He’s still off-balance around her, but the task made it easier. Gave him something to focus on—something other than watching her out of the corner of his eye and pretending he’s not.

She’s efficient. No-nonsense. A good fit.

If he keeps his distance—and his damn mouth shut—this might actually work.

He’s on the warehouse floor now, chewing over a problem. The bathrooms are all back here—makes more sense to move Rick downstairs. No way he’s making those ladders in the dark on one leg.

Daryl wouldn't mind being down here either. It’s quieter. Further from the others. Further from her.

The water runs, thanks to a single solar panel she rigged up to the well pump—don’t ask him how. She warned it’s not hot, and to boil it before drinking, but hell, it beats digging a latrine.

He explores the back wall of the warehouse. Finds a row of built-in rooms stretching twenty-five feet deep: offices, a kitchen, utility space, two bathrooms with stalls and sinks. He brushes his teeth for the first time in forever—mint clinging to his tongue like a blessing.

There’s an emergency exit door near what used to be the wine section. Mostly looted now. The area feels too open for Rick, even with the steel roll-down door. Vulnerable.

He hears footsteps behind him but doesn’t turn—probably Beth again, or Carl, judging by the pace. 

It’s not. 

She stops next to him, eyes already scanning the space. Doesn’t speak. Just waits.

“Rick can’t climb ladders,” he says.

She nods. “You want him down here.” She’s still watching the warehouse, thoughtful. “But it feels too exposed.”

He glances at her, surprised. “Yeah.”

A beat. He can hear the wheels turning in her head.

“I got an idea. Come on.”

The idea turns out to be fencing. More of it. And a hell of a lot of industrial-strength zip ties. She secures panels to the end of one of the long, narrow shelves that run in two rows down the store’s length.

The far end of the shelving still opens out into a wide walkway—once the main path for shoppers. Now it’s just a gaping hole and a new problem. They don’t have enough fencing left to cover it.

Then, grinning like Beth did over the stupid pillows, she shows him the fork lift.

Several productive hours later (with Beth and Carl pitching in when they can), the back wall of the warehouse is sealed off. The shelving end is now blocked by towering pallets.

The fencing across the center has been reinforced—more panels, more zip ties. A line of pallets, stacked tight with boxed goods, turns it into a proper wall. The gaps only remain where there are gate panels—latched shut, easy to move through when needed.

It’s probably overkill, moving that many pallets. But the forklift is surprisingly fun. So… why the hell not?

By the time they’re done, two clear spaces exist in the back hall. One near the office and bathrooms—too much to clean out today, but Beth and Carl agree to take that one on while he’s gone.

The other?

He’s already claimed it.

The second space is more private, on the far side of the hall. Near the emergency exit door.  Hidden by the empty stacked wine crates. The cleared space has a giant king-sized mattress with fresh sheets–not floral, Beth clearly did that shit on purpose, nestled behind empty wine racks. 

It’s soft. Too soft. And too big. He doesn’t remember ever sleeping in a bed like this. Might be the most ridiculous luxury he’s had in years.

He’s considering crashing when she shows up again. Like the devil summoned her to torture him, standing three feet from a bed. 

Eyes flicking around the space like she’s reassessing something she already signed off on.

“I thought we were putting Rick down there?” she asks, nodding toward the office space.

“We are.”

A pause. Then quieter—careful, like the words might bite her—“So… who’s sleeping over here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Maybe she doesn’t like the idea of splitting them up. Maybe she’s nervous about the layout. He could argue it. He will , if he has to. He spent hours making this happen. And Rick shouldn’t be left alone. It makes sense.

“I am. s’That a problem?”

She shifts her weight. Taps something against her leg. Fidgety. He glances down, trying to figure out what she’s carrying. A blanket? No—towel. 

At least it’s not another goddamn throw pillow.

“Just you?” she asks.

Then makes a tiny sound—more of a squeak—like her mouth betrayed her and she’s trying to shove the words back in.

Even in the dim light, he can see it—her cheeks flare pink.

Which is a whole mess of problems.

Because now he’s flustered too. Blood rushing south, nerves lighting up like live wire. 

He opens his mouth—probably to stammer something dumb—but she doesn’t give him the chance.

She clears her throat and thrusts the towel into his hands.  “You can clean up first. I need to grab a few more things for tomorrow.”

Her hands fly up immediately, tucking stray pieces of hair behind both ears–that simply aren’t there, like she needs something to do now that the towel’s no longer a shield.

And he stands there like an idiot, towel in hand, staring at the space where she’d just been. 

Just him?  Why the hell would she—? He blinks after her, stunned. Trying to work through her question. Beth’s got a bed. Carl, too. Rick’s resting upstairs now, but they’re moving him to the far end. Everyone is accounted for.  

The possibilities start tumbling loose in his chest—barbed wire thoughts, snagging on each other. Every reason he comes up with is wilder than the last. 

They don’t make sense. They can’t .

And still, they hit—sharp, dizzying—That breathless, weightless second before a fall. The kind he’d almost managed to ignore today. Distracted by work. By having her near without thinking about her being near.

Now it’s worse.

Clawing up from somewhere low and hot in his gut. Payback, maybe—for all those hours he wasn’t tortured by the scent of her—vanilla, and something warm like cloves or nutmeg. Something that doesn’t belong in a world like this. Something already under his skin.

Fuck .

He has no idea what to say.

Thank God she doesn’t wait for him to figure it out.

She’s already ten feet up the hall walking away from him—fast, like she might take the words back if she stays still too long. She doesn’t say anything else, but she pauses after a few steps, half-glancing over her shoulder just long enough for him to know: he’s meant to follow.

So he does.

She leads him quickly through the door in the back wall, into what was clearly a kitchen once—big prep tables, industrial sinks, everything stainless steel and quiet now. It’s dark. No natural windows except the narrow one facing the warehouse.

The lighting’s shit. Just enough to keep you from slamming into a wall, not enough to feel at ease.

“I couldn’t figure out how to get the lights working without electrocuting myself,” she says, voice low like the dark might hear her. “But—there’s candles.”

She grabs a lighter and sparks a few wicks to life on a metal prep table, the glow flickering over her face as she crosses the room and lights more along the far counter.

The space shifts in the warmth of it, shadows moving as the light spills out. That’s when he sees it—what she’s built.

She’s gutted one of the big utility sinks. In its place, a plastic pipe runs up the wall, braced with salvaged metal brackets, angling over toward a square of floor covered in textured rubber mats. A bare, crooked shower nozzle juts out like an afterthought.

It’s ugly. It’s crude.

It’s fucking genius.

Better than the prison showers.  He stops, squinting toward the shelf bolted near the makeshift spigot.

“You make this?” he asks.

She nods, already moving to show him the water valve. He barely listens. His eyes are still wandering.

Then they land on the shelf. Dozens of shampoo bottles. All different kinds. Shiny labels and pastel caps. Half of ‘em look too fancy to have come from a warehouse like this.

“…Why the hell do you have so many shampoo bottles?” The question slips out before he can stop it.

She smirks. “Just ’cause it’s the apocalypse doesn’t mean I have to smell like it.” She wrinkles her nose at him—an expression he wants real bad not to find cute, but his brain’s already lost that fight.

And then—just like that—she’s gone. Turning and walking out before he can say anything else. He scowls after her. Shakes his head. Strips down.

Water hits his skin and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It’s cool, almost cold, but it cuts through the sweat and heat clinging to him. Refreshing in a way that makes his whole damn body sigh.  

It also solves his other problem.

After a few minutes the cool loses its refreshing edge, teeters into uncomfortable. Still—he lingers.

Steps away from the stream and leans toward the shelf, sniffing a few of the bottles like some kind of idiot. Searching for the one that smells like her, there’s no exact match.

Vanilla. Clove. Something warmer under it, too. He grabs one that smells closest. The scent settles over him like a whisper. 

Christ. That was a mistake. A stupid one. 

At least the water’s cold.  

When he finally turns the water off, he’s just this side of shivering. Which should help at least for the night.

He grabs the towel she gave him off the closest countertop—soft, thick, too nice for a warehouse like this—and scrubs his face, arms, hair.  It seems a waste to clean up and then put on his old clothes, but he didn’t think to grab anything from the warehouse that might fit him before stripping down. 

Then he turns around to grab his clothes.

And stops cold.

They’re gone.

Every piece of what he was wearing—shirt, pants, even the damn socks—gone. Replaced by a folded pile on the table near the candles. Thick socks. Clean sweatpants. A plain t-shirt. Neatly arranged, like someone took care laying them out.

He stares.

His boots are still there. So is his knife. But everything else? Vanished.

He flushes, heat flaring in his chest and crawling up his neck.

She came back in here. He didn’t hear her.

She must’ve timed it—waited until the water was running, crept in while he had his back turned.

Hell, maybe she was in the room with him, quiet as a shadow. He didn’t even notice. He yanks the clothes on fast, still damp, skin still cool from the water. Doesn’t matter. He needs the weight of them, the grounding.

But his hands are a little too fast, movements a little too jerky.

Not because he’s mad. Because this is something. Something he doesn’t have a word for. And he’s not sure what to do with that.

He needs to remember—he’s not the only one with quiet feet.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Seraphim

"Arms higher; you want this arm level with the ground for a straight shot." 

I grab Carl's elbow and lift it higher so the arrow is almost level with his cheekbone.

"Like this?"

"Yup now pull back, slowly, just a bit," He pulls his hand back and the pulleys on the bow spin. "Breath in, let it out and let go." He does. The arrow is widely off the mark, smacking into the block wall with a PING and bouncing off. Which isn’t surprising.

He frowns instantly looking dejected. "That sucked."

I'm sure he's thinking of Daryl's marksmanship. "Hey, it takes practice, just like a gun. There might not be recoil to deal with, but you need to build up the arm muscles to keep the bow steady; and pull the string back without shifting your aim."

He grabs another arrow, fumbling to nock it with his fingers. The unfamiliar movement is clumsy and slow. He raises the bow to level again and pulls back. I don't have to correct his elbow this time.

The arrow sticks in the mattress about two feet left of the target.

"See? Better already. You have lots of time to practice while I'm gone.  You guys can't just hang around and eat all my food while I'm gone. I want you to shoot 100 of these everyday, okay? That’s one of your jobs, Beth’s too.  Your Dad will have to wait til he’s more healed up." 

"I can shoot more than that." Carl grabs another arrow; eager to prove his point. He shoots again while I speak.

I hear Daryl climb back up the ladder behind us. I don't turn to look at him, but Carl glances past me. I catch it in my periphery—Daryl hovering halfway up, observing. Watching.

“You’re building new muscles,” I go on, louder than I need to, like I’m talking to fill the air. “And new muscle memory. That’s way more important than shooting for hours with sloppy form and getting nowhere.”

"Might as well throw the arrows at ‘em that way."  Daryl warns him.

Carl nods after a moment. "Okay,"

"Will you be alright if I leave you?" He nods again and grabs another arrow eager to get it right. "Good, I'm going to help Beth."

The kid is going to be sore as crap tomorrow. He'll be lucky if he can raise his arms above his shoulders. Climbing up and down the ladders is going to hurt like hell, but he’ll adjust. It will be good for them to get away from guns.

I head to the ladder going up, avoiding Daryl’s eyes but noting that he’s wearing the new clothing I laid out for him earlier. Not that I left him with a whole lot of choice. I was so fucking flustered over the mattress I completely forgot to have him grab something first–and I needed to know the correct sizes before my side trip.

His feet are shoved back into his worn boots.  The shirt fits decently. The sweatpants are too big—sitting too low, clinging just enough to make my already-overactive imagination spiral off the rails.

Because I hadn’t thought to grab him any underwear. 

—But there hadn’t been any, either.

I flush. Hard. 

Should've just left him his threadbare clothes. Holes and all would've been less dangerous than this.

The leather belt was salvageable, as is the vest that must have some sentimental value based on Beth’s reaction earlier.  The vest that Beth is now cleaning upstairs with a packet of leather wipes. When she saw me doing it she asked to take over and I immediately agreed. 

The switch let me deal with teaching Carl, plus it felt weirdly intimate to be cleaning his things.  

He scowls at me, arms crossed over his chest. His voice is low, but there’s a note in it that prickles the hair on my arms. Not quite angry. Not quite not .

“Where’s my vest?”

Definitely sentimental value. Noted. Dirty or not—don’t touch the vest.

“Upstairs,” I say quickly. “The belt too. Beth has them.” I try to sound casual, but it feels like I’m reporting a crime.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat—just stares . Like he’s waiting for something I don’t know I owe him.

I gesture toward Carl, who’s gripping another arrow like it might bite him. “Pointers?” I prompt. “Might help to hear it from someone else.”

His eyes flick to Carl, then back to me.  

“Nah. You covered it.” A pause, the slightest shake of his head. “Let’s go.”

He jerks his head toward the top ladder. I follow, my stomach flipping like it’s caught on a pulley system of its own. I need to get a fucking grip.

I grab the ladder rungs, and start to climb up to the top where I left Rick and Beth. Daryl follows close on my heels without further comment. 

We still need to get Rick downstairs to the other bed, which won’t be fun for anyone involved. Rick barely made it onto the roof without passing out. But there's very little I can do about it. 

I find Beth sitting on the wicker furniture near the fire pit next to Rick . Daryl’s now clean vest draped over her lap. 

She jumps up the second she sees him behind me. Her face lights up—like someone flipped a switch. She practically skips the vest over, holding it out like it’s a handmade gift. 

“I cleaned this for you!” she says brightly. “Fin had some leather wipes.” There’s something in her voice—eagerness and nerves and something else she probably thinks is subtle. It isn’t. It’s painful to witness.

Daryl seems to think so too. Huh.

He gives her a nod and a gruff,  “Thanks,” already pulling it over the clean shirt. Like he’s been waiting to feel like himself again. Then he moves past her, settling beside Rick like the moment never happened. 

Because for him it didn’t.

Beth’s face falls. Not a lot—but enough. Just for a second. Like she forgot she wasn’t the only one in the room. I feel for her, in that moment, the disappointment, but there’s nothing I can say to fix it.

Then she sees me watching. Straightens. Her smile snaps into place—too quick to be real. She spins around  following and drops into the chair next to Daryl, too close. Too casual.

Daryl is already talking to Rick— or trying to. His voice is low, clipped. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, head down like he’s studying the floorboards. Not looking at Beth. Not really looking at Rick either. 

He doesn’t react when she sits too close, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

She looks crestfallen at being excluded from the conversation and I feel for her. She’s not a kid, but she’s not one of the adults making decisions either.  

I glance toward them again. Rick is still talking. Daryl’s nodding, half-listening. Then, just for a second, he looks over at me.

Not long. Not intense. Just long enough that I feel it somewhere deep in my gut, the pull, and then he’s looking away again, like it didn’t happen.

Like he didn’t just check to see if I was still watching, still here.

And okay.

Beth needs a distraction. Hell, I need a distraction.

She practically leaps to her feet when I ask her if she would like to take a shower.

I take Beth downstairs and start showing her the clothes laid out in neat stacks on some of the central warehouse spaces, some are on racks but most of them I organized and folded out of sheer boredom by sizes and colors.  I tell her to take whatever she wants, and show her where the shower is and how to operate. 

I suggest she pick some clothes out to bring in with her before she showers and she nods and then her face lights up again. 

She's excited about the soap options at least.

I return to the top floor several minutes later with another pair of sweatpants, a shirt, washcloths and other bathing supplies to find Daryl and Rick still sitting around the raised metal ring of the fire pit coffee table originally designed for someone’s fancy patio, someone has started a fire; probably Daryl.  

No one is talking now. 

Awkward. 

I kneel down and go through the steps to heat water for tea and so Rick can clean up. It will be faster with the fire already going at least.

Daryl eventually speaks. "How'd you get these big ass things up here?"

He doesn’t look at me— pointedly doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay locked on my hands, following every motion like it’s more interesting than it is. Like watching me steep tea is the only safe option.

I combine the different leaves into several more tea balls, snapping each closed before dropping them fully assembled into a large gallon Ziplock bag so they’re ready, and easy to use while I’m gone.

I answer his question while I work. "They came in big boxes. Like most of the things in here.  So I opened the boxes on the floor and pulled them up here piece by piece with the pulley and ropes and put them together."

Rick turns back to me silent for a moment. "That must have been difficult."

"Yeah it was,” I admit, “the directions were all written in China." That gets a grin out of Rick at least.

I eye the closest shed and remember what it was like to put the damn thing together. It more than sucked. And I almost got myself killed in the process of getting the roof together and attached. Being all of five two on a good day is seriously inconvenient.

“I had to stand on a ladder to get the roof panels in place” I find myself elaborating on the memory, snorting at my own stupidity.  “Lets just say standing on a ladder, on top of 40 foot shelving can give you some serious fucking vertigo. I do not recommend.”

“Yeah, don’t sign me up for that either,” Rick comments with a grin leaning back in his seat as I hand him a mug of tea. Combined with the Tylenol I gave him earlier, he might make it downstairs without vomiting. 

While it did not take as long as I’d worried with multiple people to clear the space out. The time I thought we would have this afternoon to drive to the meeting spot was eaten up by adjusting most of the lower layout around the warehouse. 

It was worth it to watch Daryl and Carl take a moment with the forklift to play like kids with the coolest new toy. He even smiled once before he went back to being serious again.

Turns out he can do something other than glower like he's allergic to human emotion.

I need to get the other items we need now, with the loss of this afternoon as searching time we need to leave as early as possible tomorrow morning. There’s no weather forecasts and any day now it is going to change from a cool and refreshing break from the heat; to rain. Lots of rain. Cold, soaking rains that can last for hours or days, and possibly hail and sleet if we’re incredibly unlucky. Not good weather to be exposed to for any length of time.

As soon as I have enough hot water I send Rick into the cleared out little house with hot water, washcloths, and his change of clothes so he too can get cleaned up; without having to go down the ladder just yet.  

We’re all just putting off the inevitable at this point. Unless he plans to pee in a bucket.

Carl comes back from shooting while Rick is gone.  Beth is with him now. Wearing clean clothes and a wide smile, her blonde hair still wet. She immediately plops down in the seat next to Daryl again, trying to engage him in conversation without much success.

I take Carl downstairs to get cleaned up, showing him the clothing to choose from. He's more excited than I expected about the new fleece jacket and fresh sweat pants. Simple joy, peeking through the cracks of a brutal world.

The warehouse sold a few clothing items; jeans, shirts, socks, basic undergarments in bulk packaging, tennis shoes, fleece jackets and ridiculously: bathing suits. None of it is particularly stylish. I sleep in some of it, but most of my clothing is from the outdoor sporting goods warehouse not far from here. 

I'll have to bring Carl something too, though his pants weren't as bad as Daryl's. 

Daryl’s old pair has more holes than material. I’ve already written the waist and inseam from his old pair—which I could barely make out because the tag was so faded, onto my arm with a pen. 

I note Carl’s size and estimate Rick’s based on what I already have written down, though he will probably appreciate the soft, easy to wear sweat pants for a while longer while he heals.

I spend a few minutes showing Beth how to prepare the food I’ve got on hand while I’m gone.

Daryl’s gone. Somewhere in the warehouse. I don’t know where.

He left without a word. Didn’t take food. Didn’t ask if anyone needed anything. Just… 

Disappeared.

Which is fine. Obviously.

Except—
Christ.

I might have a problem.

I tell Rick—freshly clean and looking a lot more human—that I need to head out for a bit.

And no, I’m not running away. There are a few things I still need before we leave tomorrow. Things I don’t have here.

He doesn’t look thrilled. Suggests I take Daryl. Says it real casual. Real sincere.

But his eyes?

Sparkling.

Like he’s two seconds from kicking his feet and gossiping into a walkie-talkie.

I level a glare at him.

He just grins .

Seriously? This is what we’re doing now? Laugh at my emotional collapse?

Apparently so.

He’s lucky I already love Carl like he’s my own brother, so I’d hate to orphan him. Because the temptation to chuck Rick’s ass off the shelf is real.

Maybe that’s why Daryl fled…

Rick doesn’t push. He can’t, not really. This was part of the deal.

I slipped up to the roof a few minutes later. Weave through the tiny greenhouses I've built from window panes and raised garden beds. They're mostly empty now, with winter coming. There’s some pumpkins still growing, a few squash. The tomatoes died with the first frost sometime last week while I was taking care of Rick and Carl. 

Now that there's more people I'll probably have to figure out how to turn up some of the grass around the parking lot, maybe in the medians. Though that will be very obvious to anyone who wanders by, so probably not. A big part of staying safe is not announcing where you are.

I climb down the ladder, jump to the roof of the container and then climb down to the pavement. I don't bother pulling my bow, keeping it tucked against my back as I move.  

I only took it for show so Rick wouldn’t insist I take Daryl with me. 

I take off in a quick jog across the lot, making the light hop up off the faded asphalt onto the solid ground of the surrounding woodland. Cutting through trees in a straight line across maybe a mile and a half of woods.  I’ve done this so many times, the way is marked very subtly on the trees so I don’t have to worry about getting turned around or checking my compass.  This is also one of my escape routes I planned out long ago.

A careful 20 minute jog trying to make sure I don’t trip over any partially hidden logs or uneven ground brings me to the backdoor of the second warehouse I frequently use. 

The side access door opens with practiced ease and a little maneuvering. It looks locked, but the duct tape over the latch allows it to appear secure–while remaining easy to open. Unless someone were to walk up and use something thin, like the edge of a knife to pop it open, you’d never know it was simply sitting closed and not latched.  

It's much darker inside here without the skylights to illuminate the back of the store. But I still allow the heavy door to shut behind me rather than risk anything shambling through a propped open door. I know where I'm going, and while it’s not well lit, there is enough light from the front store windows even this far in the back to not trip and kill myself on anything, probably . I pulled the flashlight I shoved into my pocket before leaving home, rather than risk it. I need to be fast.

I removed the few Walkers that were in here ages ago. Stumbling over them in the dark, or the other way around, was still enough to make my heart race. It looked too much like another person in the low light to not send a flush of panic through me every time.

I quickly find what I'm looking for with the bright beam of light.  Moving swiftly through the space, grabbing items and a new olive green hiking pack. I sliced the tags free of the items with my knife once I've found all the correct departments. 

Some of which I never needed before today. So those took a little more searching than normal. 

Unlike the men’s section—where I get all my pants. Hiking and hunting gear designed with all the pockets—practical, dark, meant to blend into the woods and not startle your fellow hikers. Or deer.

Or get you shot by a stranger in the woods after the Fall of Mankind.

Why did men get sensible camo and dark greens and browns while the girl pants were sky blue and fucking pink? Seriously, What was I hunting in, a circus?

I grab the items I need, including a nice fleece lined jacket that looks like he might actually wear it, maybe.  Then I stuff everything into the satchel and head back as quickly as I can.

I've barely been gone an hour. The sun will set in a little while but it's not anywhere close to dark out, not like it was at the lake. I’m not even on the ladder yet when I spot him— storming the edge of the roof like he’s been waiting. Pacing. Watching.

Daryl.

Crossbow in one hand, expression thunderous. He looks like he’s about to bite someone. Possibly me.

He watches me climb over the half wall, backing up like he needs space to explode. Like he’s been working up a head of steam just for this.

"What the hell, Fin?" he snaps, voice rough and too loud for the rooftop. 

"You think you can just sneak out without telling anybody?"

He paces again, up and down like a tiger in a cage—jaw tight, boots landing with sharp, irritated steps. I notice— of course I notice —that in the time I’ve been gone he’s cut the sleeves off the shirt I left him.

What is it with this man and sleeves?

He’s got nice arms, though.

Focus.

"I didn't sneak out." I keep my voice even, tired. "I told Rick I'd be right back. And I came right back." I can’t resist lifting my arms out to the sides in a little ‘ta-da’ gesture.

I don't have to explain myself to him. 

He clearly has a real problem with people going out alone. Which I get. It even makes sense, or it would if I was anyone but me …but I can hardly explain that to them.  

He stops pacing like he might argue. Eyes narrowed. 

"I don’t need a babysitter, Daryl."

Just keeps glaring. Like that’ll change my mind.

Whatever fragile bridge we built working together most of the day is going up in flames. If I want to keep the peace, I’m going to have to decide if it’s worth it to hold firm on this issue, or adjust.  

Since going out alone allows me the time I need to keep them all safe , I can’t just let it go. 

He just keeps glaring at me. I stare back silently.

I know that look— the control-is-slipping look. I’ve worn it. But I don’t have time to babysit his nervous system. And I’m not going to fight him for the high ground. Not tonight.

“Hell was so important it couldn't wait?” he asks again. Lower now. The harsh edge is still there, but not as loud—maybe remembering that we’re on the roof–and voices carry. 

He has no idea that there isn’t a single walker other than the ones contained up front for at least a mile. 

I’m suddenly too tired to do this. I need sleep. He needs sleep. He could blow steam up here for hours, and it still wouldn’t get us anywhere.

I yank open the bag without responding, too done for another round of this. 

Two identical pairs of pants come out first—Carl’s and Rick’s, practical and durable. I stuff them under one arm.

Then I shove the whole backpack into his stomach—harder than I need to. Let him figure it out.

Everything else in my little excursion was for him . So we’d both be as prepared as possible. While he stands there blowing at me like a freight train. 

Again . 

He takes a step back, surprised. Still staring down at the bag like he’s trying to figure out what just happened.

Of course he has no idea what’s in the damn bag, since it’s closed. He glances at the items tucked under my arm and then back to my face. 

"New pants. Shirts. A thermal jacket. And most importantly—string and clips for your damn crossbow." 

God only knows the last time he's been able to change them. The last thing we need is something to break out there at a critical moment.  

“And they’re the right size,” I add coolly. “Why else would I take your pants?”

That gets his attention. His eyes jerk back to my face, blinking, like the words physically landed. He looks confused. And maybe—just a little—offended.

“Relax, it was too dark to see anything,” I say brushing past him towards the skylight-ladder. 

It really was. And I wasn’t trying to look— I mean , boundaries.

He turns to follow me right as I spin back around—so I get the full view of his face when I say, “Except for the fantastic ass. That was hard to miss.”

I think you could knock Daryl down with a feather right now.

Yup, I’m going straight to hell.

I resist the urge to cackle in victory and climb downstairs.

I check on Rick and the others the moment I get back downstairs. 

I don’t look at Daryl, though I can feel him hovering behind me—like a storm that hasn't decided which direction to blow yet. 

The weight of his stare lingers even when I move on, like he's still waiting for a fight that never came.

Beth is actively making some of the food I showed her earlier. Which is great because I realize I’m suddenly ravenously hungry.

No one seems to need me thankfully. 

I nod to Rick and head downstairs to clean up after too many days without a shower. I need space. Daryl’s tension still clings to the air like static, and I’m not in the mood to get shocked again.

It might not be dark yet, but I'm tired. I’d hoped we could make it out this afternoon but it took longer than I expected to find a semi functional car this morning, and then we had Daryl’s side project, both losing us precious hours.  

We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, we need to start early. Lots of ground to cover. I shower, making sure to wash my hair and run conditioner through it, adding a leave in spray after I dry myself and change into fresh clothes: another pair of dark cargo pants with a soft web belt that won't bunch up under my leather climbing harness, a dark tank top with a built in bra and another olive color long sleeve shirt I pull over that. Putting them on feels like donning battle armour, in a way.  The outfit is part of who I am out there.

Normally I'd be putting on something to sleep in at this hour...but I'm still not sure I trust these people enough to wander around in sweat pants, a loose t-shirt and bare feet.  

And no, the fact that I dressed them all that way earlier is not lost on me. I braid my hair again in the dark before returning to the group.

I'm not hiding, I tell myself. That would be silly . 

It’s just been a long time since I spent so much time with other people. It's stressful. Especially people this intense. One in particular more so than the others. 

And starting tomorrow? I get to deal with him one on one, alone, in a high stress situation. Oh goody . 

We’re going to have to work out some kind of…balance? Truce? I’m not even sure what the right word is, because I have no idea what the problem is—if there even is one. Maybe he’s just sort of… prickly, all the time? 

It doesn’t freaking help that my stomach keeps getting stupid butterflies when I catch him staring at me. His intensity is startling, especially when he turns and practically runs the next moment. 

I'd forgotten how difficult interacting with other people could be. Literature is so much easier.   The characters in books always knew what to do or say–and if they didn’t? No problem, the hot guy took over, but not like an asshole that grates on your nerves, or confuses the shit out of you kind of way, a sexy pick you up and throw you down on the bed kind of way.

I need to stop reading so many paperbacks.

When I climb upstairs again I am not surprised to find Daryl alone, though maybe the location is a bit unusual, or maybe not?  I don’t really know much, if anything  about him.

He’s using what little natural light there is left on the Living level and a nearby kerosene lantern to check out the generous number of books I've gathered from stores, homes, and even a local library two towns over.  

I glance over the line of shelves, realizing it’s a lot of books.  

I should probably move them to the floor of the warehouse. They weighed so much at this point, but the shelves were sturdy. Meant to handle full pallets and heavy items. They were against the back wall making the space feel more homey than cinderblock…and it would be a giant pain in the ass to change it now.

I stand behind him for a moment, wondering if he somehow didn’t hear me come up the ladder—or if he’s ignoring me…I’m also wondering what book he’s examining so intently.  

What grabbed his attention out of all the hundreds of options I have stacked on the shelves?

I realize as my eyes adjust to the light he's holding a very specific book in his hands…though how he managed to find that one in a sea of paperbacks I have no idea. 

Some of the books are classics I felt someone had to save.  Then there’s works of fiction, and lots of them (most of them) are romance novels.  I am always on the lookout for more of those—something I can't imagine him picking up even glancing at…

So I guess it makes sense he found the old survival manual I’ve managed to hold onto. A gift my Uncle gave me what feels like a lifetime ago.

Obviously, he found the inscription I’ve had memorized for years. The last precious gift I have from family—from someone who loved me.  Just a few faded and smeared words on a book cover. From my uncle, not my Mother or my Step Father…I wonder if he would have left me the way they did. I’m not sure.

"Seraphim—Walk in the Light of God, and judge all you do by his words. Trust in him, your life, and your faith. And when the world goes to shit, knowing this stuff couldn't hurt either. I hope you never need it.”

I'd been thirteen the year he'd gifted me with it. 

My stepdad hadn't approved of the exact language as a Pastor, but he'd told me it was excellent advice anyway.

I'd spent almost every summer, spring break or other vacation as a kid camping, fishing and hiking with my three cousins around my Uncle's home in the foothills of West Virginia. My mother would drive us up from South Carolina and drop me off every time; she'd stay a few days herself and then head off on her yearly mission work with my Stepdad.

I never missed my parents when they were gone, not even a little. I was too secure in the knowledge that they would always come back and too busy running wild trying to keep up with three boys twice my size.

I vividly remember my mother had actually let me take my little brother Tobin who was barely 5 at the time to camp in the backyard for almost every weekend that fall to practice everything the book said. He'd been too young for the boy scouts at the time or to join in on the long overnight trips we'd take in the woods over the summer and he'd loved every minute of it. Especially when Mom brought us hot chocolate after dark.

It dawns on me suddenly.

What he really has in his hands— My Name . 

There’s no one else alive that knows it. 

My eyes burn with such intensity I have to look away, blinking rapidly to clear them. Trying not to make a sound or draw attention to myself until I can keep it together.  

It doesn’t matter, I tell myself.

But, my chest suddenly feels very tight.

Like I took in too much air and now I can’t let it out.

God, I missed them .

I was lucky to have them in my life while I did.

He has no idea what he’s holding. Or maybe he does, he hasn’t let it go.

The weight of that book in his hands suddenly feels unbearable .

I clear my throat. Which seems more appropriate than just walking past him to go upstairs. We have to get along for this to work. 

"Daryl," He doesn't exactly jump when I speak, but he clearly did not expect to find me standing here. 

"Food's probably ready."  It’s the safest sentence I can come up with—neutral, impersonal. It’s either that or ask why he’s reading the last thing I ever got from someone who loved me.

He just stares at me like I'm not speaking English.

Okay.  

I turn and leave him to whatever it is he's doing.

I still have two bags and a tent to pack.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

Seraphim

We headed out at dawn the next morning.

As planned, we took one of the better functioning vehicles sitting in the lot—it's low on gas, but it's got enough to get us to the check point where of course, we didn’t find anyone.  

What we did find was a bus riddled with bullet holes and blood. Neither of us said a word.

We agreed in as few words as possible to return with the car to the forest where we exited the woods yesterday, leave the car there for a return trip, and start our search. 

Daryl and Beth ended up this far from the main roads after the attack. No where near the intended meet point.  It made sense to check the area again—no telling how scattered everyone might be.

After a full day in my current company, I’m wishing I’d dropped him off and kept driving.

I huff a breath that ruffles the wisps of hair around my face. “It’s safer to sleep out of reach.”

Why are we still having this conversation? It started when Daryl noticed the tent I packed. I don’t know why he looked so surprised—or so annoyed. 

It's a tent made for hanging suspended from cliffs while rock climbing, or equally effective; hanging from thick branches or tree trunks if you can find them in the right distance.  

They wanted to know how I survived for three years? 

Not by sleeping on the ground. 

Walkers might not eat me, but that doesn't mean I want them tripping over me while I’m unconscious. 

"I ain't no damn squirrel."

How can someone be so infuriating and still find them attractive? Just focus. The faster I get this tent up, the faster I can fantasize about hanging him by his ankles.  

Might not help his mood, but it’d sure improve mine.

I glare at the back of his head until he turns, scowling like he can feel it. But instead of commenting on it, he simply continued what he was doing—gathering dry branches for a fire.

He’s been doing that all day— watching me . Not like he thinks I’ll stab him, but like I’m some puzzle he can’t quite work out. Tracks he doesn’t know how to follow.

“Would you rather be something else’s dinner?” I ask—too brightly—when he’s still doing it. Still watching me like I’m about to short-circuit and catch fire.

It’s starting to mess with my focus. Has been, honestly.

The tension between us doesn’t feel like danger anymore—it feels like if I don’t keep my distance, I might do something really dumb .

Because it would be dumb. Giving in to this… 

Whatever this is? It’s a bad idea.

I just want to finish this tent. I want him to stop looking at me like that. I want my heart to stop trying to beat a hole through my ribs.

Smiling worked earlier, and right now? I’ll take anything that shuts him up and gets me back to thinking straight.

Even if it sends that traitorous zip through my gut when he looks at me like he can’t decide whether I’m a threat or a curiosity.

He’s still chewing on whatever he’s not saying—and I just… keep talking.

I didn’t speak for weeks at a time, but now? I can’t shut up. 

"I get it, you don't like heights, but there are only two of us."  

I continue moving and setting things up as I talk, because if he wants to risk his life sleeping on the ground tonight? Fine . 

But my ass will be 20 feet in the air.  

“We can’t sleep in shifts—” short bursts of unrestful sleep several nights in a row? I’d be so cranky after 48 hours I might actually hang him by his ankles just so I could get a full night's rest, “--and I can't stay alive if I'm so dead tired I fall asleep while standing up."

There are no walls out here. Nothing to use for shelter. Not too surprising considering this used to be a state forest reserve. 

We’re following the creek toward the meeting spot. Anyone with common sense would follow the water if they had to leave the road, it’s instinct. Leaving a source of water is only sane when you can be certain to find it again.  

It’s also harder to get lost. The trees all look the same in the forest, it’s why hiking trails are heavily marked and patrolled– or they were . Without a compass or directional skills in the deep woods? You follow the water or you wander aimlessly until you're dead. 

"How do you know it isn't going to fall?" 

"It’s not going to fall because I'm also going to be in it–” 

He still doesn’t look convinced… 

“--Look, it would be almost impossible for that to happen; these climbing ropes are made to support 900 pounds each; and I'm using 4 of them !"

I gasp dramatically turning to face him, unable to help myself, “Wait, Are you calling me fat?”

He blinks, face twisting in utter confusion, then his cheeks flush and those brows come back down like he’s thinking about snarling at me again. 

I turn before he can start, nock another arrow and send it flying between the V in the trunk I'm aiming for, then walk to retrieve the other end where it's fallen on the ground about two dozen feet away.

When I glance up he’s still standing there, just staring at me. He does that a lot. But it feels less threatening now, or maybe I’m just getting used to it?  

"You shoot Walkers with that thing or just trees?"

No way. Was that snark?  

I hide a grin with my back turned to him winding the rope up. Amused and also a little panicked. My tummy doing a complete acrobatic routine because—Attractive, grumpy and stand-offish? I can handle it .

 Attractive, grumpy and witty ?  

PleaseGod help me.

I suck in a deep breath to calm nerves. "Walkers, trees," I turn and offer him a glare as I attach the pulley and clip I need. "People." I continue.

He doesn't turn to look at me, or take the bait. 

Of course. Very mature.  

"How about food?" 

My exhale almost tips into nervous laughter. "I'm a little busy right now Darling, I'll make you a deal. You go shoot something, and I'll cook it."

I just need a little space to re-center myself.  And we do need food. 

I totally have a secret Poptart I plan to eat. I have one for him too. 

I’m tempted not to give it to him for being grumpy… even though I know I will.  

I pull out the harness and shoe clips I’ll need for the next vertical climb. The last thing I need right now is an audience of one.

"Seriously, I've got this, why don't you go beat something over the head with a club and drag it back?" 

He stares at me for another long moment, then grabs his bow and just walks away, a bit more stomp in his step then his usual gait.

I take the opportunity to climb without the distraction.

He returns just before dark. 

Not that I was worried. 

I poke the small fire I've built in the shallow bowl I dug shortly after he left—we can't risk the flames for long… A fire is a beacon to Walkers and humans.

I know which ones I’m more worried about.

He tosses three squirrels to the ground and sits down without comment. I scowl at the top of his head, but he doesn't look up from the flames, so the action is lost on him.  

I guess stoney silence is back.

I did say I'd cook it. How domestic. I snort, and his eyes shoot to mine for a second then drop again. 

I've eaten worse. I pick them up. Three clean headshots. 

I'm positive he's showing off. And it does not send a thrill through me… damnit.

They're also gutted already. Which I didn't expect—he’s already handled the worst part. And I appreciate it, on a bone deep level.

“Thank you,” I don’t elaborate—and he doesn't respond.

I don't like burying animal guts anywhere near where we will be sleeping. 

The roaming Dead could find them in the middle of the night. Raised tent or not– Nothing gives you vivid nightmares quite like something ripping open flesh within earshot while you try to sleep. 

Like trying to sleep next to a pride of lions. Every instinct tells you to run, hard.

The memories send a shiver rolling down my spine and I shudder trying to brush them off.

I take a nearby branch and quickly sharpen it with my knife, retrieving a flat silicone mat from my bag as a work surface. Squirrel is tough when you can't stew it, so the small pieces will make it easier to chew. 

Squirrel-shish-kabob, Culinary delicacy of the apocalypse! 

Eat your heart out Alton Brown! Wherever you are…or maybe not, since he might be one of the dead ambling around that would take that literally…There’s a sobering thought.

It cooks fast. The water I set to boil earlier is ready too.

I set the water aside to cool. Keeping it far enough out of reach that it shouldn’t accidentally be knocked over.  I need it to refill the canvas water bags we’ll need to drink tomorrow. 

Just because the creek water is moving doesn't mean it's safe to drink. Out here a simple stomach bug could kill. 

Dehydration itself is no joke—but it's impossible to fight off anything trying to snack on you when you're puking your guts up so hard you can't see straight, or worse the other end. 

Some ailments were awful enough without medicine you’d just curl into a ball and pray for death to arrive swiftly. No, thank you.

He watches me while I eat.  While I warm my hands, and while we sit waiting for the pot to cool, he doesn't say another word.  

Just sitting like a silent sentry. A grumpy one, occasionally lifting his head to look around—keeping an eye out for the dead, but not meeting my eyes. 

Eventually the water is cool enough that I can handle it without burning myself or damaging the containers. 

When I’m finished I pack everything back into my bag before using the fire light and the pulley rope system to lift my bag up high into the air.  There shouldn’t be any bears out here. But raccoons? Tiny, curious terrorists with thumbs. 

I loop the rope around a trunk the same way I did when I hefted Carl into the air.  

I guess he was waiting for me to be ready, because he stands up without a word and kicks dirt onto the fire. Smothering its warmth and our only light in a few moments. Drifting wood smoke fills my nose in the darkness. My eyes struggle to adjust. There is almost no light under the heavy cover of trees and vines now that the sun has set and the fire is gone.

It’s easy to forget how dark night actually is. Out in the woods with my cousins on camping trips during the summer it always shocked me the first few nights back in the wilderness, no longer tucked into my parent’s suburban neighborhood the world was wild and mysterious. No ambient street lights or buildings–even at a distance to artificially light the world. 

Just the moon and stars, a campfire or a flashlight. 

And darkness so deep your eyes could easily play tricks on you. It could contain anything—including monsters, if you let your imagination run away with you–only now the monsters were very real, and hungry.

I put my hands on the rope ladder that hangs from the tent's opening barely able to make it out. I've done this so many times it's second nature to climb the rungs in the dark mostly by feel. 

I can tell it's awkward for him, but he follows me without a word. Maybe he got them all out earlier— Or maybe the prospect of sitting alone in the dark with nothing at his back but a tree isn’t appealing.

The good thing about using four tie down anchors for the tent is it barely shifts, even with both our weight. Which I did on purpose. 

I’m not trying to torture him. Despite his griping. 

I’m trying to keep his ass alive. 

I also get that he maybe has a thing with heights. The sides are shallow, but secure. With the canvas roof like a peaked big top circus tent and the head end zipped closed completely, its triangular inner shape is almost identical to a two person tent on the ground. 

It’s hard to even tell we’re not on the ground–other than the very slight give to the floor and slight sway. 

You can’t tell visually in here, not easily, at least.  All the base clips securing the walls leave only a very narrow crack; if it was lighter I'd be able to see just a sliver of the ground, but only if I looked at the right angle.

I don't worry about tipping out or falling—which is about as probable as falling out of a tent on the ground, but I've been sleeping in a tent like this for years .  

I loved camping. I hated sleeping on the ground. Even as a kid we carried hammocks when we went backpacking.

I can tell by the braced posture of his outline even in the dark that he's still not convinced. He scoots past me, inching across the surface like it might give way at any second—even though it barely moves.

I pull the ladder up, securing it with ties to the side. No human who passes will find it stumbling in the dark. Even if someone came to investigate our fire, they’d likely move on and miss us completely. 

I don't know many people who walk through the woods looking up these days. The dead don't fly. People focus on the most pressing danger.

I pull the flap from the roof down and secure that too with both the zipper and clips before pulling my boots off and hanging them off the ropes securing the roof.

Daryl watches me, then pulls his off as well. I reach out a hand silently in the dark and he hands them over to me. Our fingers brush for half a second—barely anything—but my brain logs it like a warning flare. 

"Not a lot of room." He sounds… wait, nervous?

Walkers don't bother him. He's been either calm, almost bored or irritated all day. But sitting in a tent with a girl in the dark makes him… uncomfortable?

Interesting . 

I'm not sure if he's being a gentleman, or if he thinks I might stab him in his sleep.

"Do you kick in your sleep?" I ask conversationally. I can't make out his face in the dark but he sits very still for over a minute before he answers.

"No…but I…I haven’t slept next to anybody in…a while."

I wasn’t expecting that . Not from him. Not from Mr. Stonewall . Something about that small truth slips under my skin. 

"Worried you'll snore?"

He shifts around a bit. I wait.

"Somethin’ like that."

"Well, if you do I'll shove you out." I’m going for a joke but he says nothing. I sigh. This seriously freaks him out. The tent–or me, I have no idea which, maybe both?   

“Daryl. I’m not going to stab you in your sleep, and we’re not going to fall. I promise.”

This is the most verbal he's been without arguing since I found him helping Carl out of the tree, and planning with Rick. Even around Family he rarely speaks unless it’s direct—necessary. The man doesn’t waste words.

It feels like I should extend another olive branch.  Whether he’s ready to accept it or not. I’m also a little nervous myself, I realize, noting the jittery feeling in my tummy suddenly, before taking another slow deep breath. 

“Both of those things would go very against my goal to keep you alive, so relax.”

He doesn’t relax.

I move closer to him in the dark—because that’s where the top of the sleeping bag is, and I can still feel him tense and shift away despite the fact that moving up here clearly unnerves him.

I can still barely make out his outline as my eyes struggle to adjust. I can’t read his expression, but he also can’t read mine.

"Feet down there.  Heads at this end." I explain, voice flat and utilitarian as I shift myself over. “This is my side, and that’s your side, easy.” 

He says nothing.

"If you hear something in the night, tap me three times on the shoulder. Like this."  I reach out and give him a gentle tap. There’s zero reason for me to touch him—but I do it anyway. Reach without thinking.

His shoulder is so tense beneath my fingertips you'd think I was stabbing him.

Still, no response. Not even a breath.

I can’t tell if I’m hurting or helping at this point.  

“Daryl, just lay down. You’ll feel more stable laying flat, just, trust me .”

I lay down facing away from him. Trying to give him space even in the tight confines of the tent. 

There are two sleeping bags but we’re using them as one; it's less claustrophobic to sleep on one and use the second as a blanket.  Plus, the bags aren’t that thick and there is a definite chill to the air.  It’s been getting worse with the sun down. 

If the temperature drops too low at night, sharing body heat might be the only thing that keeps us alive.

And I have no way to know if that’s going to happen.

Sometimes it’s the little things you miss most—like weather forecasts. Funny. I never even thought about them until they were gone.

That, and Google. God, I miss Google. 

I’ve had so many questions since the world fell apart.

Still have them.  

I shift lower, curling part of the bag down into a sort-of-pillow between my arm and the soft fabric, pulling the blanket up over my side and feel him lay down finally behind me. 

After a few long moments he shifts again.  

I can feel his back against mine. Not intentional—kind of hard to avoid in such a small space. And maybe it helps him feel more grounded, safer away from what he perceives as the edge in the darkness.

Unfortunately, the contact only heightens everything. He’s too warm. Too solid. I try not to think about it. Try not to notice the quiet thud of my pulse climbing into my throat.

I close my eyes. Try to let it go. Try not to think about all the things I miss from my old life.

Weariness and nerves leave me teetering on the edge of sleep. Exhaustion drags at me, but my nerves keep twitching. I start to slip under—then jolt, blinking myself awake again.

A beat of panic. 

Then the reminder: I’m safe, nothing can reach me here.

Eventually, that thought wins. And I fall, at last, into a dreamless, heavy sleep.

Dawn finds my eyelids what feels like mere seconds later, but I know it’s been much longer than that. 

This isn’t the soft pre-dawn light I usually wake to while camping. It’s too bright. Too late.

I burrow under the blanket, tempted to pretend it’s still night. There’s warmth against my back, a reassuring weight around my waist—and a heartbeat that isn't mine. Heat rolls through my shirt and into my body—steady, solid, alive. Like curling into a blanket fresh from the dryer. 

I could fall asleep again, easy. 

It sounds much more appealing than whatever I had planned today… I've never been a morning person. Not grumpy—it just takes me a minute to fully wake up. 

I always envied my college roommate who could spring from bed like she'd already had two cups of coffee... 

Coffee, I miss coffee.

Someone’s body shifts against me. 

Alarm rushes through me, head to toe. My heart lurches. Muscles lock.

I am instantly awake .

The warm weight of a hand, resting just under my ribs, pulls me closer to a heat I didn’t fully register until now... 

The surge of adrenaline does not help my brain function however. I freeze for what could be several crucial moments. Trying to remember what the fuck , and where . 

Any moment now…but there’s no attack. Just the same quiet stillness. I draw a deep breath.

Then another. Slowly lift the edge of the cover and peek at what my sleep-addled brain has already told me. 

Yes. Someone's arm IS wrapped around my waist. 

One long-fingered, bare, and deliciously muscled— very male arm. There’s a scent of woodsmoke, which could be from my sleeping bag…but not the hint of leather, and darker…something earthy tickling my nose. 

Bare arms. Leather and woodsmoke. Daryl … relief courses through me along with the most recent events. What I’m doing out here, and why . 

I relax just enough that my muscles won't start to cramp and try to calm my racing heart. 

No big deal. 

I'm just playing the little spoon to a grumpy bear. It's a small space. All my clothes are in the right place. 

I highly doubt he even knows what he’s doing.  And…it's actually really nice, if we ignore the fact that my vagina just registered a heartbeat.

Fuck.

Maybe that’s why he cuts the sleeves off everything—man radiates heat like a furnace. Leather and smoke and fire. No wonder he’s always scowling. He’s probably just overheating.

Unable to stall forever, I poke my head out of the blanket and blink in the early morning light. I was right, the cold has set in overnight. 

I can't see my breath as I exhale but it's a good bet by tomorrow night I will. We need to hurry and be done with this search; if we have another winter like last year; with the freezing rain and sleet things might get ugly even with the tent, very fast.

Despite my strong desire to forestall any awkward conversations...we need to move.  

Breaking camp takes time, and daylight’s already slipping away. I should have woken up earlier.  I flex my muscles ready to sit up and say his name to hopefully wake him, if he’s a heavy sleeper we’ll waste even more time. 

He’s pressed against me so tight I feel his breathing change. He slips his arm from me and pulls away like I’ve just threatened his life instead of softly saying his name.

"'M sorry." His face is flushed. He runs a hand through his hair.  Scrubbing his hands over his face, trying to wake up, but also not looking at me.

"Don't be." I'm already handing him his boots, which he takes automatically, still looking flustered.  

I'm determined to not let this be weird. I will, zen Friendly Cooperation into existence, or fucking try. 

"It's no big deal." …I get the feeling he is more embarrassed than I am. 

Somehow that calms my racing heart even more, assures me it wasn’t intentional or nefarious—a huge relief. Even if I liked it. 

"We need to move though, it's getting late"

"The temperature dropped last night." It’s an obvious statement–but it was conversational. Far less gruff than almost anything said yesterday, and I’ll take it. 

He’s shoving his feet into his worn work boots as I do the same, fixing my laces before opening the tent flap and dropping the ladder.

"Go ahead down, I'll pull the roof apart from up here, and we'll get out of here as fast as we can."

I'm already removing the clips as I say it. Working my way around undoing the clasps that hold everything securely together.  The same clips that would have prevented me from actually rolling Daryl out onto the ground if he did snore.

He doesn’t stand around idly while I take things apart.  He gets to work right away, lowering my pack and his from the tree once he’s back on the ground.  He takes the sleeping bags I’ve tightly rolled and secured and tossed down to him.

He immediately starts folding and rolling the tarp roof. 

He's a handy guy to have around, especially in a camping situation. He hasn’t asked me how to do any of it, because he was watching me yesterday set it up. 

I climb down and shimmy up the two trees to release the ropes. Daryl has already wound up the other ropes and stored them in my bag. 

I could get used to this…

He helps me collapse and fold the hammock tent rolling and securing its ties to the underside of my pack.

I hand him a pop tart from the front pocket of my bag as the last step before I stand up. He stares at it in my hand like I'm trying to offer him a severed head.

"How the...?"

You'd think I just pulled a rabbit out of his ear. I grin.

"I live in one of the largest big box stores in four counties. I have access to pallets of food.  Pop tarts last forever, and they're flat and easy to pack."  

And bonus, if you crushed them by accident they still tasted good.

He takes the wrapper slowly, "You always live there by yourself?"

I nod, zipping my pack closed. But I find it a strange question. There was no one else when we dropped off Rick and the kids. What did he expect? College students home from spring break?

"People will hurt you.” I shrug like it’s no big deal; but it is, it’s everything. “They either want what you have, or…you get killed trying to save them."  

Like I might do now, I don't add.

He doesn't respond at first, we eat as we walk for a few minutes. "What made you take a chance on us then?"  

There’s no hostility in the question. It's quiet and curious.  And…I’ve been wondering the same thing. I keep walking, looking down. Try to decide how to answer that.  Is there an answer?  Do I really think I can keep them safe? Keep myself safe? Is it because some days it was just so lonely that I’ve been questioning, what’s the point of going on?  

"The truth is…I have no idea. …You seem okay, but there’s that risk of me getting it wrong, which is…scary.” I admit. “The last group I was with, ended in disaster."

The kind of disaster where someone shoved a gun in my face; while everyone else ran the other direction screaming at the top of their lungs. 

I take a deep breath, getting the prickle at the back of my neck that tells me there’s at least one Walker nearby.  

"I'm hoping this time it will be better." I tell him.

Though I can't see how.

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

Seraphim

We've traveled most of the morning into early afternoon in complete silence. 

The only thing we’ve found is two dead—quickly dispatched by arrow. I’m just about to suggest we take a short break when we both hear it. 

A wail.

We know the sound immediately. 

It’s heart-stopping.

A baby.

We bolt through the trees, zero hesitation. As the sound gets louder, Daryl yells out, and I can only hope we’re not about to stumble on strangers in the woods and get shot.

"Maggie! Glenn! Michonne!" he calls as we run. 

Then—someone yells his name back, and a little of the dread eases off my spine.  

He's got longer legs than me; but I run a lot, so I'm just behind him as we reach the top of a hill and see them.

"Maggie!" Daryl takes off full-speed down the slope, somehow managing not to eat dirt. He runs straight to a tall brunette with short hair. She’s clutching a baby, bouncing and shushing and desperate, but the kid is still screaming her tiny lungs out. 

The other woman—the one with a sword, a real freaking sword— is watching me like a hawk as I approach them. I slow to a cautious jog—giving her more time to assess the potential threat. 

I just followed right on his heels out of the trees, but arriving with someone they know doesn’t guarantee their trust. 

"Where's Beth? Have you seen her? Glenn, have you seen Glenn?" The first woman blurts out. She has to be Beth's older sister, same face, same build—and she’s seconds away from panic waiting for answers.

“Yeah, Beth’s fine. She’s safe.” Daryl’s already reaching for the baby. “Right now I’m more worried about this little lady right here.”

The baby stops screaming instantly.

Seriously? 

Redneck Rambo is also a freaking baby whisperer? 

My brain hurts.

“Glenn?” Maggie whispers it. Picking up on the fact that he didn’t elaborate after Beth. Daryl shakes his head, “Haven’t found him,”

She looks like she’s about to break.

Reaching his side I drop my pack to the grass and pull out the two things I stuffed in there back at the warehouse—before whatever witchcraft Daryl’s working wears off and the kid starts hollering again. 

I packed both when I realized there was a small possibility we might find the baby still alive. I pour water from my canvas into the new bottle, add the travel powder packet, careful not to spill the powdered gold, before carefully securing the top and shaking it vigorously. 

Once done, I hold it out to Daryl wordlessly with one hand, disposing of the trash foil package back in my bag with the other. He grabs it without a word while I put my bag back together. 

Maggie and the sword lady stare at us in silence as we move, eyes moving back and forth between us. I’m not sure if they’re worried the baby will start screaming again–or if they’re weirded out by meeting someone new they didn’t expect–someone with travel packets of baby formula and a bottle in her bag.

The woman with the sword finally slides it back into its sheath, but she's still just staring at me. Hasn't said a word since we showed up.  

She and Daryl must get on like peas and carrots.

"Fin, this is Maggie—Beth's older sister." He doesn't look up from the kid in his arms, now devouring the bottle of formula. "And this is Michonne." He nods his head towards the samurai chick.

"Nice sword."

She finally grins. “Nice bow.”

"And this badass is little AssKicker." He says it like it’s normal and not completely unexpected that he grabbed the baby before anything else. Crossbow, flannel, Witty…and now apparently part-time nanny. Unbelievable. I hope they didn't let him actually name her that.

"What about Tyreese, or Sasha, Bob? Anyone else?" Maggie is talking a mile a minute again. Obviously worried for the rest of the group. She has the same sweet face as her sister; but it's more guarded.  

Michonne’s mostly quiet. Until she asks, low and steady, “Did Rick and Carl make it?” after Daryl shakes his head to answer Maggie—who rushes on.

"We went to the meeting spot but no one was there. We found the bus, but…after that we’ve been trying to find anything that could pass as baby food. But we had to get off the highway into the woods before this huge herd moved in. We thought maybe the coast—”

“Rick and Carl were with Fin when I found them,” Daryl cuts in answering Michonne.

“Who found who?” I ask, and Daryl shoots me a glare with a quick. “Hush.” 

Michonne's eyes flick between us. 

"Beth's with them, helping take care of Rick. The governor did a shit job on him."

“Is he…?” 

“He’s gonna live. Fin made sure. But he can’t travel.” Daryl reassures her and she exhales in a rush and nods before offering me a quick, thank you. 

Which feels weird, so I nod in response and move past it.

“We left a car back there. It’s got enough gas to get you to the warehouse. Daryl can show you the way.”

"Hold up.” Daryl scowls. “The Hell you mean? You're not staying here alone." He’s arguing. While burping a baby.

What even is my life right now?

I shake my head. “I live here,” I remind him. “I know the area—and they have a baby . That’s more important.”

They have no idea just how important obviously…

"What about the others? They don't know you. You won’t recognize them, Daryl should go with you." Maggie's got her hands full with a baby, in the middle of the woods with hungry dead things stumbling around, and she's turning down extra help!

"No one should be out here alone." She adds.  I guess Daryl isn’t the only one with a cramp in his ass about that…Apparently it’s contagious, this bossy streak.

“Then Daryl takes Maggie and the baby, and I hang out with the samurai.”

The answer is Logical . She’s armed with a silent weapon, even if it’s close range.

“The Samurai don't track.” He growls out voice low—glaring down at me with a heat that could sear bark off a tree… and…I did not realize I was standing this close to him. 

Very close. 

Too close.  

I can’t step back now. My stomach does a few barrel rolls I try to ignore, and hope to God aren’t obvious on my face.

I open my mouth to protest—but he just shakes his head and growls “No.”

I want to get really angry at him, yell…but he’s holding a baby.  In the woods.  

So we keep glaring at each other—even if I have to tilt my head back to do it,fuck how have I not noticed how he dwarfs me with his height, those wide shoulders. I ignore the catch in my breath.

Nobody says a word. Not Michonne. Not Maggie. Maybe they’re not even standing there anymore.

 …and I can’t seem to look away…one of us has to look away. 

The baby burps. 

Breaking the connection…that was heated by something other than anger…something that I am totally and completely unprepared to handle.  

I drop my chin to my chest. Heat flushing my cheeks and let out a sound of sheer frustration. And confusion and just… everything swirling around and tangled up inside me.

"Fine.” I drop my bag to the ground again to get the items they’ll need.  Not looking up. I just need a few moments for the pink flush to leave my cheeks, if that’s even possible right now. 

“I'll give you the map and my watch; it's got a compass so you should be able to follow it back to the warehouse."

I quickly explain to Michonne and Maggie how to get back to the road, and the car; and where to go from there. I'm reasonably confident they can get back. Even if they miss the car and have to walk, the town is empty, I make sure of it.  I also need to get Maggie's hands baby-free before they go, just in case she needs to defend herself.

I take the sleeping bag from my pack and open it to cut a long strip from it while Daryl watches. I give Maggie my fleece to wrap around the baby, and use the long strip to tie the baby—whose real name is Judith, to her back. 

At least now she can carry one of my machetes in her free hand. It only makes me feel marginally better about the situation.  All four of us going back is just ridiculous though, it would waste too much time that someone else out here might not have left. 

I help her tuck the baby bottle refilled with water into the make-shift baby carrier strap, and the small travel packets of baby formula go into her pockets. 

Michonne takes one of the water bags from me. I hand her my compass watch. Both Maggie and Michonne have turned down Daryl's fleece when offered, so he stuffs it back into his bag. 

I’m a little shocked he hasn't ripped the sleeves off of it.

Maggie gives him a tight hug. He looks like he’d rather wrestle a Walker. 

Michonne gives us a nod. “Good luck. Stay safe.” Nodding to me and they leave us.

I watch them disappear through the trees with a knot in my gut. Daryl should’ve gone. Not just to protect them—but because us , together? 

That’s a whole different kind of danger. 

"Michonne's a badass,” He tells me when my feet haven’t moved. “An’ Maggie's strong. They'll be okay."

I’m trying to believe it. 

Because we’ve got miles to go, and this just got personal. Maggie and Michonne waited at the meeting spot for two days . No one else came.

That means if there are any other survivors, they’re lost in the woods now—or worse.

I flash back to Carl's fingers tracing over the routes from the prison to their planned meeting spot. It was so close to the Peacocks home.

Too close.

I'm starting to suspect their missing friends were intercepted on the road—accepted the hospitality of the family farm.

The thought makes my skin crawl.

Here’s something you might not realize:

Wandering around for hours looking for signs of life that isn’t trying to eat you? It gets real tedious. Fast. 

It’s slow, frustrating, and after a while, it starts to feel a little hopeless. 

Daryl's hardly a Chatty Cathy. If he had a word quota for the day, he used it up hours ago.  

We've been canvassing the woods, sweeping in slow, zig-zagging patterns, searching the ground for any hint of tracks. Yesterday, we kept looping close to one another—today? I haven’t been within a hundred feet of him since morning.

Maybe he’s avoiding me…or maybe he’s just focused on the task at hand.

Which would make one of us.

The fact that we managed to run into Michonne and Maggie out here is likely to be the rare exception, and not what we should expect. We got very, very lucky. If Judith hadn’t been crying we could have missed each other completely.

And when Daryl located Carl it was because I’d been making a shit ton of noise with my whistle–the sound got his attention. 

Which has kind of given me an idea. A potentially dangerous idea. 

I think we’re still far enough away from the Peacock’s farm to risk it...and hopefully nowhere near that horde of Walkers they mentioned since I can’t feel it. I’m pretty sure I can steer us clear of the later threat if I need to—without Daryl realizing it.

I pull my whistle out of my bag and glance through the trees. 

I've lost sight of him again, Well. This’ll get his attention.

Or piss him off. Probably both .

I raise the whistle to my lips and let out a single loud piercing blast. 

If there’s anyone in a two mile radius of our location they’ll hear it, and maybe call out. I pause. Listening and waiting.  

Another blast. 

And startle as a hard body all but slams full contact into my back. An arm locks around my waist, the other hand yanking the whistle from my mouth with the rope necklace attached to it. 

“–What the fuck!?”

“--Hell are you doing!?”

We both bark at the same time. 

Oh look, Found him!  

“You get lost?” He asks, his voice low and way too close to my ear. That rough , familiar drawl slinks down my spine like warm smoke and sets my stomach to flipping. My breath abandons me in a rush at the sudden intensity. 

He’s shaking with something hot and intense. Adrenaline or anger—And oh shit. A soft, startled sound climbs up my throat. Every muscle pressed against my back tenses. He sucks in a breath right against my ear. My insides go liquid. The rush of heat nearly takes out my knees.

He’s gone just as fast. Before I can retort. React, process what the fuck that was …his hands falling away like they were never there. 

I whirl around expecting to see rage on his face. 

He doesn’t look happy–but that heat in his eyes— I’m not sure its anger. I swallow.

His hands clench at his sides, flexing like he’s fighting an unbearable urge to grab something, probably a weapon. Jaw tight. Eyes flashing a warning like he’s fighting something neither of us dare name. 

And fuck me, I’m feeling something fierce and it’s definitely not fear…

I take an unsteady step back and he curses under his breath, turns, shifting his feet so we’re not squaring off like we’re about to attack each other.

He’s more focused on watching the surrounding trees now, since I’ve just announced our location. Not seeing anything moving he turns his attention back to me.  

And there’s the heat I was expecting, tempered now. Controlled. 

When I explain my plan he doesn’t look any happier.  But he nods a grudging consent after a few tense moments.  

He also refuses to move more than a few feet from me.  We walk, I use the whistle and we listen, and then we walk again–still searching the ground for signs of people.

Maybe an hour later, after he successfully shot down two old and slowly ambling Walkers drawn by the sound he takes the whistle out of my hands and shoves it into his pocket.

Possessive much? I say nothing. My pulse is still trying to decide if it wants to calm down—or combust.

He gestures for us to keep moving.

I expect him to wander farther away again once we start moving, but after he retrieves both arrows he stays plastered to my side the rest of the afternoon, casting his eyes around us frequently and looking tense.

We keep searching, once again in silence.

Dusk is soon settling around us and the air is already noticeably cooler. I spare a thought for Maggie and Michonne and the baby and hope they are okay. If they found the car we left, moving in their more direct line they should be back with the others tonight. I hope they made it. I'm going to have to figure out something to make the top two levels 'baby safe' when I get back. 

That will be an interesting challenge.

I stop looking around for signs of the dead or people, and start looking up at the trees. I soon find three trees the right heights, age and distance apart. I tell Daryl to stop. He does without question setting his pack down and gathering wood to work with. He's already got a small fire going while I prep the tent for going up. None of the snarky comments from yesterday, just silence.

"I'll be back." He leaves with his bow without waiting for a response. It's so strange to see him be so relaxed with a baby that would terrify most grown men, and so awkward with everyone else.

Daryl returns well after dark. I have long since finished the tent, boiled the water, and used a damp hot cloth to wipe down my face, arms and legs. I even changed into fresh clothes while he was gone and hand washed the others. I am itching to put out the fire so no one sees it in the dark. 

Daryl steps into the firelight, sets down his crossbow, and drops across from me without a word. He's got a small brown grey rabbit in one hand, pulls out his serrated knife and starts working on it.

"I was thinking-’bout tomorrow." He pauses, concentrating on what he's doing for a moment. "-think we can make it to that bridge early enough to search at least one side of the road for anyone stuck out there."

“It's not a bad idea.” We’re back to talking normally again, okay. I pour the now cooled water into the first canvas water skin. He looks up from his hands to watch me.

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

"I assume you don't mean pour water." I grin at him while he frowns. Then I pick up the next canvas. "My uncle had three boys, two of them older than me but not by much, and one that could have been my twin. They spent most of their time running wild, hunting and camping because their Dad was into all the outdoor stuff.”  My voice has grown quieter. 

“I spent every summer there as a kid—used to drive my cousins crazy, the ‘stupid girl’ always tagging along.” I grin at the memory. They acted like they hated it, but we were all thick as thieves as soon as the summer started every year. "…until I grew a pair of boobs and could give them tips on how to get a date." I try to joke.

He's just staring at me again, making me feel strangely self-conscious.

"Anyways, my Uncle would send us out into the woods with bare essentials and we'd have a competition to see who could stay out the longest without coming back. He was a pretty big survival enthusiast.” I stop talking to watch him for a moment.   “What about you?"

He's putting the rabbit on two sticks, positioning them near the flames. "It was rough growing up, sometimes it was hunt, or don’t eat. I had my brother when he wasn't in juvie. Then I was on my own out there. Learned the hard way."

"I'm sorry." 

He just shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a wound he’s still carrying.

We sit quietly for a while. Eventually he hands me one of the sticks, and I take my time pulling hot pieces of rabbit off of it. "This is amazing. Thank you." 

We finish eating and stand to put out the fire together this time. I help him kick dirt onto the logs, making sure it’s completely out. 

"We should sleep."

I go up the ladder first. The tent sways a bit more than yesterday with the wind having picked up. But it's still sturdy. 

I’ve already taken off my boots and hung them from the overhead rope beneath the canopy by the time Daryl joins me. He doesn’t say anything—just slides past me like yesterday and hangs his boots next to mine. I pull off my belt harness and hang it too. Sleeping on it last night wasn’t ideal—it kept digging into my hip.

I pull up the rope ladder, secure it in place, and fix the tent flap closed. Then I crawl across to the far side, ready to sleep.

A gust of wind hits, harder this time—enough to sway the tent gently. Daryl is mid-shuffle, scooting over to make more space between us. The motion combined with the wind must’ve felt like tipping because he suddenly reaches out in the dark, grabbing hold of me. 

To steady me?

...or himself?  

I’m not sure. The loose hem of my shirt–no longer pinned flush against my sides by my harness bunches over his wrist, his palm landing directly against my skin. Warm fingers curl reflexively over the bare curve of my waist.  We both freeze. 

Silence stretches.

"We're not going to fall." I whisper.

Why am I whispering?

He lets go suddenly, his hand retreating. But I can still feel it—like a phantom imprint burned into my skin. 

I exhale slowly and crawl the rest of the way across, forcing myself to focus. We need sleep. 

I pull the blanket up on my side. He does the same, facing away from me, just like last night.

I close my eyes and try to ignore the nervous, squirmy, half-giddy feeling crawling through my stomach. It was just a touch. An accident. It didn’t mean anything.

I lie still, listening to the wind whisper through the trees—
and eventually, I sleep.

It’s warm. Too warm. Like sinking into a bath that won’t cool, soft and slow and deep, and every inch of me is humming.

The heat presses against me. Simmering under tingling skin. Soaking in, melting right down to the bone. Strong arms are wrapped around me. 

Fingers trail down my side, dip under my layers, kneading the muscles and the soft skin of my middle. 

Trace the dip from my hipbone up to my waist, before ghosting up over my ribs, cup me again. 

A mouth presses to the curve of my neck. 

Warm breath and slow kisses press a trail up then lazily back down. Fingers tug what feels like a loose sleep shirt down one side, exposing more skin. 

Nipping at my shoulder. A sharp sting, and a hot mouth to chase the ache, a gasp rocking my body back, encouraging the sensations. 

Fire pulses through my belly fluttering down every limb. A strangled gasp escapes from my lips.  

I stop thinking about how, or who, or why; too caught up in the sensations coursing through every inch of my body. I forget all my objections. Stop questioning the world around me and how unlikely this scenario is, because it feels so damn good. 

I don’t want to question it. 

I just want to feel it.  

"Please, please ." 

I'm thrashing.  

Begging. 

I can't get what I want...and it’s maddening . 

I'm nothing but raw nerves and spiraling heat, desire driving every impulse in my trembling body. 

A sound somewhere between a sob and a moan claws out of my throat as I press back against him. 

I need more.

…and I know what this is…I’m dreaming. It's the only explanation that makes sense because this would never happen. 

Not to me. 

My body is too reactive. Everything is too intense, and it makes no sense because I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be with…here in the dark, 

but it happens like that sometimes, 

like when I’m in the middle of a really good book.

“This isn't real…” I whisper the words on a shaky breath. Toss them out into the universe like a desperate plea, though a plea for what? I’m not sure.

It probably should wake me from its grip. Most people wake when they realize it’s a dream, right? 

But it simply frees me. 

I pull my leg up and rock back and feel his arm coil around me in an iron grip. You couldn’t fit a breath between us. He's so close. Fire licks through my veins 

I buck and thrash and nearly come undone.

Oh God.

"Fuck, girl I'm going to come." 

The words—the accent—the scent of woodsmoke, leather, pine and earth—slam into me like a bucket of ice water. 

I freeze in absolute shock a strangled scream halfway out my throat. Did this just become…a…nightmare? 

My brain explodes in total shock, stuttering, skipping, unable to process…

But it’s not horror that spirals out through my limbs with his next thrust. It’s absolute desperation.  Not just for this…for Him .  

I tangle my fingers in his hair and our mouths crash together. It’s gasoline on the forest fire roaring through me, I’m so, so, close… 

His name slips past my lips in a plea, a whimper…

"Fuck! Fin, Wake Up!" Someone is roaring at me.

My eyes snap open in complete disorientation. Someone is holding me…and shaking me? 

Where the fuck am I?  

I blink my eyes staring around for orientation…but it’s too dark to see anything. My whole body is instantly on alert, trying to ascertain what woke me; from what must have been sleep…and… it suddenly hits me. What just happened. 

The burning ache low in my belly.  My erratic heartbeat, not just from the jolt of fear–it’s more.  Desire heats my blood.  Need burns through my still empty body, throbbing with each heartbeat. 

A dream. 

It was just a fucking dream… and not some nameless person or character from a book. 

It was Daryl. 

Fuck. Whyl?! 

Curse my brain showing me things that I so desperately want, with someone I can never have.  

Reality creeps in, bringing guilt and mortification.

"I'm sorry… I'm sorry…" I twist trying to get my elbow underneath me to pull away from him.   

I need to escape. Run away from this feeling—but he doesn’t let go. I pull, but his grip becomes steel. Hauling me back flush with his chest. My breath rushes out in a quick burst of shock.

“Quit.” He barks it low against the back of my neck, and my whole body trembles. His vice grip on my waist is a cruel echo of the one in my dream. 

Let go, please… 

“Your safe,”

I take in a shaky breath. Biting back a sob of frustration. Trying to hide behind my hands, even in the dark.  This doesn’t feel safe, not for my heart at least.

“Just breathe,” 

I nod my head. Trying to calm my unsteady breathing while I wait for my racing heart to slow. Trying to ignore the slick throb between my legs that won't be getting any relief. The way my nipples press into the soft material of my camisole. 

I try to pull away again, but he doesn’t let go.

“Fin, Do you know where you are? We’re 20 feet in the air. Quit thrashing before you hurt yourself.”

Right, right. The tent. The one he hates…I nod my head.

"The Hell kind of nightmare was that?" He growls it, arms tightening again when I thrash to move away from him.

I let out a choked laugh. It was the absolute worst kind. 

God it felt so real.. . 

And the way he’s pressed flush up against me, the heat radiating off his skin…I could close my eyes and squeeze my core in the same rhythm of the imaginary thrusts in my dream and probably come right here.  

I'm so fucking close.

Daryl needs to get his hands off me, before it's me, ripping off his pants.

I start to move away again. convinced I’m composed enough now, but he tightens his hold—pulls me back. This time I land lower. Too low. 

 Too much.

I know exactly what I’ve just pressed against. 

Daryl is hard as a rock—all of him. 

His breath hisses out while I freeze like a startled doe. He curses softly and shifts us. Like I weigh nothing. Both his arms draw me higher against his chest; away from the evidence of him also being turned on.  

Like I wouldn’t notice in the few seconds I could feel him pressed against my back—like my entire belly didn’t just tighten and my nipples harden to tight peaks.  

My body is screaming at me to turn around and… Stop it.

So, not good. I should make him sleep outside tomorrow. Yeah Right . My brain chastises, that’s never going to happen.

"Fin," 

His breath is right in my ear. My whole body shudders in response. I should not still feel like this… it was a dream, just a dream … 

He says my name again when I don’t answer, and I’m positive—even in the dark—he can hear my heartbeat crashing against my ribs. Feel the heat pouring off my skin like steam.

"What?" I croak out, and God—I even sound like I've been fucking. Jesus, I need to get a grip. I swallow, try to clear my throat; my face flushing what must be cherry tomato shades of red.

" What. the. Hell. was. That?! " He hisses.

Like he doesn't know.  

I'm not going to say it! But then…

Ohmygod.  

Maybe he doesn't know? Is that even possible? 

I almost snort, teetering on the brink of hysterics.  How can a man that fucking gorgeous be so utterly clueless?

"Fin," His grip loosens—but it’s so he can push up onto his elbow. Practically hovering over me now as I roll half onto my back, still panting to catch my breath. 

Damnit. So not helping.  

Whatever fragile corner of my brain was still firing just packed up and headed south to throw a rave in my pants…

I could reach up and kiss him. 

It would be so easy. Curl my fingers around the back of his neck and bring his lips to mine…I could just run my tongue over that bottom lip I can’t stop thinking about. Suck his earlobe between my teeth; wrap my leg around his hip and pull him down and into me. Gasp his name, 

"Um," 

My brilliant mind has formed a word, ladies and gentlemen!  

"Nightmare." I finally gasp on the second try.

"I thought you were going to thrash right out the damn tent, making that much noise could draw walkers."

Oh God. 

Thank you for the darkness.  

I groan. Maybe by sunrise I'll be a color other than beat red. It's hard to focus on anything but how fucking badly I simply want .  

But what I need to do to get this back under control. Fast. I need to get myself back under control because this is reality, and he barely wants anything to do with me…

" Really , vivid nightmare" I emphasize a little breathless still.

"The fuck did I do to you?"

" What? !" I squeak.  OhMyGod! I can just die now.

"You said my name, again." and I can hear the frown in his voice, even in the dark. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. "I …" I trail off at a complete loss. 

What can I say to that? 

Sorry, Daryl—but you were absolutely wrecking me in that dream. Maddeningly good. Didn’t mean to enjoy it that much… except I did. A lot.  

And promptly die of humiliation. May the earth just swallow me whole now please.

Wait. What does he mean Again?!  

Nope, I am sooo not diving into that thought right now.

I swallow. "It wasn’t real,” I managed to whisper. 

He's still hovering over me in the dark. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he adds quietly. I can just barely make out the vaguest outline against the true pitch black of night around us. 

I bite my lip and tighten my hands into fists letting my fingernails bite half-moons into the skin of my palms so I don’t do something incredibly stupid like actually reach up and touch his face.

“I don't…really want to talk about it. I'm sorry ."

"Fine, quit thrashing around at least." His blunt words and dismissal help end the fantasy with stark reality.

“Right, sorry.” 

He rolls away from me and I lay there aching in intimate places for far too long before falling back asleep.

Thankfully, without dreams.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

Seraphim

I woke early, enfolded in strong arms.  I lay still, trying to separate reality from the dream in my mind, blinking the world slowly into focus.

Daryl is wrapped around me like a coat, draped along my back. My head is tucked under his chin, each puff of breath stirring the short red-gold wisps of hair that have worked loose around my face from sleep and yesterday’s long hours.

Heat creeps up my cheeks, remembering what happened last night. 

I've had wild dreams before, that wasn’t new.

I spent a lot of free time reading romance novels, so it wasn’t at all shocking with the source material that occasionally my brain threw out something steamy.  

Those books were my primary form of entertainment—and, let’s be honest, social interaction—for close to two years.

What else could I do? I was isolated, not dead.  When everyone you meet eventually tries to kill you, or runs screaming away from you; it doesn't leave a lot of room for social interaction. 

My sex life was beyond dead.

Not that, uh… there’d been much of one to begin with.

God, that’s depressing.

I shift forward, trying to sit up.

He wakes the instant I move–or was already awake maybe, and just waiting for me to stir.  

Last night, he held me without hesitation, refused to let me go—too shaken by my reactions, what he believed to be the grip of a nightterror, to keep his distance. Too human to let me fall apart alone. 

But morning changes everything . The warmth of his body slips away far too quickly leaving me chilled for multiple reasons. A painful reminder of why I couldn’t simply reach for him last night.

Daylight, reality–always followed night.

The air feels colder this morning, again. A lifetime ago there would probably be a weather alert on my smartphone warning me of a ‘cold snap’ or ‘freezing risk’.  

I grab my boots silently from overhead, pulling them on, not saying a thing.

His quiet voice stops me. "It's no big deal, you know." 

I stop lacing my boots. Hands frozen, wondering if he wasn't that clueless after all.  

Maybe he’s just been biding his time. Waiting to kill me with embarrassment in the morning light—when he could enjoy the show.  

Heat flushes up my chest, crawls up my neck and into my cheeks. 

He keeps talking, thankfully not looking at me, focused on his own boots as he speaks. 

"Even I get nightmares. Hell, you should have heard Rick's after Lori died." 

He frowns suddenly, drawing a deep breath, like maybe he’s said more than he meant. Part of a story that isn’t his to tell.

I inhale and let it out slowly.

 Watch it curl into a puff of smoke like vapor before me on my exhale. 

I shake my head.  "Let's just get going," 

and stay the heck off this topic of conversation.

We need to move.

The faster we’re done with this, the sooner I can bury my face in a book and avoid him as aggressively as humanly possible until either my brain or my body stops pulling this particular brand of psychological terrorism.

Maybe if I didn’t have to sleep two inches from him—if my body wasn’t automatically drawn to his heat in the dark—I could finally relax.

Maybe if he weren’t always so warm. So solid. So there.. .

Maybe if I weren’t this broken and touch-starved and clinging to things I can’t have…

He helps me pack everything up—quickly, efficiently, like always.

And thank God, he doesn’t say a word.

His usual silence, cold and steady, is a gift this morning. 

Because the last thing I want to do is talk about it.

We’ve walked up and down the stretch of highway both East and West of the creek bridge for most of the day, and found nothing. No sign of humans, barely any walkers. It’s like everything else has the sense to hunker down and avoid what’s coming. 

I'm so tired, the kind of tired that sinks into your bones and stays there. And I'm cold— truly cold—not just chilled, but hollowed out by it. The kind of cold that started this morning as a mild discomfort but it’s been gnawing its way deeper ever since. I'm still wearing long sleeves, and I guess I’m layered—if you count a camisole—but it’s not enough. Hunger and too many hours on my feet have stripped away whatever warmth I had left. All I can think about is being warm again. Just warm.

The wind has picked up, shifting the trees with a rippling force like an ocean wave—knocking loose leaves and dead branches. The leaves spiral downward like ash from a dying fire, a slow-motion parody of what’s to come. The branches—depending on their size—could actually be dangerous.

The gales whip my hair around my face, too many strands having worked loose over the past two days. I shove them back behind my ears with sharp, irritated movements.

The air feels heavy against my skin. It smells like rain. The sky is dull and grey—lifeless at first glance; but like the dead, far from it. Overhead, the clouds churn, boiling and tumbling in fast-moving, tangled currents like a flash flood river. In summer, it would signal the approach of a heavy storm. Inconvenient, but a mild threat.  

But now? It speaks to something far worse. The sharpness in the air warns me we’re in for more than just rain once the sun drops and the temperature follows.

This is what I’ve been dreading since the planning began. Cold rain in cool air is bad enough. Most people don’t realize you can slip into hypothermia at temperatures well above freezing–the cold doesn’t have to be quick to kill you. Wet clothes. An hour or two of exposure. No shelter.  No way to change or warm up... it doesn’t take long before things start to go very wrong.

I doubt we’d have even that long out here.

I glance around to see if he’s noticed the change—and…he’s gone.
He’s been in sight nearly all day, never straying more than twenty feet. But now…I frown.

“Daryl!”

I have to shout, but the sound is whisked away—swallowed whole by the hungry wind. No response.

I spin, scanning the stretch of empty road in both directions. Nothing. He’s just—gone.

Great.  

Hell of a time to lose him.

We’re too close to the Peacock farm—just a few miles north.  I shove down the dread bubbling in my stomach and head off the road, into the woods. I find the last place I saw him and move from there, bow off my shoulder in an instant, arrow nocked. Just in case.

It takes me five tense minutes to locate his trail. At least it’s moving away from the farm.

When I finally find him—down a crease in the bank near the water—he’s crouched low, oblivious to my rising alarm, intent on whatever he’s found.

Tracks in the mud. Footprints. Dead or living, I can’t tell from here.

He looks up and sees me—bow in hand—and jolts to his feet, raising his own. Eyes wary, scanning the treeline.

"What is it? What's wrong?" He climbs the rise, boots slipping on the soft ground.

"I couldn't find you."

He freezes, stares down at me like I’ve uttered words in some foreign tongue he doesn’t understand.  

The wind howls through again, shoving into me and my heavy pack hard enough to stagger. 

Daryl steps into me, one hand bracing my arm, steadying me. He leans in close to be heard over the roaring wind in my ears.

"‘Bout to get ugly."

I was thinking the same thing. I nod, hoping there’s still time to get the tent up. 

He leaves my side again, hopping back down the small drop in the bank toward the river, slinging his bow over one shoulder. He crouches by the same bush as before and plucks a handful of red berries.

 He holds them up. “Sumac.”

I only hear him because—for once—the wind isn’t tearing at my clothes.

I move closer, take a handful, roll one on my tongue.
Yup. Sumac.

“I’m going to find some cover. Away from the water.”
I have to raise my voice just enough to cut through the rising wind.

He nods, already focused on his task. I turn away, purposeful. We’ll need solid ground between us and the river. If the rain comes down with the force it’s threatening—especially over a wide area—flooding could be a serious risk. Worse, trees too close to the bank might give way, their roots torn loose in the saturated soil and battering wind.

I find a stretch of trees choked with half-dead kudzu vines and start pulling out gear to make camp. Daryl returns a few minutes later, carrying the berries wrapped in a handkerchief pulled from his back pocket. He hands me more while we work. They're sharp on my tongue and probably all we’ll have to eat tonight. It’s not much, but it’s something. There won’t be time to hunt later.

He helps me unroll the tent and clasp it together. Then he waits on the ground while I climb—not as high as yesterday. I want the kudzu above and around us, woven tight to break the wind and help conceal us.

Small drops of icy sleet slip through the branches as I work, scattered with the occasional heavy plunk of cold rain. I flex my fingers again and again to keep them from going numb. The bark scrapes my cold hands, making the climb harder than usual. I could use my fleece—but I’m not sorry I gave it to Judith. I can live with the cold.

I rush the job, maybe more than I should. My boot spike slips on the way down the second trunk—still a good eight feet from the ground. I lose balance. I'm falling—

Daryl’s there. He catches most of my weight, keeping me from cracking my head on the dirt.

“Careful,” he mutters, setting me on my feet.

His hands jerk back like he touched something too hot. He steps away fast, giving me more space than I need.

Maybe he’s afraid I’ll fall on him again.

“Right,” I say, a little too quickly. I step away too.

The icy rain speckles my cheeks and melts against my skin. I can see flecks of frozen sleet on my eyelashes. My hands are aching and red by the time I tighten the last tie.

I hope to God Maggie and Michonne aren’t out in this with the baby. If something went wrong… if they’re caught out in this weather…

They’ll freeze to death.
  Immunity won’t save Judith from the cold.

It’s raining for real now. Heavy, snow-chilled drops fall through the trees as we scramble into the tent—my half-empty pack still slung over one shoulder. There’s no time to hang it up properly. Getting wet in this weather isn’t just miserable—it’s dangerous.

Daryl follows close behind, moving with the determined urgency of someone who’s finally decided outside is worse. There’s less room than usual—I’ve set the roof low enough to overlap the tent base by several inches, trying to block out as much wind as possible.

It’ll keep the rain off. But it won’t hold in the heat.
And we can’t make a fire.

I use the hooks from my pack to secure both our bags to the ceiling rope at the foot of the tent. I’m just finishing, cinching the flap tightly shut, when the rhythm on the roof changes—from a soft tap, to something harder. Meaner.

“Just in time.”

I nod, glancing at him in the tight space. Daryl can barely sit without brushing the roof of the tent.

I dig into my pack and pull out the sleeping bags—I didn’t get a chance to lay them down before we both scrambled inside. He yanks off his boots, and we trade items in silence. I hang his, then mine, near the packs.

It's still light enough to see, but muted. The sun wouldn’t set for a few more hours on a normal day. The small world under our roof is grey washed with what little sun has made it through the dark clouds and the tarp roof above us.

Daryl unrolls the sleeping bag beneath him, lifting his hips to scoot it into place with that same faint awkwardness he always shows in the tent. He rolls it toward me.

I grab the other end, mirroring his movement, until we’re both seated on the soft lining, insulating us against the cold better than the thin tent. I unroll the second bag and begin zipping the foot ends together. 

It’s going to be dangerously cold tonight—I can already feel the chill creeping in.

I glance back.

He’s leaned on his forearms, in deference to the lower set roof, legs stretched beside mine, watching me.

He probably doesn’t know how he looks in this light—half-reclined, skin and shadows cutting across the lines of his throat where the fleece jacket has folded open. He looks relaxed. But his eyes are anything but.

The black fleece he finally bothered to put on this morning suits him, and the open collar?  God help me. I swallow, my mouth’s gone dry.

"What?" His question is low and quiet, but it still feels too loud in the space between us.

I jerk my eyes away, blushing. “Just surprised to see you wearing something with the sleeves still attached.”

He huffs a quiet breath— was that a laugh?

I don’t want to lie down. Not with him looking like that. Not with those dreams from this morning still warm in my mind.

I unwind my hair from its too loose, fraying braid. Fingers working through the crimped waves—needing the distraction, needing anything but the image of my lips on his collarbone, my hands on his skin—

Stop it.

I close my eyes; focus intently on my breathing and the movements required to un-tangle my hair.  

The tent sways gently as he shifts. I keep my back to him, pretending not to notice.

When he speaks, his voice is cautious—like he’s testing the air. “Didn’t realize your hair was that long.”

I nod. “That’s why I keep it up.”

Unbound, it falls nearly to my waist. Too long to leave down—not just for convenience, but because I’ve learned the hard way how easily someone can use it to drag me down.

I should’ve cut it years ago. But it's one of the few things I have left to remind me of who I used to be. Running my fingers through the practiced motions, the familiarity of it, regardless of safety or practicality. Sometimes it's nice to forget what we've all become.

Daryl shifts again, stretching his legs to either side of where I’m sitting cross-legged. My heart skips. I’m caged between his thighs, and he doesn’t even seem to notice.

Or maybe he does.

He slides his feet under the edge of the sleeping bag that I can’t pull up while I’m sitting here.

"Feet cold?" I ask, casting a glance over my shoulder.

He grunts.

I try to ignore the heat of his calves brushing me—ignore the fact that he could have stayed on his side of the tent, but he didn’t. My breath catches.

Is he trying to touch me?

Or does he just want me to move?

I clear my throat and scoot back far enough to pull the sleeping bag over his knees and my lap. Leaving me seated crosslegged between his thighs, definitely touching now—thigh to thigh, my back still turned. 

I should move to the side–there is zero reason for me to stay in the middle like this. Zero logical reason. Moving closer to him brings us into constant contact, the outside of my legs no longer brushing but pressed against his inner thigh. A little thrill sparks low in my belly. Nervous and sharp. 

Like a damn schoolgirl with a crush. 

S top it. I tell myself. Don’t go there.  

But still, I don’t move. Like I want to torture myself.  

Like I want to see what he might do with me touching him when there’s zero reason to... 

I focus on my hair again. Splitting it into two sections, re-braiding from my temples back, wrapping the pieces into a thick crown before weaving them together down my back.  My fingers work fast—years of practice—and I knot the braid at my nape, then wrap it back around itself and tie it off. It’s more secure this way. Harder to grab, but not impossible.

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t moved away, but I feel his eyes on me. Watching me twist and braid like it’s a performance.

I glance over my shoulder. He’s still propped on his elbows, eyes dark and unreadable.

I try to think of something to say. Something to do other than imagine how his mouth would taste. How it would feel if our positions were reversed with him cradled between my thighs…

I look away quickly. Cheeks pink. My mouth is dry again.

I tuck imaginary flyaways behind my ears. Two slow, steady breaths. I need to get the harness off if I want any chance of sleeping.

I fumble with buckles I should know with my eyes closed. I have to put a hand down to lift my hips allowing me to slide it off. I brace my hand to lift up and it lands on his thigh.

He tenses instantly. 

I jerk my hand back like I touched a live wire. “Sorry,” I mutter, flushing furiously. 

I set my hand on the tent floor instead and shimmy the harness down my hips under the sleeping bag, determined to ignore the brush of thigh against thigh as I move. Once freed I hook it over the rope supporting our boots.

Putting my hand on the sleeping bag covered tent base next to his leg instead, successfully sliding it off my hips and down my legs with a little wiggle under the sleeping bag trying to keep my legs warm before looping it over the tent rope. 

Now, I need to lie down.

Which means crawling over him… and maybe, this wasn’t such a good idea afterall . 

The roof’s too low to maneuver otherwise, and the moment I shift, the tent sways again in the wind. His hands fly up, catching me like he did the first night—steadying me, bracing for the movement.

That’s all it is. I tell myself. That’s the only reason he’s touching me.

But his hands don’t let go.

His eyes flare with something bright and hot.

I swallow.

The gentle tapping rhythm on the roof becomes more incessant. Drumming faster like my racing heart.  It’s definitely too dangerous to be outside.

It feels dangerous in here, too.

And not just because his hands are still on my waist. 

Instead of pushing me away, he pulls me up—easily, like I weigh nothing. Slowly, like he’s giving me time to stop him. A silent question stretching between us.

The moment thickens, stretching like honey—slow and sweet.

I’m certain he’s going to kiss me.

My breath catches in my throat. My stomach flips.

I have a split second flash of Yes —

And then he jerks me sideways, all but dumping me into the space where I’ve been sleeping the last few nights. His hands drop like I’ve burned him.

I barely avoid planting my face in his shoulder on the way down.

“Lie down and quit fidgeting,” he mutters, yanking the cover up over me. “Jesus.”

He drops his arms to his sides, eyes fixed on the roof—stiff, silent, tense.

The places his fingers touched my waist are still tingling.  I can feel where his thighs were pressed against mine. What if he had kissed me?  

My insides clench.

Stop.

I press a hand to my forehead, trying to drag in a full breath. I need to get my head on straight.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, Fin,” he says suddenly. His voice is low, rough—half frustration, half something else. “Just relax. You’re wound so tight I’m gettin’ a headache.”

He has no idea.

No idea, at all how tangled my thoughts are. No idea how every inch of my body feels like a live wire, strung too tight, tuned to him . I need another distraction. Something before I snap.

I roll away from him, turning my back and hiding my face in the crook of my elbow. I’m glad he doesn’t realize just how far from harm my thoughts have wandered.

Daryl huffs. Shifts his weight. I can tell he feels boxed in by the tight space. He doesn’t like it.

Truthfully, I’m not loving it either.

He rolls to his side, mirroring me like the last two nights—both of us turned away, facing walls we can’t escape.

“I’m sorry. People can be assholes.”  He says it flatly, but I know it comes from experience—not just the recent disasters, but those quiet, sparse fragments of his childhood he’s let slip. He was raised with a heavy hand. That much is obvious.

Hard to imagine anyone raising a hand to him now.  He’s like a coiled spring. A caged tiger. All muscle, tension, and instinct.

I wonder—what would he have become if he’d grown up like I did? My first taste of pain came when the world fell apart. What’s worse? Losing love after having it… or never knowing it at all?

“I’m sorry too,” I say quietly, after a long breath.

“I’m not gonna touch you.”  His voice is tight, low. I feel him shift behind me.

Except—we are touching. Barely. But still.

Of course, not like that ...

My stomach tightens. I sigh, but it comes out jagged, unsteady.

Most of the day I’ve been pulling away from him. Flinching every time he got too close—not because I was afraid of him , but because I couldn’t seem to stop imagining the heat of his hands on my skin.

He must’ve noticed. And misread it as fear.

“Daryl.” I exhale again, steadier this time. I can see my breath now curling like smoke in the air—the temperature’s dropped fast, and the sun isn’t even gone yet. “You have to.”

He goes still behind me. I'm not sure he’s even breathing.

“It’s getting colder… I need your body heat so I don’t freeze.”

Not technically true—it’s not below freezing, and the sleeping bag traps some warmth—but I’d be a hell of a lot warmer with him. And probably a hell of a lot more miserable without him.

I imagine he agrees, at least about the shared heat, because he exhales and moves. Slowly. First onto his back, then onto his side again—all careful, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal. 

I reach back, fingers curling around his forearm. Just his sleeve—no bare skin. Then I scoot back until my spine just brushes his chest, and pull his arm over my waist and the blanket up higher to tuck it under my chin. 

A few minutes pass in silence before I start to wiggle my toes, trying to thaw them.

Daryl shifts behind me again. His hand drifts lower, nudges my legs, gently folding them back until my feet are tucked between the soft fabric of his calves. Then his arm slides back to my waist.

And then, slowly, he wraps it around me. Pulls me fully in. His body fits mine like it’s instinct, like muscle memory. No space left between us.

His arm feels like a steel band, not harsh—but firm. Protective. It should feel suffocating. But it doesn’t. It feels… safe.

Ridiculous.

“If you want me to stop, just say so.” His voice is a whisper above my ear.

My breath catches. I wish he was talking about more than this. God, I wish that.  I shake my head, just enough for him to feel it. “I’m okay. It feels nice.”
A beat, then I add, quieter, “You’re warm.”

“Guess we try to sleep,” he murmurs. More to himself than to me.

I’m not sure I can. Not with him wrapped around me like this. My heart’s pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. I swear I can feel the rhythm of his breath. The steady beat of his pulse, close enough to be mine.

We lie there in silence.

Outside, the storm hammers the tent in waves. And inside, I feel like I’m one breath away from falling apart.

Heavy minutes drag on silent. I'm starting to wonder if he might actually be asleep when he finally speaks. 

It might have startled me if his voice wasn’t so soft, so careful.

"When was the last time you were with someone?"

I freeze. My breath catches, heart stuttering.

 “I... I haven’t—” I start, then stop, blushing furiously and hiding my face in the crook of my arm. I bite my lip hard.

  God, what is wrong with me?

Why do I always want to be honest with him? Even when I know I can’t .
Not about everything. Not if I want to survive.

He pauses. When I don’t elaborate, he asks more gently:
“Who’s Abby, then?”

Oh.
He didn’t mean… that .

I groan internally. Is it actually possible to die of embarrassment? I might find out tonight.

I swallow, throat tight, my face burning as I stare at the tent wall. His body heat against my back is way too noticeable now.

"Abby was a friend.” I finally manage, because this is clearly a conversation I won’t escape, and a safer topic however painful. 

“I met her after my first group fell apart." 

When they found out what I was. 

“She... didn’t make it through the summer.”

I’m relieved when the words don’t make me cry. Not anymore.

“And Thomas?”

Jesus. How much have I said in my sleep?

I inhale slowly, trying to figure out how much I can afford to tell him.
The truth—always the safest answer.

 Just... not all of it.

"I met Thomas shortly after Abby. He was traveling with some families. I stayed with them for part of the first winter.”

It wasn’t long. A few weeks at most. Thomas had reminded me of home. Maybe a little bit more like my uncle, than my knock-a-bout cousins despite the age difference. I'd been desperate for anything that felt like the connection to a family I’d lost. But he turned on me too, a harsh lesson etched into my heart, reminding me why I should never get close. 

I can still remember the fear in his eyes as he asked me what the Hell I was. 

… I still don't know.

“After that?”

“I was on my own for a while. Met some nasty people. More than once.” I pause. “I decided it was just easier to stay away after that. Safer.”

“The more desperate people get,” Daryl murmurs, “the more cruelty they excuse.”

“Some were cruel before things got desperate.”

My mind flashes, unbidden, to that night in the woods—the screaming. I shove the memory back, lock it away. Not tonight. I can’t afford nightmares.

He goes quiet again. So long, I start to wonder if he really has fallen asleep.

“Fin.”

I tilt my head slightly, waiting.

“How do you say it?” He hesitates, then rushes on in the same quiet tone, “Your name. The real one. Say it.”

I knew he read the inscription in my book.

He’s asking for a piece of me now. One that no one else has touched in a long time.

“Seraphim.”

I listen to him breathe in the dark. I don’t know why it matters.

But somehow, it does.

It feels... intimate —trusting him with what I was before. And maybe someone should know. Just one person. Someone to remember after I’m gone.

He repeats it softly, almost reverently. The syllables brush like silk off his tongue.

“It’s a beautiful name. You should use it.”

I don’t answer right away. The moment feels too fragile to touch.

Finally, I find the words for what I feel. Something—maybe he’ll understand.

“Thank you,” I whisper, into the quiet darkness. “But I don’t think I can.”

A breath.

“I don’t think that girl exists anymore.”

My voice sounds sad. Too honest.

I close my eyes and slow my breathing.
Outside, the storm is still raging.

But inside, for the first time in a long time…I don’t feel quite so alone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Seraphim

Blissful, delicious heat curls through my entire body.

I moan, then inhale sharply as someone's tongue circles my belly button. I reach out, fingers sliding through thick familiar dark hair. He looks up at me—and this has to be a dream. He’d never look at me like that.

He dips lower and traces wordless patterns across my skin. He touches me like he’s been waiting forever. My back arches, pelvis thrust instinctively toward the welcome assault of teeth and tongue that have moved to grace my right hip. 

Long fingers and warm palms smooth up my thighs and I shake with anticipation. His mouth travels down my leg but never reaches the end—like the bed stretches beneath me, infinite. 

Strong hands slide over my hips, my entire body focused on the delicious sensation. 

Every nerve sparks—but I’m floating, somehow not even touching the bed.

He’s everywhere. Mouth. Hands. Heat. I can't tell which part of him is touching me, where. I don't care.

I twist, shudder and writhe under his mouth while he holds me tight. 

Preventing an escape I don’t really want. 

My breath hisses out and my hips roll off the bed.

I need more…

I twist, cry out in shock as heat blooms up my whole spine. I forget how to breathe as wave after wave of pleasure sear my nerves. While he continues branding his name into my body with his hungry mouth, growling my name; teeth scraping over sensitive skin.

When he releases me suddenly I moan in protest. Until he pins me beneath him—And it’s so fucking hot that I’m losing what little is left of my mind.

I need…more . 

“You should tell me to stop,” he growls, the words—rough like gravel and hard as stone. Perfect and wrong at the same time. 

Except he doesn’t stop. He waits—like the dream is waiting for me to decide.

"Tell me to stop ." He repeats it. Every muscle stands out in sharp relief in the dim light. 

He feels so good. I can't think, can't breathe. I can't stop him.

Why would I want to?

He's shaking with tension, pressed against me. 

I drag at him, claw trying to pull him closer. 

He whispers my name like a prayer. But his mouth never moves.

"Don't stop, please." I'm desperate, aching to feel him move against me, inside me in the most primal way possible.  

So close…I could sob with frustration, 

He's torturing me on purpose… 

" We can’t do this, it isn’t real." His voice is soft, little more than a mumble.

His words say one thing, his body another and— what the fuck is happening?

My eyes prick with tears of frustration. I know I’m dreaming. I have to be…but it feels so real, and it’s him , and I don’t want it to stop.  

"Seraphim," It’s a groan, a want, a need.

My name on his lips does things to me. Wicked things.

His voice is everywhere. Outside me. Inside me. I know this isn’t real—but my body doesn’t care.

I gasp a quiet “Please," —and arch back into the sensation of his warm body wrapped around mine, grinding against my back and—that can’t be right. 

How can he be in two places at once...  

Hands frame my face tilting my chin up when I’m already looking at him and those eyes, I can’t look away,  “You have to wake up and stop this,"  

His breath against my back—too warm, too real.

…and that…it doesn’t make any sense…

His voice pours over me like melted glass. Slow and hot and dangerous. I feel him move inside me before he ever touches me. Like my body already knows how this ends.

I blink as sleep falls away, images dissipate into smoke, twisting my reality around me.  

My eyes find near total darkness, without orientation, blinking in confusion, unable to tell if I’m awake, or still asleep. 

A hand cups my breast through layers of cloth too thin to hide the touch—but too thick to feel it the way that I want.

The throbbing emptiness inside me. The slick feeling of arousal under my clothes hounds my senses, drowning out everything else for a few moments. 

I bring my hands up to grasp his arms...Burning hot skin and soft fleece bunched up over strong forearms that tense under my touch.

My breath sighs out with each press of his hot mouth against my neck. His hips jump forward seeking friction against my back. 

I'm—embarrassingly wet to be fully clothed still. 

I'm not sure if it's my heartbeat or the rain roaring in my ears. 

I try to say his name but it's lost in a moan when his mouth slides over my skin, and his hold tightens like he can pull me inside him by force.

I feel him grind against me, his breath comes out in a harsh grunt of pleasure. 

And Fuck, I need to stop this, before I give in.

I grab for his hands, try to still them just a moment, so I can think, breathe, remember if this is real...He laces his fingers through mine, uses that to pull me farther back against him, rocking his pelvis into me again with a maddening pressure. 

It makes me want to wiggle—not free, but closer. 

I want to rip away the layers between us and feel him right up against me…

I'm struggling to remember why this is a bad idea when every atom in my body is screaming at me to jump his bones, telling me that this is exactly what I want.

I could sob, trying to fight these cravings.

It sure as hell doesn’t feel like self preservation to resist this…it feels like self-imposed torture. 

But this is real, and there is no way that he would want to actually touch me like this if he were awake and aware.

It's just proximity, and dreams.  

I twist, pulling away from him. Calling his name and feeling him jerk in alarm behind me. 

His arm loosens but doesn’t fall away from my waist. Still pressing his warm palm flat against my belly, keeping me still, halting my movement away from him—but no longer pulling me back against his chest. Just a little breathing space.

"Are you awake?" I whisper it, because I have no idea what else to ask.

He stills—his breathing is harsh and fast…"What…?" He starts, with enough groggy confusion that unless he’s the world's greatest actor, means he’s still throwing off the fog of sleep. Taking stock of his surroundings. 

He sits up and one hand reaches out feeling for his crossbow—which is by our feet, then he pauses in the darkness, and I swear I can see his head cock like he’s listening for a threat. An explanation for why I’m sitting up and speaking to him in the middle of the night. 

When he doesn’t hear anything around us he relaxes back on one elbow, one hand sliding over his face in the darkness but still facing me. “I am now, wha–”

He pauses—and the silence has weight.

Yeah. That.

He curses softly into the dark. 

I have to say something.

I just have no idea what .

My unsteady breathing matches his. I struggle to slow it down. My body is racked by full body shudders. I'll pretend it's from the cold air now hitting my overly flushed skin where the cover has fallen away from me—and ignore the way my nipples tighten as I shiver.

"Are you okay?" It’s barely more than a whisper. “Was…that a nightmare?” 

If he can exist in denial in this darkness, then by God, so can I.

"A nightmare?" He asks. Sounding unsure—dazed like maybe he can’t remember, and then he goes very, very still beside me sucking in a breath...and okay . 

Maybe he does realize what was just happening, “a nightmare.” He repeats again, very quietly and I’m not sure what emotion I should associate with that tone .

"Are you okay?" I repeat the question, a different weight to it this time.

His response is immediate. "’M I okay? Are You ?” His voice is tight. “Did I hurt you?"

I shake my head—realize he maybe can't see it in the dark.

"I’m fine, It was just a dream.” I add the lie under my breath like it might protect me. 

Doesn’t mean anything. Can’t.

He’s very still again.

I'm positive it wasn’t me he was dreaming about…except…fuck, did he say my name? or was that the haze of my dream still lifting?  

There's no sound but the rain pounding on the roof. 

He doesn’t want me, not like that… and…I would have no idea how to handle it if he did.

I start to count my racing heartbeats.

22….23…24…

I lay back down flopping boneless and exhausted and he lets out a heavy rushing breath. 

We can pretend this awkward moment never happened in the morning light.  

I feel him start to relax just a bit. His breathing is still an unsteady mess. Mine isn’t much better. I pull the covers back over my body—but I hate sleeping on my back. And it’s still cold so I turn and reach for him in the dark.

He tenses instantly under my hands. Still flat on his back, now rigid as stone. He doesn’t move as I curl against his side. He's barely breathing again.

"Seraphim…" and okay , I exhale sharply in reaction. Maybe it WAS him saying my name before… Fuck .

The roughness in his voice sends sparks shooting to intimate places. It feels like a warning, and also, part of a question?

"It's cold, please, let's just forget it." I rest my head on my arm, but I’m still not completely comfortable like this.   

Being incredibly turned on certainly isn’t helping me one bit. I shift around—trying to find a way to rest against him that keeps me warm, supports my head—but doesn’t tempt me to run my hands down his body. 

That last one might be impossible unless my hands are tied behind my back.  

I put one arm over his chest and shift closer.

He twists in a blink. Facing me in the dark—his arm banded around my back pinning me against him for a heart stopping moment.

We’re far from the same height, but I can feel his breath against my skin as he growls the words at me. "The hell are you doing?!"

"Trying to get comfortable."  I complain, whisper soft into the darkness. 

…Trying not to think about exactly how wet I am, and how warm I could make it under this blanket… I squirm just thinking about it.

He hisses. Grabs me with both hands—grumbling something under his breath, and yanking me against him like a rag doll as he flops onto his back.  

I’m stunned into silence as he arranges me so my cheek is on his chest—forced down by his palm on the back of my head—my entire body pressed against his side all the way to my toes, one arm still coiled around me, hand pressed against my back…holding me still.

“Better?” 

I’m not sure it is with him growling at me—I can feel the word rumble through his chest.

I barely breathe for a full minute. Force my muscles to relax and slowly the pressure of his hand pinning me to his side does too. 

We lay in the dark, both breathing a little choppy. 

Me fighting the urge to touch him. 

While he’s probably just trying not to strangle me in irritation.

Several minutes pass.

This is better…but still not perfect . 

And if I don’t get completely comfortable I’m already so turned on—I’ll never get to sleep again. I shift once more, sliding my right thigh over his.

He hisses. His arm locks around my back. Fingers digging into my skin. Every muscle in his chest tightens under my head.  The hand resting over my forearm, where it’s been laying against his middle grips me so tight I gasp. The arm around my back squeezes. He vibrates with tension. Voice a rough growl against my hair. " Quit. Moving ."

I don’t move. 

I’m not even sure I can remember how to breathe.

He draws in a deep shaking breath like he’s seeking calm—despite my testing his patience. He utters a sound of pure frustration, “You’re impossible,” he mutters, but his arm tightens. Before going slack again.

His head falls back with a soft thump. "Fuck." He curses into the darkness gruff and raw—like pain. 

He takes three slow inhales blowing each breath out into the air clearly trying to not toss me out the tent doorway, while I hold my breath.

"’Said I wouldn't hurt you, but…just…” he pauses and something like a tremor runs through him. 

I’m suddenly not sure it is fury–or at least not entirely, when he growls out so low I’m not sure he meant for me to hear, “Christ woman, don’t tempt me.”

That… I have no idea what to do with those words.  

But I think my body does, because my blood just turned to lava.  

I focus on just my breathing for a few minutes. Maybe I shouldn't have stopped him earlier. I'm so wet and hot I don't think I can sleep. 

Where would we be right now if I hadn't stopped him? The possibilities send my stomach into a complex series of acrobatics that make thinking about anything else more difficult…if not impossible.

"Daryl..." I whisper, starting to pull my arm away from him. 

I don’t want things to be awkward again tomorrow.

"What woman?!" he hisses. His grip on my forearm tightening in a reflex I’m not sure is a conscious thought.  Halting me so I can’t pull away from his side. Pinning me there.

"It's okay, you know that?” I mumble the words against his chest. “I'm not upset." 

He exhales. Releasing his grip on my arm. Scrubs a hand over his face in the dark.  I only know because I’m pressed up against him, and can feel every little movement he makes. 

His heart is still racing, but so is mine. 

“Not helping.” he mumbles. Which makes no sense .  

Then, "go to sleep." Which does.

I sigh and try once it's obvious he's done talking to me. After what feels like hours of frustration eventually I drift back into sleep.

With morning, a heavy fog rolls in. The air is damp and cold on my skin, leeching warmth from my cheeks.

I duck my head beneath the covers. 

The river is louder than usual—I can hear it from here. It must’ve stopped raining sometime before sunrise, but the runoff must’ve swelled the banks. I picture white froth and slick rocks and think: perfect. Great day to go walking in endless circles in the woods.

At least I'm still warm under the blanket. 

I woke from sleeping sprawled out, half on top of him with one leg still thrown over his thigh, trapped between his legs. My head still rests on Daryl's chest. His right arm wrapped around my back. His left hand over mine, still pressed against his chest. 

I’ve been clutching his fleece in my sleep.

I should move. Before this gets worse. Before he wakes up and things between us go from vaguely unspoken to completely, irrevocably weird.

This feels like a game of chicken.

 Except the wreck doesn’t come with a crash. 

It’s quiet. It's two people leaning in and then pretending they didn’t.

I release my grip on his jacket, carefully slide my leg back to my side of the blanket. I roll away from him, slow and cautious. Aiming for a less intimate position before he wakes up. I can’t do anything about his arm under my side. It’s probably half asleep by now…

I’m startled when he speaks the second I turn. Shocked. When he follows me, rolling onto his side—wrapping his left arm back around my waist, spooning me.

“Gonna be a cold, ‘n fucking wet." He complains voice rough and half asleep.

I can't create an intelligent response to that–my brain is too busy having a complete melt down. 

He's staying close. Am I somehow still dreaming?

"Let's stay here till Spring.” he mutters. “Too damn cold to be stompin’ through the woods."

Then—God help me—he shifts. 

I feel his chest press up against my back. His breath ghosting warm against my hair. And maybe I imagined it—but I swear I felt the softest brush of lips at my crown.

Then his chin settles there. Like it belongs. Like it’s been there a hundred times before.

His arm curls tight around my middle. Tucks me in.

A shiver runs the full length of my spine, and I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t make a sound.

This… is new. This is daylight . He never stays close in the daylight .

I clear my throat.
Right. Duty . Reason . That’s me today. Apparently. 

"Glenn might still be out there.”  

He makes a soft grunt in reply—noncommittal, not pulling away.

“We promised Maggie we'd find him. And the other kids, they could be out there too."

But for a second, it’s easy to forget all that. His hand is still against my stomach. His chin still tucked over my head. And I know the second he comes fully awake—really awake—he’ll remember who we are. What this is. He’ll draw back like he always does.

And I have no idea what to do with the fact that he hasn't yet.

I inhale and push the thought away.

 The longer I lie here awake and pressed against his hard body the more my brain spins over last night...and... oh boy.

“Fine,” he mutters finally. His voice is all gravel and resignation.

A beat of silence.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Seraphim

We've been walking along the river bank all morning.

It’s sometime past midday—not that you'd know it under the dreary grey sky. There hasn’t been a hint of sun all day, and the clouds don’t look like they’re giving up anytime soon. The cold, damp air bites deep. Without a calendar to reference—I'd say winter started today—with a bang.

The river is swollen from yesterday's storm.  Runoff from upstream—probably days of rain in the foothills—has it spilling several feet beyond its usual bed. The current is fast, churning with branches and broken debris. Maybe a few landslides up ahead. Or maybe it’s just ripping apart the edges of everything it can reach..  

We give it a wide berth—at least five to ten feet between us and the muddy drop toward the river’s edge. It’s slick, unpredictable terrain, and the water’s moving fast enough that falling in might be a death sentence.

Most of the ground is a soggy mess: mud, crushed leaves, dead limbs snapped off by last night’s wind. I’m watching my footing more than the tree line today. I’ve already slipped twice and barely stayed upright.  

Never underestimate Georgia Mud. It's wicked stuff. 

It doesn't help that I'm having trouble focusing on right now . My thoughts keep spiraling to last night.  

What did he mean? 

Why did it feel like I was missing something? 

I don't want to think about it—and can't stop at the same time. 

My thoughts are a mess—a tangled, too-warm knot of confusion, memory, and a physical awareness I don’t know what to do with. I don’t know how to process any of it. Not the dreams, not the touches, not the way his voice in the dark still echoes somewhere low in my spine.

My complete lack of focus means Daryl sees him first.  He calls out the name—and I jerk, mind snapping back to the present.

I need to get it together. 

Maybe we should have stayed in bed. I think my brain did.

I look up as he calls out to see an unfamiliar man in his 40’s maybe, taller and heavier set particularly in the middle than Daryl. He's jogging–quite slowly up the steep hill towards us. He's dressed warmly, if a bit ill fitted, he's carrying a hunting rifle.  But he doesn't look particularly comfortable with it. 

He holds it away from his body just enough that it looks awkward and unnatural in his grip. Like he's afraid it's going to turn on him and blast off his own fingers.

How anyone could survive without a comfortable knowledge of weapons out here, I don't know. 

"Daryl! It's good to see you still alive."  he pauses. Breathing a little heavy for someone that’s only jogged a very short distance.

"Same, you with anybody else?" Daryl asks him, glancing around.

He's nodding enthusiastically. “About half the bus.” 

That’s good, maybe we can finally be done with this mess and go home.

"Quite a few people caught stray bullets in the firefight. We made it up the road but it was blocked. We had to use a different route, no one wanted to leave the bus and risk walking. We got a little lost trying to get away from a group of Walkers–”

“Glenn with you?” Daryl asks and the man nods. 

“--Yeah! Glenn is okay, worried about Maggie—we haven’t found her. Tyreese and Sasha caught up with us in the woods, but with the kids and the dead…We had injured people.  Man, I didn’t think we were gonna make it.” He sucks in another deep breath like just talking is keeping him winded. “We got really lucky this nice family took us all in—no questions asked. Even tried to patch everyone up. It's amazing, they have food, and weapons. We're all welcome to stay with them, they’ve been helping us search..."

Oh No…  

I should have warned him—

I should have said something— 

I should hav—

A curse slips from my lips. 

I hope my previous distraction isn't about to get me killed. 

“We have to go, Now.”

"--You should come back with us! That's why I'm out here! We're looking for anyone else that made it."

Of course they are. 

And they're out here, right now.  

"Fin?" Daryl isn't looking at the other man anymore. 

He's staring at me.

I've already nocked an arrow. I don't remember doing it. 

I'm too busy searching the trees, which brother is it? One of the uncles? More than one? How many of them are out here? They wouldn't leave that many people un-attended at the farm…wouldn't risk someone stumbling onto their secret, or overpowering them to take what’s their’s…

“Isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”

My stomach drops to the forest floor like a rock. 

I spin to face him. 

It feels like I can’t breathe in…I think my heart has actually stopped.

“Caleb.”

I've got an arrow pointed at his face—but he's already got his rifle pointed at me so I can’t shoot. Even if I hit him in the head he could still pull the trigger and take me out...Daryl knows it too. He’s got his crossbow pointed at Caleb—but he can’t take the shot. 

We’re locked in a stalemate with only deadly options.

“Drop it!”  Daryl demands.

But Caleb doesn’t. He keeps his weapon pointed at my head. He steps closer to me despite my weapon and Daryl’s bark of warning—confident that his shotgun trumps my bow, that Daryl won't risk shooting with him aiming right at me.  

And he’s right. 

No matter how good a shot I am, there’s no cover, no outrunning a bullet, and it would be just about suicide to try it. 

The best outcome I could hope for in that scenario is that we take each other out and Daryl and this other guy live— but for how long?   

I didn’t tell them about the farm, or what happens there because I was praying we wouldn’t need to go there. 

If he'd known —it would be the first place he’d want to check, and a two person assault on that farm….it would be a swift and ugly death for both of us. 

“Going somewhere Fin? Don’t leave just yet. You look good! It’s been a while.” A lazy predatory smile splits his face as he steps closer. 

If there was any food in my stomach I might be tempted to vomit.

"Whoa, Caleb! Take it easy!” The other man—Gary, Daryl called him, steps closer to me.  The hand not holding the gun held up placatingly towards Caleb palm up. 

“This is Daryl, and….” He flounders, not knowing my name. “…Daryl's part of my previous group!"

Caleb doesn’t take his eyes off me. He takes another step closer...he’s less than seven feet away now…if I could get him closer…maybe…  

"So, Daryl, is it?” He’s talking to him, but he winks at me.

My stomach twists, hollow and tight. 

I swallow it down hard.  

"Put it down asshole." He growls back. 

I want so badly to look at him, but I can’t. I won't risk taking my eyes, or my attention off Caleb. 

“Sorry, Daryl—I can’t. Look, man, I get it. You’re out here alone, she offers you help… and look at her.”

He grins at me. Eyes crawling over my body. “She looks good enough to eat.”

One step closer.

“But you don’t know her like we do. This girl? Dangerous. Nearly killed me and my brother.” 

For a damn good reason. I don’t interject.

“You're more than welcome to join us, but not her. We gave her a chance already." He sneers at me.

“I said put it down, and back the hell up!” At least Daryl isn’t buying his load of bullshit, not yet at least. 

But Caleb could always spin words and sound so reasonable, they all could. It was one of the reasons it took me so damn long to figure it out, almost too long. I’d barely gotten out with my life.

"Come on Fin, you can’t win here. You really think you can take me out before I put a bullet in that pretty little skull, Dollface?  Just put it down, and walk away.  I’ll let you leave! Robert wouldn’t give you that option, but me?” He sneers at me. Then he licks his fucking lips, like some kind of fucking cartoon villian.  

All the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I shudder.

Four feet away. I draw a deep shaky breath. I have one chance to do this .  

I drop my arms and then my bow. Tossing it lightly a few feet away, and raise my hands over my head. The universal sign of surrender.  I just need him to step a little closer… take the bait asshole, come on.  

“Let me go,” I say—soft, choked. It’s not all an act. My voice trembles, scraped raw by the edge of something I can’t quite swallow.

"Hey Caleb, let's be reasonable, we can put the guns down, She's just some girl!" Gary is looking back and forth between us, no idea who to side with. 

He has no idea who I am, which is good. I don't need two guns to watch. But it won't take him long to throw his hat in with someone. 

Daryl’s crossbow is still pointed at Caleb.

"She's bad news Daryl, I’m telling you. Don’t let that sweet little ass tempt you into the same mistakes that we made!" Caleb is still trying to turn him against me. "She lives out here with dead people. She’s not right in the head."  

"I’m not the one that eats people ." I snap. 

My hands are still in the air, but if I die—maybe Daryl will understand the message. Maybe he won’t walk straight into their trap trying to save them alone. 

"What the Hell is going on here?" Gary is kind of freaking out.  

Looks like he's not built for high stress situations. Which is fan-fucking-tastic; I can add loose cannon to my list of problems to survive today.

"She surrendered, just let her go!” Gary again.  “What is going on?!"

Gary's still not aiming his gun at anyone. I need to move before he sides with Caleb. Never underestimate the power of hunger, and the influence of a full stomach. A sweet tooth doped Hansel and Gretel right into the oven…and they'd been well fed to begin with...

"What's going on is your boy needs to get that gun off my girl before I give him some extra holes!" 

My heart skips, something I can’t focus on right now– but damn.  

Caleb glances at him, but his finger is on the trigger still, and I need him to be a little closer, but If I take the step he might realize his mistake.  I try to think, plan my attack while he's focused on Daryl.  

"I’m really sorry man, You have no idea. She can’t be trusted, but I get it, you don’t know me right? Why don't we take a walk back to my family's place. We can work this out. Bring the girl, I promise no one will hurt you." He smiles, it doesn't improve his offer. 

“I know her.” Daryl growls back sending a rush of heat through me all the way to my toes I can’t afford right now.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be…” Caleb changes tactics. “Drop your weapon, or I’ll blow her fucking head off.”

That’s the exact opposite of what I need. 

I need Caleb to relax a little. Think he’s in control.

“Daryl,” I whisper. “Please…” 

I don’t dare look at him. I can’t afford to take my eyes off Caleb—but I see Daryl drop his bow in the corner of my vision.

Defeated.

My chest caves in.

Caleb’s grin widens. He thinks he’s won. 

“Excellent. Now we’re just going to walk back home—nice and quiet.”

“Let me guess. You can all discuss it over a big ol’ BBQ?” I should probably shut my mouth.

His answering smile could peel paint. 

Step closer, asshole. Just one more step…

I keep my palms up, but lower my elbows—bringing my hands closer to my chest, level with the barrel still pointed at me.

“Start walking Fin. We don’t want to be late for dinner.” 

I shake my head, terror clawing at my ribs.
I can’t. I won’t.

And then he steps.

The muzzle is inches from my chest.

“Walk,” he growls.  “They want you alive, but I’ll blow you away and be done with it.”

“We can just let them go…” Gary again. “It doesn’t have to be like this—”

I snap into motion.

My right arm swings up and out as I step hard to the side and further into Caleb. My hand closes around the shotgun barrel. I twist my body toward him and shove it wide—

The muzzle is past me now. If he pulls the trigger, he’ll miss.

Someone yells as I raise my left arm from underneath, locking the barrel against my upper arm and elbow with my hand—freeing my right hand. Then shoving with all my strength against the barrel and his hold—down and out.

He manages to keep hold of the gun—My right elbow snaps up, catching the side of his neck. Using all the power I’ve forced into the disarming twist to smash into him—until my blow sent him stumbling back two feet. 

Caleb loses his grip on the shotgun but not before he manages to pull the trigger in panic. 

This close it’s not just sound. The blast hits like a punch to the head, not just sound but pressure—hot and brutal. I stagger. Ears ringing. Deaf now. 

I scramble to back away. Put more distance between us. Turn the weapon on him. I get one breath—one. Then something crashes into me from behind like a goddamn sledgehammer. The heavy pack absorbed and deflected most of the impact, probably the only reason I didn’t just break several bones. 

A cry of pain and surprise escapes me and I can’t stop the gun from slipping out of my hands–my fingers springing open with the impact.  

Caleb is scrambling for it. I can’t let him get a hold of it again.  I kick out my leg in a sweeping motion. My foot connects with the side of the long gun and sends it soaring away from us both a good ten or fifteen feet. 

I have to get rid of this backpack. I bring my hands up as fast as I can, shoving the straps up and off my shoulders and dropping its weight behind me.

Too slow.

Caleb tackles me like a goddamn rugby player.  

I try to twist, to end up on top, but the slippery ground and the fucking backpack behind my heels–tripping me, the force of the blow, and the ringing in my ears. I can’t. My back hits the ground and all the air rushes out of my lungs leaving me gasping. I try to move but I’m pinned down. Caleb straddled on top of me. His hands wrapped around my throat, fingers squeezing. 

This son of a bitch is not going to choke me to death. I have 5, maybe 6 seconds.

1, I bend both my knees placing my feet on the forest floor, and tuck my elbows down to my ribs. I move my left foot to the outside of his left leg. The back of my thighs forces his weight to shift forward up onto his knees, leaning into the choke pressing down. Caleb is saying something, but I can’t hear him over the ringing in my ears, the rush of blood in my head, the rising panic feeling his hands tighten.

2, I grip the jacket material behind his upper right arm with my left hand keeping my elbow locked tight at my side against my ribs so his knees can't shift any higher, my right hand crosses my chest coming up between his hands to wrap all 5 of my fingers around the outside of his right wrist. 

3, I shove both my hips up with all the strength of my lower body, and twist. Shoving my right shoulder up off the ground using my body to drive him Up over my head, imbalanced, and crashing to the side with a strangled scream since his hands are still around my throat, when he feels himself falling though, he lets go, but he can’t put his right hand out to stop himself with it locked in my grip. We both roll locked together, but now I’m on top. 

4, Caleb stares up at me, a look of surprise on his smarmy face. 

Asshole .

I suck in a deep breath. Air, precious cold and damp air rushes into my lungs again. I duck low against his body, using my forearms to block his arms so he can't try to punch or grab me. I just need a second for air. My hearing is either starting to improve or there’s a Hell of a fight taking place somewhere over my left shoulder–but I can’t stop to look for Daryl, check to see if he’s alright because I still have to deal with Caleb. 

Now I have a new problem, one I can take a few seconds to solve without the risk of unconsciousness. I need to get away from Caleb. 

I’d love to shove off and run.
But there’s no way he’s letting me go—not unless he’s unconscious. Or, ideally? Dead.
If I try to flee, he’ll be on me. Or worse, he’ll grab that rifle and shoot me in the back.
And I’d be leaving Daryl.

I can’t do that.
Not while he’s still fighting.

My options are limited, and none of them are good.
I can’t afford to split focus, can’t reach out to sense any Walkers that might help. Can’t even risk a full glance behind me.

But I hear Gary yelling.
Something in his tone—the chaos of it—makes my heart seize.

I need to know.
I have to know.
Just a glimpse. One second.

I shift my head, trying to keep Caleb pinned under my forearms while twisting enough to see behind us.

Daryl and Gary are still locked in a brutal brawl.

Gary still has his gun—but he’s not shooting it. He’s swinging it like a fucking club. Maybe it’s empty?
Daryl’s crossbow is clutched in both hands. Not loaded—can’t be, though they’re moving too fast for me to tell, but he’s using it to block , not fire.

No time. No space.
Daryl needs distance to shoot, and Gary’s not giving him a second to breathe.

He moves fast—quicker than Gary expects—dodging where he can, parrying with the bow when he can’t. He tries to land a kick, hard, to Gary’s gut.

But Gary’s size is its own weapon.

He doesn’t even go down—just recovers, whips the rifle around, and cracks Daryl in the side of the head.

I feel it connect, screaming my warning a second too late. 

Daryl staggers.
But he doesn’t fall.

My chest seizes. That fear—that fear, the one I can’t let in—it flares hard and fast.

And then—

“GET OFF ME, YOU FUCKING BITCH!”

Oh.
Hearing’s back. Fantastic.

I refocus. Keep my knees wide and push back down recentering as he tries to fight his way straight up off the ground without leverage. His arms move furiously trying to get a hold of me, trying to escape the press of my forearms that have his limbs trapped and unable to grab or strike. 

Guess I should do something about this.

I strike up lightning fast and hard with my entire upper body driving my elbow into the side of Caleb’s head hard enough that his head rocks to the side with the blow.  Then jerk back to a more upright position freeing his hands in a split second. 

He lifts both arms drawing up on instinct to protect his head, but also obstructing his view—and freeing up my own hands to act.  Giving me precious time to reach for the knife—but also preventing me from slashing his head or neck. 

I slam it down with two hands as hard as I can into his chest driving the blade up under his clavicle. The blade slices deep—with a resistance that’s stomach churning. Plunging through soft tissue and muscle. Caleb’s entire body jerks and he screams.  

I scoot back, place my hands on his hips—he’s kicking and thrashing with my knife still sticking out of his shoulder. I need to go to the side, escape his reach and get to the gun or my bow within the few seconds I’ve bought myself with his shock.

I push to my feet. Shifting my weight to dart to the side heading for the rough location of the shotgun I kicked away earlier, or my bow either will work. Let me end this with distance…but despite the knife Caleb manages to grab my fucking pant leg with his other arm. 

I stumble and kick back, striking him in the ribs instead of connecting with his face or the knife, and with less force than I’d like, trying to free my leg.  I cannot allow Caleb to reach that gun first or we’re both dead. 

Caleb is just as motivated to live through this fight as I am. Just as full of rage. Despite the knife he’s up off the ground and his left hand still manages to grasp the waist cinch of my fucking climbing harness.

He yanks back, dragging me off balance, my hands hit mud as I fall forward. I claw. Try to crawl away and kick back. I try to keep my feet under me—figure out what to do. But the fucking wet ground doesnt give good traction with Caleb using my fucking body, and my balance, to lurch up off the ground himself the rest of the way. 

Fuck . He’s at my back…and he has a knife.

It’s buried in his chest. But still.

I’ve just clearly demonstrated how quickly a knife rends flesh with a potentially fatal wound. I widen my stance the best I can, slipping— again, god damnit, but still driving my right arm up and back twisting with the movement to use my entire body—too bad Caleb is quite a bit taller than me.  He isn’t completely straightened up so my blow does connect with his head. He starts to stumble from the blow, but he’s still got me in his fucking grip!

I try to twist farther, force him to lose his left handed death grip on my belt, but it's not enough.  

He yanks at me; as much to regain his balance as it is to prevent my escape. And there’s a lot more weight behind his pull than mine. 

I can’t undo the belt and slip out of it to escape, it’s saved my life so many times. 

Now, it might be the thing that kills me.  

I try to spin away, but it's not enough.  I’m slipping again in the God Damn mud and wet leaves. But so is he, and he’s farther off balance than I am, at least for the moment. 

I kick out with my foot aiming for his leg—hoping to knock him back to the ground. The blow barely connects though before he’s regained his footing and I’m yanked against his body, his right arm coming up to wrap around my throat this time with his fucking elbow. 

“You’re going to fucking pay for that!” He rages. 

I can’t shift my fucking hips because he’s still got a hold of my fucking belt! You’d think being stabbed would make that arm unusable, adrenaline not working in my favor.

I pull down on his arm with my hands giving myself a few precious extra seconds to work through an escape before I pass out.  

I try to slam my head back—he’s too fucking tall and it doesn’t have the impact I need. But the hilt of my knife, still sticking out of his chest under his collarbone, brushes my shoulder forming an idea. 

Caleb curses in pain, vowing to make me suffer, tightening his grip and giving me an idea—while he starts listing all the things he’s going to enjoy doing to me.

My blood runs cold.

If I can’t kill him out here and escape, I’ll make sure he kills me instead of dragging me back there alive…

I drop my weight against the hold of his forearm—forcing him to lean forward or support my weight on slick ground, increasing the odds of him slipping.  

My legs now bent for a better balance base and his center of gravity off.  I reach up and grab the knife hilt over my left shoulder—and yank .

Caleb screams. His entire body locking up in reflex to the pain. 

But not me. I shift my hips to the side keeping myself clear–bring my arm down completing the arc, twisting my forearm and slamming the knife deep in his thigh. 

I yank the blade out and stab again—with less force at this angle, but it feels like this time I hit bone.

Caleb bellows in rage and pain throwing his whole body back, trying to move away from an attack that’s already happened— But he doesn’t fucking let go.  

He stumbles hard, his balance already compromised and off center, now with just one good leg. 

We both slip. 

My body yanked backwards. We go down onto dirt hard and roll, The initial impact is bone jarring since I couldn’t control my fall…but the motion doesn’t stop. 

We’ve fallen over the crest of the bank I realize in horror. 

We tumble, roll...it takes seconds, it feels much longer.

Crashing down the other side of what’s been maybe a 20 or 30 foot hill over the water we skirted the entire day. 

I’d bring my hands up to protect my face but there isn’t time. I can only tuck my arms tight against my chest so one of them isn’t snapped as we tumble. 

Something—a rock, a felled branch maybe, hits my forehead with blinding pain. The ground is rough, unforgiving, ice cold, and wet, without enough trees to stop our descent.  We're still tumbling, and locked up like this there’s not a thing I can do to stop...

I have about a split second to realize the roaring isn't from the blows to my head before I'm air born. Caleb clinging to my back as we both drop through the air I suck in as deep a breath as I can—until my lungs ache.  

Cold shock, some still functioning and rational part my brain warns me, just like the cliff jump in West Virginia . Don’t inhale …and then the wave of shock seizes my entire body with a bite that feels like a full body slap by a brutal hand. 

The sudden change in temperature forces muscles to contract; including my lungs, trying to draw in a breath–as I'm plunged down into an icy, mind numbing cold.

Inky Dark. Swirling currents of cold rush against me dragging at my clothes, I breath out expelling the tiny bit of water that made its way in but it chokes me, it’s hard to tell which way is up with Caleb still at my back. 

I panic, thrash to break free. I need to get away from him. It will be all too easy for him to drown me. If the shock of the water caused him to take a breath of water when we hit–he could already be drowning. All he has to do is keep holding on and let the water do the work for him. 

He's as panicked as I am though and kicks towards the surface, taking me with him. I have only a moment to gasp for air, one breath, two trying to get my feet under me and failing before he recovers.  Shoves me back under, holding me down as we sail down river smashing into rocks and debris that will leave bruises everywhere on my body–if I survive to see them.

I lash out, try to hit him; but I'm fighting the resistance of the water, the shock of the cold engulfing my entire body and my own terrified mind. My blows connect with no force. I try to tell myself not to scream.  Panic and drown faster…

The currents press up my nose. Filling my ears with the endless rushing of water. My lungs are on fire. 

I’m burning through my oxygen too fast trying to fight. I exhale. I can’t help it, anything to lessen the wildfire burning in my chest. My body tries to suck in air I so desperately need.  Water fills my mouth and I panic. 

I twist trying to escape his hold, air...I need air…all I find is water. 

If I thought it burnt before now it’s an inferno, and it sears me everywhere.  

Every limb is a pyre of fire as my body chokes, trying to replace the water in my lungs with air that isn’t there. I had no idea drowning would hurt so bad, but why wouldn’t it? Death is never peaceful.

This is it.  

My vision starts to fray, darken with red spots. I realize with an almost serene calm that they've won. They got to me first, I couldn’t stop them. 

Caleb's hands go slack on my shoulders but I'm so numb, so disconnected it barely registers. 

I'm just floating with the swirling water, free.   It's warm now, that's nice. My vision has gone dark, maybe there’s just no light to see after death… 

I'll just float along like this. It's peaceful after the burning that consumed me has finally eased off to mere embers of pain. 

More peaceful and aware than I thought death would be…

Maybe…I'm finally one of them…

I won’t be alone…

This isn't so bad…

A vice grip slams over my right arm. Clamps my other arm. Around me the water protests and pulls while someone hauls me up against the current. I’m lifted out of the blackness into light that’s too bright. Harsh. I’d close my eyes against it, but it doesn’t work. 

The current swirls and spins tugging at my pants, my hips, angry over being robbed of its prize.

Sharp cold air hits me like a slap in the face…or maybe that was a hand…

Someone is shouting…but the words smear together like wet paint. Blend with the water in my ears to nonsensical sound with no significance.

I'm moving. 

My vision goes red and black and blurry despite the light; the darkness starts to creep back in… 

I’m floating, no...falling.  I land with a bone jarring thump that awakens every nerve ending in my body, tiny angry ice picks jabbing at every inch of my skin in the open air...

God put me back in the water.  

It was warm there…

I’d ask, but there’s no words.

I lie there watching the sky swirl overhead, a rolling mass of grey waves rimmed with an ever pressing ring of black. 

A face fills my vision. Is it someone I know? His eyes are the bright incandescent blue the sky is supposed to be. Not the rolling grey and black mass haloing him.  

It’s like he stole all the light from the world and it’s trapped behind those eyes it’s… Beautiful . 

His lips press to mine but I feel nothing, and then he’s gone from my vision. 

There’s no reason to stay. 

I feel so heavy...

I try to breathe but only wet gurgles from my lips. My entire body flinches weakly at the wrongness of it.

Strange… that used to work...

I'm spinning so fast….can't work out why.

I see his face one last time filling my view of the ever darkening sky overhead, hazy and distorted...

And then, there is nothing.

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Daryl

He knew there was a problem the moment she uttered that soft curse.

The blood drained from her cheeks leaving her ghostly pale.  The freckles standing out in stark relief against the sudden pallor. Her eyes widened and panicked.  He's seen that expression a few times the last few years, terror. 

Something is very, very wrong. 

For a girl who spent her time alone in the woods surrounded by Walker's to freak out, his gut is already tightened with knots even before she whispers it, he more sees the words leave her lips than hears them:

“We have to go, now.”

Her bow is in her hands, pulled but searching for aim. This is going to be ' Woodbury Bad' all over again, a tank at the gates, whatever happens in the next few minutes has the very real possibility of altering the course of his life, if not ending it. He can feel it.

"Isn’t this a pleasant surprise!"

She damn near jerks with the words. Her body going taught like a bow string ready to snap, she twists and sets her sights on the newcomer…but she doesn’t fire, why?

“Caleb.” 

He jerks his attention off her, raising his bow to face the obvious threat of the guy standing only ten feet away, and freezes. Rage floods his system. 

This Asshole, Caleb, has a shotgun point right at Seraphim. 

The young man, maybe in his mid to late twenties is dressed for hunting, camouflage gear and boots. He hasn't even acknowledged Daryl's existence. 

“Drop it!” It’s two against one, but he can’t take the shot not with the weapon pointed at her and Caleb’s finger on the trigger. Hell, the fucker could slip in the mud that’s almost gotten him half a dozen times today and blow her head off on accident. The thought makes his skin crawl with alarm, how quickly this could be over for her, the blink of an eye, just…gone.

He can almost feel the tense waves rolling off her.  She looks ready to bolt into the woods at any second. She stands firm though; tension on her bow, arrow aimed at the new guy's face. She pulls it back further as he steps closer. Her arms tremble and he doubts having seen her shoot that it’s fatigue from keeping tension on the bow.

“Going somewhere Fin? Don’t leave just yet. You look good! It’s been a while.” A lazy smile splits his face that looks anything but friendly as he steps closer to her.

"Whoa, Caleb! Take it easy!” Gary practically shouts it. He takes a step towards them both, trying to defuse a situation from violence that’s already beyond saving.  His empty hand held up placatingly towards Caleb palm up. “This is Daryl, and….” Gary pauses. He hadn’t even learned her name yet. That’s how damn fast this mess went south.

“…Daryl's part of my previous group!" Gary sputters finally.

But Caleb doesn't even acknowledge Gary. He's just staring down Seraphim like he wants to eat her alive, slowly stalking closer.

“So, Daryl is it?” He speaks, conversationally. Casual, like they’re having afternoon tea instead of seconds away from death.

"Put it down asshole."

“Sorry Daryl, I can’t do that. Look man, I get it, you were out here alone, she offered to help you…and look at her.” Caleb’s eyes slide up and down her body making Daryl’s finger twitch, itching to pull the trigger and kill this sonofabitch.   

“She looks good enough to eat.”  He takes another step. “You don’t know her like we do, this girl is dangerous!  She almost killed me and my brother…I've got no problem with you, like Gary said, you can come back with us. You're more than welcome to join us, but not her. We gave her a chance already." His face contorts with anger and if Daryl had any question of talking their way out of this it’s gone now.

“I said put it down, and back the hell up!” He’s not gonna stand her and listen to this asshole spew bullshit words about her.  Whatever she’s done, he’s positive she had a damn good reason. He’s heard the nightmares, held her tight against his body while she thrashed. His blood boils.

Caleb is addressing her again, stepping closer. "Come on Fin, you can’t win here. You really think you can take me out before I put a bullet in that pretty little skull, Dollface?  Just put it down, and walk away.  I’ll let you leave! Robert wouldn’t give you that option, but me?” He's still watching her. Licks his fucking lips.

Forget the crossbow. He's going to gut him, rip his insides out with his bare hands.

He’s not going to let them walk. He’s certain of it. Beside him Gary is gasping for air like a fucking freight train watching them all with wild eyes, gun useless in his hands.

And then he knows what it feels like to die because his heart fucking stops. Watching in disbelief, horror as she drops her arms. Tosses her bow to the side leaving herself defensless—His hands tighten on his bow, his feet shifting the urge to kill this fucker now almost too much. 

She lifts her hands, palms up.  

“Let me go.” Her voice fucking shakes.

Barely more than a strangled whisper.  

Maybe he can trade his life for hers.  

Figure out how to get her free of this mess. His thoughts spin trying to work a way out—not finding one makes it hard to breathe. 

He needs to defuse this situation somehow. Get her the Hell away from this guy that's making her shake like a leaf.

This monster isn't touching her. 

Just the thought, watching him move closer like a predator stalking prey makes him see red. 

Is this the asshole from her nightmares?

He was going to find out.

And if it was, he vowed to kill him.

Very slowly…

"Hey Caleb, let's be reasonable, we can put the guns down, She's just some girl!" Gary tries again, his head swinging wildly between the three of them locked in a triangle of death. 

If Caleb kills her, he won’t walk away from this, if his arrow doesn’t kill Caleb, he vows to just beat the man to death with his fists.

"She's bad news Daryl, I’m telling you. Don’t let that sweet little ass tempt you into the same mistakes that we made!" Caleb is still trying to turn him against her, aware of Daryl’s weapon trained on him even if she dropped hers. "She lives out here with dead people, she’s not right in the head." 

He's about to tell him to Go to Hell when she speaks up.

"I’m not the one that eats people ." She snaps venom laced through every word.

Course not, Hell kind of comment is that ?

Daryl pauses, gaze moving from her rigid back despite her upraised hands to take in Caleb's expression, watches the other man's darken while his grin widens. His answering smile could fuel Daryl's nightmares for years.

She's not really suggesting…F ucking Hell . 

He's going to be sick. How many of their people were injured, easy pickings? Glenn was still sick when they were attacked…the small kids… The thought prickles and twists his insides. 

She talked about monsters. 

She was right. 

When you meet them, 

you just Know.

"What the Hell is going on here?" Gary blusters looking ready to panic as if the weapons were pointed at him. 

"She surrendered, just let her go!” Gary tries frantically to talk them all down.  “What is going on here?!"  He barely registers Gary's escalating tone.

He's too busy fighting the intense hate that's making his fingers twitch towards the trigger, makes him want to bash his crossbow into Caleb's fucking face—until it’s nothing but meat for looking at her like that. 

Smash his skull for even thinking about threatening her—let alone doing it right here in front of him.

He's never itched to beat a man within an inch of his life so badly. That kind of Rage used to take Merle, but not him.

"What's going on is your boy needs to get that gun off my girl before I give him some extra holes!" He shifts his feet, trying to keep his aim as deadly as possible, if he gets just a moment with that gun down…

"I’m really sorry, man. You have no idea. She can’t be trusted, but I get it—you don’t know me, right? Why don’t we take a walk back to my family’s place. We can work this out. Bring the girl, I promise no one will hurt you."

Caleb's voice is calm. Reasonable. If it weren’t for the gun pointed inches from her heart, he might almost believe it.

If he wanted peace, he’d drop the weapon.

But he doesn’t.

Just stands there, flapping his gums—like he really thinks he can talk him down. Like he’s got a chance in hell of convincing Daryl that the woman who’s stolen his focus, halted his breathing more than once—the girl who stared him down without blinking while he growled, who looked amused —Who sent his stomach crashing to the floor with the barest touch…Who stole his fucking clothes and had the balls to tease him about it—The feel of her asleep in his arms. Soft skin. Warm breath. 

That sharp tongue and those dangerous eyes…

That she’s not worth it.
Not worth everything . And more.

The thought alone threatens to close his throat.

“I know her,” he growls, the weight of it all cresting behind his teeth. Every moment, every jolt and pulse and glance from the last few days, crashing through him like a wave.

What if it’s already over?

What if he never gets to wake up beside her again?

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, Drop your weapon or I’ll blow her fucking head off.” 

He won’t.

He can still fix this. He has to.

His hands itch to grab her. To shove her behind him. To shake her for walking into the woods alone again.
He can’t do this—not again.

First Sophia, then Merle and Carol…

Not after everyone he’s ever tried to hold onto has slipped through his hands.

“Daryl.” 

It’s a whisper. But it hits like a whip. Sharp. Burning. Straight through his chest.

“Please…”

Fuck. 

He can’t do this. 

It’s hopeless. Why does he keep trying to save people when all he does is lose them? 

His arms drop like dead weight.
His fingers open. The crossbow slides down, hits his boot, and drops to the forest floor.

Because what’s the point?
He can’t save her.
And God help him, without her—he doesn’t even want to try.

“Excellent, now we’re just going to walk back home. Nice and quiet,” 

He barely hears or registers the words.

Whatever she says in response, Caleb’s answering smile is like a shark. 

“Start walking Fin. We don’t want to be late for dinner.”  

She’s shaking her head frantically. If he thought she looked pale before, now helplessness claws at him all over again. It’s one thing to die, it’s another to do it slowly–and that is exactly what’s coming. He tries to latch onto the fear of that thought, turn it back to the anger–feed it fuel to keep them alive.

“Walk,” Caleb growls, “They want you alive but I’ll blow you away here and now and be done with it.”

"Woah, We can just let them go…" Gary the idiot, still talking. He's always been about as useful as tits on a bull.

He's not watching Caleb's face. Taking in the way he's watching Seraphim like he just found a shiny new toy he can't wait to take home–and break open.

 "It doesn't have to be like this–"

The world shifts in a blink. She moves so fast, his brain stumbles for a fraction of a heartbeat processing it. He thought they were giving up—but she’s just getting started. Baiting Caleb right into striking range. 

She’s no longer standing in front of him where he can shoot—she’s less than a foot from his left side, well behind the weapon’s range.

Her left arm sweeps up and around the barrel, trapping it in the crook of her arm.

Daryl bends to snatch his crossbow off the ground, shoot this fucker and end this.

A gunshot cracks like thunder. His ears ring from the proximity.

The standoff, which he hadn’t realized was still on, is over. Now it’s fight or die.

Her elbow connects with Caleb’s surprised face, sending him stumbling back—leaving the weapon in her hands.

Fucking Amazing, Impossible. Completely mad woman.

He starts to aim at Caleb, ready to end this nightmare, when movement catches his eye—making his blood run cold.

She’s trying to wrest control of the shotgun, fumbling with it—when Gary decides to be a man of action. 

The fucking moron.

Daryl twists and aims to fire but not before the larger man has stepped forward with the shotgun in both his hands—

He swings the damn thing like a baseball bat right into her back as she’s fumbling it around, she cries out in pain with the blow. 

He can only pray that the backpack stuffed with sleeping bags and that stupid death trap of a tent blunted the impact—that she didn’t just crack ribs in the middle of a fight.

Gary nearly drops the gun when the arrow embeds itself in his upper arm. 

"Drop it!" He orders.

Gary doesn't.  

It’s two fights now. He needs to stop Gary so he can help her. Daryl spins, moves to block him, he doesn't want to kill him—it's not his fault he's an idiot. But he absolutely fucking will right now.

His arrow hit–but not fatally. Maybe not even enough to slow the fucker down he realizes–as Caleb is charging towards Seraphim—but before he can reload, Gary is moving in rage. Charging blindly at him, shotgun gripped like a club and screaming like a madman.

Caleb stands a full head taller than her, looked like he wanted to crush her in his bare hands even before she struck him and really pissed him off...He's almost three times her size by weight…yet she could have had him if Gary hadn’t clubbed her in the back like a chicken shit coward.

Gary swipes at him. It's a clumsy stumble that he avoids, the mud under his boots presents a serious problem...he just needs a little space so he can get another bolt in his weapon. He spins to track his opponent, as Gary is coming at him again he lifts the bow up to stop the downward strike and shoves the weapon up and away from him dancing back a few feet while Gary tries to navigate the uneven ground and slick surface.  

He grabs a bolt, starts to load it but out of the corner of his eye he sees Seraphim on the ground. Caleb on top of her—choking her. 

No. He needs to end this shit.   Help her, but Gary has a wider reach, unskilled but angry as a hornet. Gary could kill him if he’s not careful. 

Especially with the added reach the length of the barrel gives him–at least he isn’t competent enough to shoot him. But he’s not letting up and this isn’t the kind of fight he’s used to, distance and stealth are his best weapons.

He needs an opening, a second or two and some space…

He kicks out, better to risk his leg than his head and manages to send the man back a step but not enough, he recovers faster than Daryl expected– he’s trying not to slip in the mud after kicking the man, hoping to get enough distance to load the damn weapon.

Gary whips the rifle butt at him like a damn club.  

He jerks back; but not fast enough. Feels the crack against his head, the world tilts, forest spins around him in lazy circles. He manages to keep his feet scrambling backwards, getting a tree in between them.

God damn. It's been a while since someone cleaned his clock that good.

Watching the damn girl is going to get them both killed.

The agony throbbing in his head should have more of his attention, but he no longer registers the ringing in his ears, or the pounding beat of his heart racing in his chest—because he heard her scream. 

He’s sure of it, just a moment ago… but she's not screaming anymore… Why was she screaming? 

Why isn't she still screaming?  

Gary comes at him again but all he sees is an obstacle in his way. Not a man. He sees nothing, lashes out blindly with his fist, vision still off kilter.  The other man is too close to shoot, but the bolt in his hand can still do serious damage. He drops the crossbow, rushes the two steps to the larger man he has to leap at him praying he doesn’t slip–he doesn't. 

He grabs the back of his sweaty fat neck with one hand, slams the bolt down into the wide brown eye, before ripping it free again.  There’s a lot more fucking blood when you stab someone that’s still alive… there’s no time to be sick, or regret. Anger that this piece of shit delayed him is a hell of a lot stronger.

Gary screams, drops the shotgun and falls backwards onto his ass clutching his bloody face with both hands. Follow through, Daryl picks up the crossbow. The bolt finally where it belongs, he raises it. Fires. 

Gary falls back dead, and he grabs the arrow from the man’s other eye putting his foot on his head to yank it back enraged. Reloading still covered in the other man’s blood.

He spins, searching, neither of them are there.

Where. Is. She?

He turns around again, positive they were just over there where the ground is turned up from a struggle. He didn’t think it was possible for his heart to pound more than it was when he was in a fight for his life. 

But he was wrong, because it’s about to rip its way right out of his chest when he doesn't see her.

He heard her only moments before; he couldn't have dragged her off that fast. He stumbles forward to where they were last, head still ringing and fighting a wave of nausea, eyes to the ground, reading the scuffle in the wet earth.

He bends, trying to read the imprints in the ground, there’s no footprints away. 

Where is she? He’s running out of time.

Where the fuck is Caleb ? His brain tortures him with a progressively sickening rolodex of images. If he's touched her…

A scream rips through the air. One that ends all too abruptly. 

He doesn't think, just bolts towards the sound; the river. Praying he isn’t too late. He sees the deep gouges in the dirt, so obvious no one could miss them even with his swimming head. 

The sliding, trampled earth and mud tracks where they tumbled end over end trying to stop before dumping into the water.

He's running downhill before he's aware he told his feet to move, sliding, leaping, managing to snag a thick tree trunk with his free hand just before he plummets into the water himself…there’s a five foot drop here over maybe waist deep rushing waters. He searches the surface frantically.

Moves to follow the current searching, searching…for movement; the flame of her hair; anything to tell him where she is…

There! She pops up between two white swirling peaks of water gasping for air and thrashing. The water is a freezing churning mud colored mass with a current strong enough to snap bones on any of the downed limbs and half covered rocks hidden in its depths.

Caleb is next to her, He’s got a hold of her back with one hand grabs the back of her head, practically lifting her small frame up and slamming her down into the water like it was a floor. He forces her down as the current sweeps them further downstream.

He's running, thankfully faster than the water, by the time he reaches them Caleb's feet seem to have found some solid ground. He's standing, water pushing at his waist. He's struggling to fight the current's dragging pull, taking little steps as it shoves against him; merciless and unyielding; but he's still holding her under.

The water around her swirls, splashes and bubbles as she fights against his hold.

Bastard–piece of shit, is not going to drown her right in front of him.

Daryl's raises his weapon and fires, Caleb’s body jerks and he howls in pain, but he doesn’t fucking let go. Reloading he’s leaping as far as he possibly can, hoping to god he doesnt snap an ankle or impale himself on an unseen tree limb.  It’s worth the risk to get to her, get her out of the water, she’s been under too damn long… He lands not five feet from the motherfucker, fires without thinking, aiming in a blind rage. Caleb reels two arrows now embedded between his shoulder blades. The wounds are fatal–he just might not realize it yet.

He spins to face Daryl, snarling in rage but lets Seraphim go.

Daryl doesn't wait for her to get up, already rushing forward, bow raised to smash its end two handed into Caleb's startled face. The bone crushing impact sends him lurching back blood rushing down his wet face from his nose. Caleb twists trying to get away even as Daryl smashes the bow into the side of his head, blood spills down into Caleb's eyes blinding him. Daryl is smashing him again as he falls face first into the river. He brings it down once more as Caleb bobs under the water with the blow, rising back up lifeless and limp as he's floating away. 

He's been yelling, has no idea what…the urge to keep smashing until Caleb is nothing but a pulverized lump of meat still roars through him.

The sight of Seraphim, still face down in the river being carried off by the current stops him cold.

He curses and slings his crossbow onto his back and out of his fucking way so he has both hands free. Lifts his legs to run with As little water resistance as possible letting the current help to carry him towards her limp form.

He manages to get his hands on her before they're back in deep water. He hauls her up from the current by her arms, jerking her back against his chest. Locking an arm around her waist to keep her tight so the water can’t try to separate them again while he works his way back back to shore…she's not moving, he tries slapping her cheek and gets nothing...

She can't die like this.

Three years alone, and the first time she trusts someone else to keep her safe he gets her fucking killed by her worst nightmare.

He was supposed to watch her back—and he delivered her to the devil instead.

Caleb's body is floating away bright red swirls curl away from his body lost in the swirling water, his body spins lazily on the current the arrows sticking out of his back as he slides away.

If she's dead… He's going to hunt the fucker down so that when he turns he can kill him again. Hack him into smaller and smaller pieces, slowly…

And it won't be enough.

He's moving his feet against the current, calling her name…total nonsense spilling out of his god damn mouth as he's hauling her toward the bank. He has to grab at limbs and branches with his free hand to help him move against the water's insistent pull, hindered by her limp weight, and  his own water logged clothes and cold limbs. 

She’s never been so still in his arms, it’s terrifying.

She still hasn't moved when he reaches the bank. Lurches out, nearly falling trying to fight a frustrating combination of gravity, a slick muddy bank and heavy wet clothes on both of them. 

He flings his crossbow up onto the ground away from the threat of falling anywhere near the water… and has to heave despite her small size, stumbling and half dropping them both to the ground in a fumble of cold uncoordinated muscles and blind panic.

He's calling to her again, now that she’s laid out before him, praying for a response. He shakes her limp form; her eyes are glassy and unmoving, skin pale and ice cold against the dark mud on the bank. He feels for a pulse, finds one; it's weak. She's not breathing.

She probably drank half the river…

He tries pressing air into her lungs. 

Her lips are ice cold under his, nothing like he imagined.

This can’t happen.

He tries again. 

He's never done this shit—it doesn't seem to be working. 

Is he supposed to press her heart if it’s still beating? It’s so faint. 

He has no idea but he tries it anyway, calling her name repeatedly, begging her to wake up.

He needs to get the damn water out of her lungs.  

She can't breathe through water. 

His brain short-circuits, panic clawing up his throat as he shifts position—moves one hand down, presses hard against her stomach. He doesn’t know if it’ll work, doesn’t care. He just has to do something. Anything.

Because if he doesn’t fix this… No. 

No. There is no other outcome. She has to wake up. 

She has to. He will stay here fighting to keep her heart beating and breathing for her until she comes back to him or turns right under his hands—he won’t stop trying, can’t.

He shoves again, the heel of his hand pushing into her abdomen. She’s limp. Still. His fingers are shaking. 

Water gurgles from her mouth, out her nose even—so he does it again before trying to breathe air into her lungs. 

He told himself he wouldn’t need anyone again. But he needs her to breathe. Just once more. Just one more breath…

He does it again. Harder.

A third time—

And she jerks . A violent spasm that hits like a lightning bolt to his chest. 

Her eyes flutter. She twists her head to the side, convulses, choking. 

He’s there instantly, rolling her, holding her steady—and himself together as her body rebels against the water.  Her whole frame shudders with the force of each ragged cough, muddy water pouring from her mouth and nose in choking spurts.

She's shaking. Retching and spitting it out between fighting every broken heaving gasp of air back into her lungs.

But she's alive . She’s fucking breathing .

And that sound—those thready, fragile, miraculous breaths—is the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever heard. He doesn’t let go of her. Can’t.

His hands roam her back, her side, her shoulder—searching for wounds, searching for confirmation that she’s still breathing, heartbeating, still solid, still real. He can’t stop touching her. Not now.

Even as she curls in the mud, face half-buried in wet leaves, gasping for air like each breath is a battle—he stays pressed against her, saying her name, one hand gripping her side like she might vanish if he lets go.

Her fingers dig into the dirt. 

His fingers dig into her . 

Just to feel her skin, her pulse under his palms.

Just to know she’s still here.

She’s breathing so fast, is that normal? 

Is it the water still? 

Panic from almost drowning? 

Her gasps are wet and shallow, each one sounding like it could be her last. Her body trembles, curled in on itself, and she can’t stop coughing. She’s trying to push herself up, but her limbs won’t obey. He sees it in her eyes—the panic, the confusion, the slow realization that she can’t move the way she needs to.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice cracked raw. “I got you.”  But even as he says it, he knows they’re not out of danger.

She shudders, and he gathers her up—hauls her off the bank and into his arms, her back against his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. He holds her too tightly. Can’t help it. His hands are still shaking.

He lowers his face to her hair, breathing her in like that alone might steady him. Quiet words slip from his lips—nothing clear, nothing he means to say out loud. Just a few hoarse syllables, soft and low against her temple.

She nods faintly, more a tremor than a movement, and he pulls her in tighter.

He exhales, long and shaky, and tightens his grip again. Just for a moment. He needs it. Just this—her weight in his arms, her breath brushing his skin. Proof that she’s still here.

They can’t stay here like this.

He hates to ask her to move so soon after nearly drowning—but her whole body is now tensing, muscles locking with tremors from the cold. Her skin—usually flushed and a little pink, is pale and cold when he presses his palm against her cheek. A thin line of blood trickles down her temple—not a lot of blood, but something cut her. He gently cups her face. Fingers find the split in her scalp from some strike he didn’t see her take.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away, just stares up at him. Her eyes—green and grey and blue all at once from this distance—and any other time that reality would be enough to set him reeling, but he can hear her teeth chattering with each raspy breath.

She’s alive.
But she’s not safe.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

Daryl

The air can't be more than 50 degrees. Even though the sun hasn't made an appearance all day, the light is changing—telling him that sunset is not far off. The temperature will likely plummet further by nightfall.

Not that it needs to plummet at all. Their clothes are soaked, no longer insulating them from the cold. Worse than that—the cold wet fabric and the cool air are actively pulling more heat from their bodies the longer they remain on. 

There’s no way he can manage that tent—he can’t climb trees like she can. She’s going to hate it–but she’ll live, and she can be deal with it—he needs to get them both away from the water, away from that fucking farm, and in front of a fire.

If they don't get warm in the next hour he’ll lose her to hypothermia, probably follow right after her.

Letting go is harder than it should be—He climbs to his feet, the muscles in his legs already burning slightly in protest. She doesn’t stand with him, not that he really expected her too.

He drags her up, and finds he's almost completely supporting her weight with his arm as she leans against him. Her knees nearly buckling with the next shiver.

She tries to say something, but her voice is an indistinguishable rasp. He hopes that’s a temporary issue from the water and the vomit and not damage to her throat from that now dead bastard choking her.

"Don't. We have to move, get the bags, find shelter." She nods into his chest; the movement is more a shuddering jerk of her chin against his chest than an agreement.

Not good. She's completely defenseless. 

He quickly scans the river bank checking for Walkers, sees none thankfully. Finally something has gone right.  He considers leaving her for just a few minutes so he can grab their bags; but he can't bring himself to do it. 

He won't risk leaving her for a Walker to finish her off in the few minutes it might take him to return. He’s not leaving her side ever again. 

"Come On," His arm tightens around her before letting go.

She stumbles, nearly dragging him to his knees. Her head shaking a weak negative.

"Up the bank girl, go." He can't leave her here. 

He's also sure he can't climb the steep incline of the bank with wet ground and carry her. The whole thing reminds him of another steep bank in the middle of summer—at least he didn't get shot with an arrow during the fight earlier...

He wraps both arms around her, pulls her up straight again, has to lean his head down to her ear.

"Stay with me Seraphim please, You can do this." She finally nods though it ends in a full body shudder that rattles her teeth.

He keeps a grip under her arm with one hand, grabs a tree limb, climbs, and pulls. It’s awkward and slower than he’d like, hauling both her and his crossbow up the slope. But he won’t leave either behind. They’re his only lifelines.

She stumbles, but stays upright grabbing limbs, and branches as they climb up the gully to level ground Daryl half dragging her the last bit once his feet are on stable ground.

His arms are around her once more to steady her as she gasps for air after the effort. 

“How far are we from that farm?” he should have known before—but he can fight her over that issue later. Right now he needs to know — before they possibly pass out. 

She blinks up at him. He cups her face, “Fin, How far is it?” 

Blood is still trickling down one side of her face; though it's slowed...maybe she has a concussion? 

She hasn't answered him yet, still staring up at his face like she doesn't know him. That look slices through his chest like a blade. Terrifying.

He raises his other one hand, holding her face, using the softest touch he can to poke gently along her hairline; locates the split in her skin. The source of the blood. It's not terrible, she probably doesn’t need stitches, he hopes. It’s hard to see through the blood.

He needs to get them back to the packs with the supplies they need, and her bow. Out of the wet clothes clinging against their skin. The longer they stay on the more strength they’ll leach from them both. 

He grabs the hem of her long sleeve shirt, starts to lift it over her head. 

Her eyes go a bit wide at that. Staring up at him startled, she offers a weak "No…" and a shake of her head.

"Yes.” He barks back frustrated, now is NOT the time to go shy on him. “It's wet,” 

It’s not doing her a damn bit of good— she should know this. She shakes her head just as fiercely. But he’s not having it—they’re wasting time. 

She’s not dying on him. 

He pulls the sodden material up and off her weak body anyway, her protests feeble in her current state. He's yanking the wet material down and off her arms when she jerks back, nearly falling on her ass. 

He grabs her arms again in both hands leaning right down in her face closer than he would have ever dared before, no longer time to worry or care. He can feel her startled exhale against his skin. 

"Hold still Damnit."

and, fuck she’s still beautiful.

She stands there glaring up at him—that fire in her eyes the warmest part of her. If she wasn't shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering with cold, he'd call the look she's giving him a death glare.  It’s still impressive considering she looks like a tiny angry wet kitten.

His mouth twitches up as he balls the wet material in his hand and presses the cloth to her forehead. A shiver rips down his own spine—he notices his hands are shaking with more than the let down of adrenaline as he dabs the cloth over the blood. Forces himself to focus on clearing it away gently so he can check that it is not that deep. It’s not.

The cold will be what kills them both now. He needs to move.

He repeats his question, his hands are moving over her again, holding her face, sliding around to the nap of her neck looking at the ring of bruises trying to form on pale skin. 

Rage washes through him once more bright, and hot. That Bastard.

"Can you walk?" His voice is rough. Ideally, they need to do more than walk, they’re running out of time. 

How long has it been, 10 minutes? 15? It feels like a lifetime. He’s so cold.

He’s never been so fucking cold in his entire life, he’s certain of it. The kind of cold that slices through soaked clothes and settles in the bones.

"I..thinnk…I…" Her teeth chatter so hard around the words he can barely understand her. But at least she's responding now. 

He takes her hands and puts her arms around his neck, notices the skin over her shoulder and upper arm slightly pucker with scars, barely visible on her ghostly pale skin. Maybe that explains the constant long sleeves?…looks like something tore into her.

He slides his bow over his shoulder and scoops her up with one hand behind her knees. She doesn't protest, which surprises him. Then again, he might not protest if someone wanted to carry him right now. He tries not to think about how hard it is to lift her. It shouldn't be…she's so tiny, but he's breathing a bit too harsh; chest tight.

It’s so fucking cold.

He's lucky the current hasn't carried them too far from where they started. He manages to work his way back to their dropped and discarded things. He wraps his arm tighter around her back, sets her feet down, leans her against a tree while he quickly locates her bow and a few dropped arrows that spilled from her quiver during the scuffle.

They're incredibly lucky she dropped her quiver when she dropped her pack in the initial fight, they'll still have arrows to defend themselves with; assuming they live through the night.

He puts her pack on his back, a little surprised at its weight. Slides both bows over his own shoulder.  She's shaking so hard he can see it from here.

He returns to her side. Her skin is freezing. Worse than before. Her teeth chatter violently, and her breath comes in wet, wheezing gasps. She’s going into shock.

“We gotta move,” he mutters to himself. His voice shakes. It’s not fear—it’s the cold, and adrenaline fading, and the unbearable weight of possibly losing her. Again.

He tries to lift her. She whimpers. He pauses, cups her face with a muddy hand, leans in close. “I know it hurts. I know. But I need you to hang on.” She nods weakly.

It takes every bit of strength he has to get her off the ground. She’s not heavy, but she’s dead weight. Exhausted. Barely conscious. And he’s spent. His head throbs. The blow Gary landed earlier is still pulsing. He might be concussed. 

Doesn’t matter.

He adjusts her in his arms, clutching her tightly to his chest as he begins the slow, grueling hike uphill through the mud. His boots slip. She’s shaking violently now. Whimpering without meaning to. Each sound goes straight through him.

“I got you,” he mutters over and over. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I got you.”

But it’s getting harder to believe his own words.

It feels like a thousand needles are piercing his skin. His soaked clothes don’t even feel cold anymore. Just pain. They both need to get dry and warm, now. It's quickly becoming a matter of life and death. 

He's been walking for what feels like hours in agony but in reality is probably minutes when she stops shaking.

She goes limp. He panics.

He calls her name, shakes her, but she doesn't respond. Not good, he can still see her shallow breathing; hear the air that wheezes out of her abused lungs.

How far have they traveled? How close are they to that fucking farm?

She never even mentioned the possibility that they might run into someone like that. If he understood what she was telling him that Caleb guy—his family, they’re God Damn Cannibals. 

When she wakes up he's going to tear her a new ass. Damn girl had better wake up .

He has to tell her he's completely on board with annihilating all her monsters.

He shudders so hard he nearly drops her, his muscles threatening to lock up in useless spasms. He stops for a moment trying to collect himself. His fingers ache from holding her so tight; afraid he's going to drop her, not be able to pick her back up. 

His heart is pounding. Every inch of his body is on fire. Part of his brain is screaming at him to just stop; set her down. Warm himself up. But he's afraid they're not safe—until an outline in the trees catches his eye.

He moves closer, hoping his discovery is in good enough shape structurally not to collapse on their heads. It looks like an old tobacco or smoke shed.

It's small, less than 10 feet wide. The structure is old. Boards weathered into the rough texture and distinct grey of ancient wood. Some of the slats are missing—but the majority of walls are intact enough that he might be able to keep a fire without anyone being able to see it for miles in the dark. It might offer at least some protection from Walkers, delaying them at least so he has time to react.

He circles it, tripping over his own feet with the effort to keep moving, and finds a door in the far side. He sets her down as carefully as he can; which means he still drops her the last two feet.

He tries not to think about the fact that she doesn't complain about that—doesn't move at all…he pulls his crossbow forward and pushes the door open.

There are enough holes in the metal roof to see the deserted dirt floor inside is empty of bodies or people.

He steps inside, double checks the space is empty, then drops the bows and bag—leaving the door open behind him so he can keep one eye on her. He opens her pack as quickly as his shaking hands will let him. Fumbling at the closures.  Grabs the sleeping bag, unzips it and shakes it out almost flat onto the dry ground. Then opens the second one laying it over the first, facing the opposite direction. He grabs the instant hot packs he knows are in her first aid kit, activating them and tossing two into the foot of the bag.  

He steps back outside. Lifts her limp body up by her arms, has to bend down to lift her over his shoulder, unable to get her up into his arms without losing his balance.

Warning bells are clanging through his thoughts like church bells. Telling him how much danger they're both in… but all he can focus on is her not answering him when he steps inside lets her slide down in front of him, drops her back to sit on the dirt floor, lays her back to lie down; completely limp.

"Fin. Fin, Seraphim!" He shakes her, taps urgent fingers against her cheek, cups her face. Nothing.

He's torn between starting a fire and stripping off wet clothes. His brain is a fumbled mess of raw nerve endings screaming at him in pain while he tries to remember—what's more important right now?

Wet clothes. But she’s not awake to take them off. His hands shake with something other than cold.

Screw it.

He grabs the hem of her top, pulls it over her head–jerks his eyes away from her skin when there’s nothing underneath. 

And okay, slight complication he doesn’t have time to panic over. 

He grabs the buckles at her waist, unclipping them as fast as he can with uncooperative fingers. 

Yanks the ties on her boots, and pulls them off, peels off the wet socks next. Her pants are last, he’s trying not to look–has to, so he can work the closure at her waist. Fingers fumbling at the clasp like a teenager. She’s possibly going to freeze to death and still something deep inside him stirs and takes note when his hands grip the fabric. Uncoils and purrs as he drags them down over slim hips he could almost span with his hands—And fuck, not now. 

Focus on her life. He rips at the material with frustrated hands. They stick to her hips, and legs, her skin is ice cold, clammy under his hands as he tugs them off nearly falling on his ass. He doesn't intend for her undergarments to come off with the pants; but he has such a hard time pulling her wet pants down her legs he can’t waste time trying to put wet clothes back on her. 

Modesty be damned right now. He can control himself.

If she lasts the night she can try to kill him in the morning.  Hell, she might find murdering him while naked an interesting challenge. 

He half drags, half lifts her onto the open sleeping bag, folds the top portion of the inner bag over her limp form, zips it, layers the other on top. Works quickly. Clumsily.

The zipper teeth keep catching on the fabric underneath. He curses. Close enough, a shiver rattles him so hard he nearly goes to his knees. He strips his own clothing. 

He's so cold he forgets for a second to untie his own boots, trying to toe them off his feet and nearly falling down. He's shaking so hard. 

He’s not sure he’s ever been so damn cold. 

He's finally stripped down to nothing. He debates starting a fire—wondering if he should have done it before, but doesn't think he can in his current state.  He can't even feel his fingers anymore. He lays their clothes flat quickly. Hoping they'll start to dry—that they’ll be alive to find out.

He considers a fire once more until the next round of full body shivers rattle his teeth and almost knock him on his ass.

 Crawls in beside her.  fingers fumbling at the zipper to close in as much heat as possible, though he leaves it open enough that he could hopefully react and grab his bow. She’s so cold he recoils.

She's half his size and was in the water twice as long. He checks the pulse at her neck with clumsy fingers so cold it’s hard to tell anything. But he can feel her breathing this close to her, so she has to be alive. 

He tries to wrack his blank brain for what to do next. 

He pulls her close. Skin to skin. Wrapping his body around hers like a shield. Rubs her arms. Breathes on her fingers. Strokes her back. 

Finds himself with his nose buried in her neck, breathing her into his lungs like a drug, sliding his fingers over her hair.  Somehow despite being dumped in a river and rolling around in the mud she still smells faintly of vanilla and spice.

His breath stutters out of him as he buries his face in her hair, whispers things—low, broken things that aren’t full sentences. Nonsense, maybe. Prayers. Promises. Pleas. Words he probably won’t even remember later.

But they pour out of him anyway, cracked and hoarse against her temple, as if saying them might keep her here. Might anchor her in his arms. She has to live through the night so he can get her home.

Home

He pauses, surprised by the thought. The prison never felt like home, the farm–closer but he’d never settled in there…the house of his childhood never felt like one. He didn't really know what a home felt like—even as an adult. It was just a place to sleep; eat a meal.

Home wasn’t a place.

Home was with his family, Rick and Carl, Maggie and Glenn, Beth, and the others…and now her. Seraphim's home; his home— their home.

He realizes over the past few days he's started hoping she won't run away like he half expected that first night. It felt like holding his breath for days just waiting for the moment she’d slip through his fingers—one more beautiful thing he can’t hold onto, dreading the moment he’d find her gone. 

There's room in their group for her. He hopes she knows that…and maybe it’s more than just that. He wants her there right next to him.

She stirs against him, he stills.

"Fin?" Still nothing.

The ceiling holes and missing boards let in just enough light that he can see her face. She moans in her sleep, shivers. He wraps his arms back around her in reflex, pulling her tight to his chest.

No big deal, Just another night. Just trying to stay warm . 

Ignoring the fact that she’s naked. 

So is he…at least his body is too cold to react and embarrass the shit out of him. He's trying to keep her alive damnit. His heart is hammering and he’s afraid to blink, worried if he closes his eyes he won’t get them open again.

It’s another battle he’s losing—like trying to keep his eyes off her since the moment they first took her in, there’s no fighting this, doesn’t matter how hard he tries.  He can feel sleep trying to drag him under. 

He rests his forehead against hers. Their limbs tangled, the silence broken only by the sound of her shaky inhales. 

“I thought I lost you.” His voice is hoarse. She doesn’t answer. But she’s breathing. That’s enough.

He doesn’t want to go. Not until she wakes up. They’re not out of danger. But they’re alive. And they’re here .

He loses the battle a few moments later, his eyes slip shut, consciousness fading into a sea of black.  

Chapter Text

Chapter Fifteen

Seraphim

I'm dreaming. 

I know I must be dreaming because several things make absolutely no sense.

The first one, I'm lying on the ground—I never sleep on the ground. Ever.  I haven’t in years.

Two—I'm not alone.  Considering the recurrent theme my brain has been riding lately—I've got a pretty good idea just who's arm is wrapped around me—and I am not complaining.

And the final point in my slam dunk, concrete evidence; and this is the Big One.

I'm Naked. 

It doesn't get any more ridiculous than that. Naked. 

In a…sleeping bag??

—with Daryl 

Yeah okay, thanks brain. I think I have a problem. 

I obviously need my head examined. 

At the very least I need to switch to something other than romance novels when I get home. They've apparently melted my brain. I've become incapable of G-rated dreams. 

Oh well, It's not like this would ever happen in real life—might as well enjoy it…And it beats the hell out of night terrors. Those suck.

I wiggle my hips scooting back flush to his chest. His arm tightens around me in reaction pulling me in close 'til I'm flush with him, skin on…  

Oh My. 

Dream Daryl is naked too. Sure. I’ll roll with it.  Ignore the illogical and cliche, if I question the insanity too hard I might wake up. And that would be a crime.

I hum in approval, the sound changes to a soft moan when his hand slides up from my waist. His rough calloused fingertips teasing over soft pliant skin creating the most appealing friction. 

—and Damn, my brain is getting good with these details. My breath catches. Callouses can feel really…interesting. 

A groan of approval escapes my lips as I arch into warm palms cupping my breasts. I lean back into a hard and leanly muscled chest. Sighing in approval at the sensation. I raise one hand to cup the back of his head.  Run my fingers through his thick hair. 

I know it’s him—I don’t even need to look. The scent of woodsmoke, leather and something else without a name makes my blood sing. The faint scent reminds me of the forest on an early morning—right after a heavy rain. The feel of his now familiar chest against my back makes my body ache.

I tilt my chin so his lips can continue trailing soft open-mouthed kisses across my skin. His lips move up to my ear, travel back down to nibble my collarbone. I moan, press my thighs together over the heat roaring out from my apex to flood my whole body. I need pressure, friction, something more…

One of his hands leaves my breasts, edges down my side to wrap around my hip—holds me flush against him as his hips press against me. Every nerve ending in my whole body arcing with tiny sparks of pleasure at his touch. 

My breath leaves me in a strangled gasp, trying to hold back a moan. I grind blindly back into the sensation of his erection pressing to the curve of my ass.

I lose the battle a split second later, moaning, at the heat of his mouth.  Tilt my head offering him more access—more skin to suckle and nip. The rough stubble against soft skin sends my pulse skittering, but I can’t complain. 

My subconscious is apparently very committed to realism now.  My hips incline towards him without thought, my body on autopilot; seeking release. 

I might not have any real experience, but I've got fantasies for days, and when I sleep, they seem to be taking over… 

I gasp and grind against his length pulling a rough moan from his lips. 

I need more…need to touch him; all of him. 

I twist in his arms, turn until I can face him. His arms pull me in again. Until I'm flush against the enveloping heat of his chest once more, a sigh escapes me. Heat radiates from his skin like a campfire.

It's cold tonight, his heat feels glorious drifting across my skin…I want to spread it over every inch of my body. Wrap myself in it, and get lost.

I let my hands trail over his chest through the sparse hair over his heart; feel its pounding beat under my fingertips. Run my fingers down over the firm muscles in his core—feel them tense and jump under my questing fingers. I dip my head, tuck my face into the warmth under his chin, breathe him deep into my lungs.

He smells wild, dangerous. My instincts should be telling me to run, but some irresistible pull sinks into my belly, lures me closer to him every time. It's a fascinating mixture that makes my head whirl.

I run my hands back up his well-muscled arms, thrilled that I get to feel them flex under my hands… I've been more than a little distracted by these perfectly muscled arms for days...every time he hefts that damn crossbow...  I’ve nearly tripped over my own feet staring at them...more than once.

My fingertips trace up to his broad shoulders, then down his back. I pause there, perplexed by my new discovery. At the slightly rough skin over his back. 

Scars? 

They slice faintly over the otherwise smooth expanse between his shoulder blades. I trace my fingers over them breathing against his skin—feel him go tense under my hands.

My fingertips glide, feather light, tracing the tiny imperfection on his gorgeous body—trying to understand what injury would scar him like this. His breath catches but he doesn't move beyond tensing muscles—making no move to stop my searching fingers. 

It's an odd thing for my dream to have. He's never had marks on his skin like these before…

That thought tugs at my consciousness for a moment—until his mouth finds my neck and I'm too focused on the way his breath feels against my skin…the heat of his lips traveling across my throat to taste the dip of my shoulder to spare another thought for the unsettling detail.

I let my hands slide down to his chest, almost to his hips…pause finding a second rough spot marring his perfect side... this one halfway down just below his ribs.

I slide my hands over the imperfect skin, my eyes closed tight, face pressed against his neck, breathing unsteady; trying to read his skin like braille. Unsure what happened here—why it's in my dream…? 

Why would my fantasy mar his perfection in any way?

He tenses under my fingers when my hand dips lower, moving on.

Now his breathing changes. Coming in harsh pants against my neck. His fingers tighten over my wrist when my fingers find another very interesting part of him. One I'm far more interested in exploring further…

He shivers when I touch him. It’s fascinating. 

Breath hisses from between clenched teeth as I wrap my hand around him. Pump down his length, once experimentally–exploring. 

He jerks back from my touch. His hands find my body in the dark, one settles on my hip the other wraps my wrist—like he's going to stop me—But when my hand pumps down him again all his fingers do is tighten to an almost painful grip. 

A deep groan escapes him. A soft exhaled word I barely hear—warning me off.  Discouraging my evening plans.

But his hips buck forward into my hand. He obviously enjoys the sensation. I'm curious about the hesitation… Dream Daryl has always been more aggressive…until now. 

Now he patiently waits, breathing ragged. Tiny tremors of tension moving through his whole frame while I explore him. He says nothing further. His hands motionless, grip firm but frozen where he first laid them against my skin. 

I want to feel them running over me. I want him to touch me.

I release my grip on him to take his hand from my side. He lets go instantly with the gentlest tug of my fingers, like he’s suddenly startled with the realization that he was touching me to begin with.

His breathing quickens. Exhales rough and unsteady when I place his warm hand against my breast again. He just holds his hand there, trapped under mine, heat sinking into my skin under his palm while my insides quiver and my nipple pebbles. 

A sound rumbles out of him. The arm wrapped around my back pulls me in closer. The soft skin of my middle flush with the slight tickle of hair trailing down his belly. That feels…so incredibly good, and real. 

He doesn’t move his hand though, 

one heart beat passes, 

Two…

Maybe I’m about to wake up?

Then his hand moves over me 

and I don’t want to wake up—maybe not ever.

Long fingers and warm palms cup and tease, glide over soft yielding flesh and squeeze. 

Fuck. That shouldn’t feel so good, but the touches ripple through me, building the soft swirling tingles in my belly to a burning flame.

I lift up to move, one hand against his shoulder pushing him back while I slide my leg over him. He lays back without a fight, letting me lead him wherever I wish.

It is my dream, so I guess that makes sense?

His breath catching when I straddle his waist just above his hips is delightful and sinfully real. 

Yet—His breathing is the only obvious reaction beyond his finger's tightening over my arms as I put him on his back with no more pressure than the press of my fingertips.

The darkened room we seem to be in spins for a moment with my change in elevation.

I didn't expect that—I’m not sure why I'd suddenly be dizzy.  

The wrong kind of dizzy, not the fun kind. I blink trying to clear my head. 

I must move or make some sound of distress because his previously quiet hands chose that moment to move—the hand on my arm slides up to my shoulder steadying me—bracing my weight while I take in several shaky breaths trying to orient myself.

When I don't move for almost a full minute his fingers slide back up from his grip on my arm, his palm rests against my cheek. His hand cups almost the entire left side of my face. It's warm and comforting. 

I lean into the touch, eyes closed tightly against the spinning darkness. 

It doesn't help…

Why am I so dizzy?  

I don't move, just breath slowly in and out, waiting for the world to stop its crazy tilting ballet. The cold air on my back where the covers have fallen away from my naked skin sends a shiver racing down my spine.  

My whole body shudders in response. I'm instantly colder than I expected, which is odd; I felt so warm a moment before...why would I dream and make it so cold?

I miss the heat of his chest pressed to mine. I shiver, the muscles in my arms trembling under just my weight.

"Seraphim?" He moves then, I feel him sit up in the darkness. His hands pushing at my hips, keeping me balanced while I slide backwards onto his lap as he rises. I gasp when the change in position brings his erection so close to where I want him to be…

He leans towards me somehow completely ignoring the fact that I'm straddled over his lap.  I find myself wrapped back in the heat of his chest as he drapes his arm around my shoulders again, pulling me tight against him.

I let my head drop; forehead pressed to the crook of his neck. Breathing him in. This dream would be far more productive if it wasn't for the dizziness still plaguing my senses…

His hands slide down my back slowly, barely moving—just an achingly gentle glide of fingertips over my spine. Heat floods me with even this simple touch. I gasp, press closer to him taking in the unique scent of his skin.

I want more, I don't want him to stop…

He's silent again, his hands resting on my lower back just above the curve of my ass. If he would just grab my waist, lift my hips; press into me. Or grip my ass and grind himself against me…I tremble in anticipation, disconcertingly ready and wet for someone who's scarcely been touched.

Warm breath tickles my ear. "What are we doing?" 

His shaky whisper confuses me. The hesitation in his touch, his stillness. Dream Daryl has never had to ask me before. In all my dreams, he started our encounters, or sometimes I seemed to drop into a dream mid-program, leaving me somehow feeling extra flustered…which was interesting…even for dreams. 

This is very different. The quiet, hesitant touches, his trembling hands. But it's not a bad difference…If I was actually going to be with someone after….I push that thought away.

No… there’s nothing wrong with gentle. This is how it’s supposed to be, right? 

I'll leave reckless and wild for another fantasy, some other night.

I press closer to him, trail my lips across his skin…feel his breathing change. His pulse skyrockets under my tongue. His grip is unsteady; hands shake as they circle my waist just above my hips. His fingertips tighten as I continue to explore. His fingertips sliding over my back. Tracing some unknown intricate pattern up and down, following a curious path that’s almost chaste. 

I bring my hands up ever so gently, trail my fingers up his arms feeling him flex and tense each muscle under the feather light touch as I trace over them. I find his face in the dark.

He flinches back from my touch, stomach muscles tightening against mine with the movement. He stops just as suddenly, lets out a ragged breath in the dark.

I wait listening to his breathing. Feel him lean into me again slowly. His fingers close over mine, bring them back to his jawline, setting my fingertips against his skin…Maybe I startled him in the darkness the first time.

His fingers slide down my hands to circle my wrists. Keeping tabs on my hands in the low light. I touch him again, encouraged; let my fingers slip from his jaw up to his temple, he sighs.

His hands slide down my arms and move back to my waist. Goose bumps from the cold have broken out across my skin making me shiver and lean into his warmth as my hands slide back through the loose strands of his hair, just long enough to curl around his face, to lie against his unshaven rough jawline. I'm not the only one that could use a haircut...

"Seraphim…" His voice is barely audible.

I sigh now, lean further into him, press my mouth to the side of his neck, feel him shake under my hands.

"Just touch me. It's okay." He seems to need permission.

His breathing quickens again. He doesn't move for almost a full minute. I wait; wonder if I'm about to wake up, tortured without relief. Be forced to lie next to him in the dark yet again, wracked by frustration desperately willing myself back to sleep…

And then, just his thumbs slide over my skin...draw the tiniest of circles against the soft sensitive flesh of my hip. I sigh, lean into his chest.

Air hisses from him between tightly clenched teeth. I take his hands in the dark; feel him tense under my touch when I bring them up to frame my face once more.

I turn my cheek into one of his palms; press a soft kiss to the flesh just below his thumb.

"Please…touch me."

His hands seize me, pull me close until my head is against his neck again. He wraps his arms around my back holding me so close I can feel each ragged breath he takes against my skin.

"Why are you so afraid?" The moment I whisper it, I know it's true. For some reason touching me scares the shit out of him. I'm so tired of everyone being afraid of me. He doesn't seem to fear anything during the day…but the brush of my fingertips down his sides at night has him trembling.

I don't want him to be afraid…Can't stand it.

I tilt my face, let my mouth travel over the hollow in his throat, nibble at his Adam's Apple. The sound he utters is pure approval of my action despite the quiet shake of his hands.

I raise my head, press one soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, bring my fingers up to trail over his jawline and feel his uneven breath against my cheek. I tilt my head again, press another feather light kiss to the other corner of his mouth; draw back giving him time to process, react. 

Maybe stop me, if that’s what he wants.

His lips part in a rush of air against mine as he leans into me. His fingers move up my back, pulling me flush to his skin. I moan against his mouth. His lips slide over mine, so soft I barely feel them.  They might have been a puff of air...Except for the sound he makes. It tears through me, makes me tremble. 

He raises his hands to frame my face, mirroring mine, holding me still in the dark, while his thumbs tracing over my cheeks ever so carefully... like I'm made of delicate glass bound to shatter in his hands. 

I let my eyes slip shut, lean into his warm palms, feel his lips again, just barely there. The softest touch before he pulls back. Only this time—I follow him. His hands move with me; not fighting my movement. Not letting go.

I don't touch him for long, the ghost of a kiss, my lips pressing to the corners of his mouth again, than his lower lip.

I gasp in surprise when he leans forward following my retreat, without waiting. 

His lips finding my mouth again in the dark. Soft lips, sliding over mine with an increasingly bold, firm pressure. I let my fingers trail down to his shoulders, down his arms, slide them back to rest over the muscles covering his ribs, feeling them rise and fall with each nervous breath.

He hasn't retreated from my touch this time; I take that as encouragement and move my lips over his, run my tongue over that distracting bottom lip.

His fingers tighten in my hair as I press my lips against his again. I wait for him to withdraw and when he doesn't, I bring one hand up to tangle in his hair; tug at his scalp just enough that he shifts against me. The change lets my mouth slant over his, gently still, but deepening the kiss, my tongue exploring his mouth.

He freezes for one heartbeat, then two. I'm positive he's going to shove me away, reject me and retreat into the darkness. But his arm glides around my waist, his lips move against mine, fingers cup the back of my neck. 

The kiss changes.  

Angles shifting on a sigh that might be my own and… I'm no longer in control...I gasp into his mouth. Sparks of pleasure working their way down my spine with each breath against my lips, every caress of mouth against hungry mouth. I melt into him.

I let my hips rock against his lap promisingly, seeking more. Feel him jump under the sensation; whimper against my mouth. He deepens our embrace, growing bolder, more possessive with his touches, with his tongue. We’re a tangle of limbs, and soft sounds, mouth sliding over mine, rough, captivating; then soft and gentle.

It's too much, and not enough. 

He's stealing the very air from my lungs in one second; breathing life back into me just when I start a lazy spin in the next. Hunger pours through me, triggers little electric sparks that tingle every nerve. I quiver and jump under his now fervently roaming hands. Arch and practically purr into his mouth with each bolder and bolder caress stoking the fire I already thought was out of control—-but I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

It would be damn embarrassing if it wasn't so exhilarating—if when I pulled back to catch my breath he didn't follow me. Like a man starved for water. 

Pressing soft breathless kisses to my mouth, 

nipping at my lower lip…making me groan his name.

He goes very still. 

Every part of him is shaking–or maybe that’s me.

"Seraphim…" The roughness in his voice sends sparks coursing down every vein.

I'm nothing but nerves and heat.  I want him. I need him…I wiggle and gasp against his neck when his cock briefly makes contact with my center. His length sliding against me just right, with a chance movement of my hips. The brief contact burns through me, clenching my insides, reminding me teasingly what I really want.  

Pleasure sears up my spine like a branding iron, heat making me tremble, anticipation drips from me like honey.

It’s madness, and irresistible, almost too much, and not enough. I need to feel him against me, I want him inside me. I need to envelope every inch of him, wrap myself around him, writhe against him chasing the spiraling tingle of sensations in my belly, the lava in my veins…I want, with an intensity that’s dizzying in all the right ways.  

Touching him like this is empowering, it feels like a drug under my skin, I want to chase the feeling until we can't remember how to speak, how to even breathe.

He groans into my mouth, the sound becomes a growl when my hand wraps around him like before, tracing his thick contours in the dark. I feel his heaviness, fascinated by it, the contrast of soft skin over strength like steel. The twitch and throb against my palm in reaction making my insides ache with desire to be filled. He feels, large, a detail I should probably give consideration to, maybe a little apprehension—but there is none. 

All I feel is a soul deep ache of need, my hands trembling with the overwhelming instinct to move him against me, inside me.

His lips move to my ear, teeth slide over my skin groaning my name. His hands slide down my sides, seize my hand and pull me away from my trophy. I rock my hips backward against him instead. Press my entrance to him, feel my wetness slide over him. 

He hisses a warning against my neck. His teeth slide over my skin, his warm palm covering my mouth for just the space between heartbeats it takes for him to nip at me—sharp and possessive, muffling my reaction. 

and fuck. Yes. I need more of that...

He might be warning me not to take this further with his words, but his hips still buck forward in blind instinct seeking the contact…Even as several long deliciously calloused fingers lock over my hips, digging into my skin to stop me from moving in reaction.

His face is hidden against my neck, breathing far too fast against my skin to be so immobile.

It tickles, sends shivers down to my pebbled nipples pressed against his bare chest. Little sparks of anticipation race down my spine, sending a flood of heat and liquid fire to pool low in my belly where his erection was just gliding over me, against me, so close...

I lean forward, press closer to his chest, his grip tightens on my hips but he doesn't move beyond that. My lips find his neck, press there; feel his breath hitch against my skin when I slide my teeth over his skin, swirl my tongue over him to soothe the sting.

"Daryl," 

He's shaking again... 

"please…." 

I let my mouth trail to his ear, trace my tongue over its edge, his grip becomes painful. 

"Please, touch me…"

"I can't," his voice breaks, "we can't do this…" He's whispering into the curve of my neck, voice rough. The words at odds with the tight, desperate grip of his hands. 

“Shouldn’t be touching you,” he groans, “not like this.”  

Which doesn’t make any sense, not to my brain, and certainly not to my body… 

His breath is hot against my skin while his lips press to my collar slowly dragging up over my skin, sliding teeth and lips against my ear. Pausing there to breathe in the scent of my hair; his tender actions further contradicting his denial...the possessive glide of his hands over my skin.

I pause.  Waiting for further argument, or rebuttal, a reason we shouldn’t do what feels so damn right.

When his lips seal over my earlobe instead I brush my fingers up his sides, use the leverage of my fingers in his hair to lift his head; press my lips to his. 

I feel his mouth slide over mine instantaneously, willingly, greedy and eager for control. I let my tongue tangle with his, fingers curled in the dark hair at the base of his neck, tilt his head back so I can move higher up onto my knees whilst still straddling his lap. 

His grip on my hips tightens once more. His head jerked back from mine in surprise when my hand reaches between us, fingers wrapping around him once more. It’s so tempting and easy to shift my hips and slide the tip of his length against slick, wet heat from my new position. 

"Fuck, Seraphim." His voice is tight, barely audible, exhaled on a ragged breath. 

“This isn’t a dream,” he whispers, voice ragged. His hands cradle the back of my head, reverent. “You… you can’t want this…”

The words hit harder than they should. Not because they’re cruel—but because he means them. And he means well. My breath leaves me in a startled rush. 

I lean away from him stung. They’re not the words I should be focused on—but it’s all I can feel searing through my chest after a one, two punch. 

"Why not?" My voice cracks. "What’s so wrong with me?"

His breath leaves him in a rush of emotion that sounds like disbelief, fingers soften on my hips. 

"Nothin, your fuckin’ perfect…I don't deserve that." He says it so softly, but with such conviction.

How did we get here? With so many wires crossed.

I bring my hands up to frame his face again, tighten my grip on his hair just enough to hold him in place when he starts to pull away. "I want you." 

He shakes his head, ready to argue, his hands shake against my skin.  “Damnit, woman.” He breathes it against my ear, voice ragged with restraint. “This is madness—I am mad for even letting it get this far.”

His mouth caresses the side of my neck, breath tickles my skin, his mouth is hot, he presses open mouthed kisses down to my collar... I shudder. 

I'm so close…and if this is madness then I don’t want to be sane.

A thought stills me and he freezes instantly– going still as stone, like an animal realizing it might be caught in a trap.

“Do you,” I pause to lick my lips. The crush of uncertainty making my voice shake, “...do you want me?”

He grips the back of my head in answer with near bruising force yanking me forward, my lips against his. The sensation in my belly. 

It echoes that dark kitchen the night at the lake. 

But this isn’t a simple tumble, nerves and attraction. It's freefall.

"Seraphim..." It’s a prayer now, cracked and desperate.

His hands rise to cradle my face again, tilting my chin. So I kiss him. Not to seduce—but to anchor us both. 

Tongues, and teeth and hands sparring for dominance until the firestorm in my body is so hot I’m not sure I can breathe. I move my hand pumping over him. His fingers tighten on my hips while I shift, pulling him back to me. 

“No further,” he growls it against my mouth, eyes wild. “I won’t hurt you,” and then devours me again, setting me ablaze.  It feels like he’s eating me alive, and I still want more. 

I’m aching, desperate and possessed of only one thought: 

I feel so damn good, I want it all.

He lets out a curse. Jerking back—breaking the kiss when I use my hand to line him up, and slide my body over him—so wet and ready, he's halfway home before he reacts. Seizes my hips in a bruising grip, halting my slide and the exquisite pressure and nearing pain as I press onto him. Bury him in my heat…

He hisses my full name. Head falling back. Accuses me of trying to kill him in a breathless whisper. But I'm too distracted to care… 

I’m overwhelmed with it.  Every nerve ending possessed by the wicked burn deep inside me. The throbbing fire of muscles stretched wide. The promise of mind blowing pleasure that can only come from one thing—Him.

Sparks dance behind my eyes as I roll my hips against him, despite the bite of his fingers against my skin. The friction of such a small action flares through me. 

Gasoline on a flame.

He buries his face against my neck, whispers my name, tremors sweeping up his spine. 

I press back onto him a little further and he lets me, groaning and shaking underneath me. His fingers never leave my hips—anchoring him to me in the darkness like a lifeline. 

His breath rushing from him in near panicked flutters against my skin.

"We can still stop, you don't have to do this…" it's a whisper against my neck, he holds himself so still—barely breathing. Like he doesn’t trust his own body not to drag me down further if he moves.

Stop?

Fuck that.

I press down hard and fast, driving him all the way inside me right down to the base. My fingers digging into the skin at his shoulders with a startled gasp of surprise and pain. Heat pricks behind my eyes. I quickly close them, needing to hide, if only for a moment…

His hips buck beneath me in reflex when my muscles flutter around him adjusting to his intrusion. He must feel me trembling though, and halts the movement, 

"Have you lost your damn mind?" His tone is harsh but his fingers curl around my neck, thumb slides over my cheek with the softest caress. 

"Did I hurt you?" His voice shakes with the question.

"no…" my voice is barely a whisper. 

Technically, I hurt myself.

I need to move. Distract him before he picks apart my quiet response, blaming himself when it was 100% my choice… 

I draw myself up, feel his fingers tighten hard enough to leave five perfect bruises on my hips. His hand cups the back of my neck as I rise off him slowly—feeling my way through new sensations with overwhelming intensity.

My insides ache as he leaves me with agonizing slowness, afraid I'll hurt myself again, give myself away—That he'll make me stop if I cry out with any sound that he might consider pain. 

I slide back down against him in the same slow rhythm, feeling the sting as I stretch around him slower this time.  I roll my hips into him and we both react like we’ve touching an electric charge. 

“You sure?” and that is the roughest I have ever heard his voice. It makes my insides tighten around him.

“Yes,” 

His grip somehow tightens even more, words raw. “Seraphim, you know this is happening?” 

“Yes” I whisper back. 

A shiver rolls through him, he presses his forehead against mine. “You know who I am?” His voice is gruff, desperate.

I say his name–and it hits with the impact of a summoning ritual. 

An Earthquake.

A Tsunami.

He wraps his hand around the back of my neck again and this time when his mouth meets mine—he consumes me. His body slides against mine again and tears prick my eyes because this is Real.  

He’s touching me, drinking me in, gathering me up, growling my name and driving up into me as I rake my fingers down his back. 

Deargod. 

This man is going to be the death of me.  

I repeat the rhythm several more times feeling his breath come faster with each journey, his muscles coiling tighter and tighter.

Slowly the burn in my belly is replaced by tingles of pleasure that dance behind my eyelids each time I drag his skin across mine, bursts in tiny sparks along my spine when I shift myself over him on the last downward thrust. Rolling my hips in startled pleasure at the sensation dragging a growl that sounded like my full name draped in pure sin from his lips.

The sound sends pleasure through me right to my toes. I instantly want to hear it again.

I draw myself up faster this time and feel his reaction with every nerve in my body when I drive myself down over him with the same tempo, rolling my hips in a soft circle, grinding him deep inside me.

"Holy…” He hisses in a breath 

“…fuck." He shakes, hands sliding over my skin.

I let out a shaky breath that sounds a bit like a laugh because; I agree. 

I repeat the action over and over until I'm trembling from head to toe with the rush of sensation, locked in his arms, gasping for air against the crook of his neck.

Sweat is beaded at the base of my spine, pleasure flooding out every thought, clouding everything out but the drive to feel him moving inside me; buried deep.

His fingers lock around my hips, digging into my skin with deliciously possessive weight.

His pelvis thrusts up against me, grinding against my center with each twist of his hips sending heat roaring up my spine. 

Fire burns through my epicenter, tremors sweep through me. I cry out. Gasp his name against his shoulder as wave after wave of throbbing ecstasy overwhelms me; pouring through my core, clinching my muscles around his next thrust. 

My release dragging a groan from his lips as his head tips back pumping in a rough broken rhythm,  spilling a burst of heat deep inside me as he comes. Filling me with a new sensation and setting off another series of aftershocks of my own pleasure, softer this time but no less intense...

I can't think. 

Can barely breathe. 

I collapse against him, spent, muscles quivering with little aftershocks. I tremble, head against his shoulder. Cradled in his arms. Trying to get enough air into my lungs to fuel my racing heart, the sound of it deafening in my ears.

His hand still cups the back of my neck. His breathing, no better than mine. I shiver with each tremor that rocks his body, can feel them—where he's still buried deep inside me. 

I wait several minutes for him to speak, a little worried by his stretching silence.

"Daryl, are you okay?" Now it’s my voice that shakes from the heavy flood of endorphins, and a sudden boneless exhaustion.

His arms tighten around me—drag me down as he collapses us backwards in a tangle of limbs, bringing me down to lay sprawled across his chest. After a few breaths he rolls us just enough so I slide from his body to his side, my head pillowed on his chest. 

I wait while he seems to collect his thoughts. My nerves calmed by the trace of fingertips now gliding over my skin. Wandering over my back like even now—when I’m boneless and sated, he can’t get enough.

"I get why Maggie and Glenn were always in the guard tower." He rumbles a trace of humor in the words I’ve never known before this moment.

I laugh because of all the things he could say that was so incredibly random. 

I bury my face against warm skin that smells like leather, smoke and sex; it's a fascinating combination.

Chapter Text

Chapter Sixteen

Seraphim

We lay there for a long time. Maybe I even drifted off for a few moments. Warm and safe. 

"Seraphim…." He stops. And something about his tone fills me with apprehension. I tense ready to pull away from him. 

"Do you remember what happened today?” The question is quiet–hesitant.

My brow furrows in the dark. My memory feels hazy—disjointed images, like shards of a shattered puzzle I’m desperately trying to fit together.

Why bring that up now of all things?

"Why didn't you warn me? Tell me about Caleb?"

My throat closes over my next exhale. Caleb.  

It all comes back to me in a burst of heart pounding terror. Caleb in the woods.  

The urge to run, his evil grin…

Caleb trying to kill me, 

Daryl fighting for his own life, 

oh God… 

Hands on my shoulders, 

swirling water…bitter cold…

I'm breathing far too fast. 

I shove out from his embrace in panic. My body doesn’t know the danger is gone—it just remembers the last frames of a fight.

My legs won’t work, boneless from adrenaline and endorphins. I hit the dirt hard.

Bare. Cold.

Where are we? 

Are we in that basement? 

No…concrete floor…

This is dirt.

We got away—we had to.

I scramble backwards from him shaking, searching the darkness in panic. The freezing cold air wraps around me. 

Stealing my breath…reminding me of the water…

He doesn't move towards me. 

Sits perfectly still in the dark. I can just barely make out his outline in the moonlight filtering in through the gaps in the ceiling. 

I put him in danger, almost got him killed…

"I'm sorry, God, I'm sorry…" I bury my face in my hands, everything is a mess.

"Hell are you apologizing? I fucked up…," he raises a hand to the back of his neck barely visible in the dark. "I shouldn't have…" He pauses, blowing out a breath.  

He drops his hand, reaching for something on his other side, searching in the dark for a moment. Pulling it towards him…the crossbow? No. 

He stands in the dark and I recognize the action by the outline of his body.  

Putting on pants. 

"Seraphim, get over here. Now," It’s a command that cuts through the cold.

He doesn’t give me a moment to hesitate or argue. 

He moves toward me, wraps his hand around my wrist, gently tugs me forward when I remain frozen. He pulls and I don't fight it, muscles already shivering from the adrenaline and cold.

"I didn' jump in a damn river to let you freeze to death."

He jumped into the river? 

I let him pull me back into the sleeping bag. Let him wrap an arm around my waist, tucking me into his chest.

The guilt is pressing down on my ribs like weight. I should say something—anything.

I just breathe. Shake.

My brain is still stumbling over the words. 

Is that how I got out?

"I need to know shit like that, before it happens. Damn near got us both killed."

I didn't want to bring it up. I knew he’d want to head straight there and that was suicide.  And even if it wasn’t, if we somehow pulled that off…what if he found out. 

They could tell him…anything that risks exposing me, threatens my chance of staying with them...with him… 

I swallow fighting the rising panic. "I was hoping they were all dead." 

Which is true, even if it’s wishful thinking. I've been sending groups of Dead towards their farm for months trying to drive them out, or kill them off one by one, slowly destroying them. 

Attacking a group of people head on rarely goes well. Inside their own defenses, and outnumbered?

It’s great for action movies, but in real life?  

It’s an express ticket to death. The best you could hope for would be taking a few of them with you.

"Caleb knew you."

Yeah. Unfortunately for me. 

I don't want to talk about it… 

But I know there's no way around it now.

"I ran into his family about a year ago? Maybe, I’m not sure. They're…" I pause; take a slow calming breath trying not to think about that day I finally figured it out, the blind panic, the revulsion and horror so intense it almost didn’t feel real. 

"His family…they eat people...and…" I shiver, but it's not from the cold.

"Did Caleb," His fingers tighten involuntarily on my skin. "They hurt you." It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.

"I got away." Dwelling on the past won't change it, will probably risk me dropping into a fit of hysterics I can’t afford, ever. 

"That's what matters." I'm alive.

We're both silent for a few moments.

"Daryl, I don't remember what happened, after we fell in the river..." It's all a peculiar blur. 

I seem to remember Daryl carrying me, and stripping off my shirt… 

He obviously took everything else off as well...

“Caleb’s dead.” His voice hardens, laced with venom. “I bashed his head in.”

I squeeze his hand. One less monster to worry about.

"He deserved to die, they all do." I hope he doesn't feel guilt for killing him. 

Though based on his tone, I guess that's not a problem.

"How many people are we talking about on this farm?" His arm tightens around me again, pulls me further back against his chest. 

"The Mom, her two brothers—Caleb has three brothers, and I've seen at least three others consistently on the property...Caleb's cousins." 

They were probably sons of one of the two uncles.  But I wasn’t sure. I hadn’t dealt with most of the family.  

I’d been traumatized and terrified, easy to manipulate at first.  

And those fucking assholes had pretended to be good people. When in reality they were even bigger monsters than the ones I’d killed in the woods. 

“That’s a lot to sneak past… or fight, without losing people on our end.”

“It’s suicide,” I whisper, shaking my head in the dark.

“Two people can’t attack them outright, and there are too many of them to sneak people out, they’ve been doing this a long time.”

"They'll be walking around with no idea what's actually going on at first. But they won’t ever be alone. Gary was out with Caleb looking for other survivors," I take a deep breath. 

“They haven’t locked them up yet.” or they hadn’t as of yesterday at least, how long after Caleb fails to return will it take them to act? 

There’s still time, there has to be to figure this out.

"They won't make their move until they're sure they have everyone they can."

He's quiet for a long time. "earlier…" he pauses. 

My face flushes, "sorry,"  He tenses against my back going very still. 

"For what?" Hot breath tickles my ear as he exhales, my insides flutter and my breath catches. “Sorry for what?” 

“I…I don’t know, Sorry that I put your life in danger.” It’s the truth. Raw as it is.

“M’sorry he got his hands on you. That I can’t kill him twice.”  His arm tightens around me.  "But… M’not sorry for this." He takes a deep breath while I try to figure out how to process that. 

The silence that follows is loud.

“I have no idea how to do this.”  I mumble feeling a heavy tug towards sleep, exhaustion from a terrible day and a flood of chemicals relaxing my entire body to a boneless puddle. 

I don’t even know what this is, not yet, not really. Maybe it’s nothing at all.

When he speaks again I'm almost asleep, his voice is quiet but firm. "You can't go back to that farm."

I nod, voice barely a whisper. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow…”

Exhaustion drags me under before I can say more.

Chapter Text

Chapter Seventeen

Seraphim

"It's the only way."

"No." The urge to grab him and just…shake him, is so strong my hands curl into fists. Infuriating. 

That’s what he is utterly and completely infuriating.

"What other choice do we have? You can’t go in there. No time to get Maggie, or Michonne, can’t take them on outright. We need to get in and out without a fight.”

How can he be so calm? 

Was he even listening last night? 

How hard did Gary hit him?

"You can't just walk in there!"  

What if he never comes back out…

"Glenn’s in there...and Sasha, I'm not just going to walk away and let them die!"

"Let me handle this,"

"How?” His temper finally appears to be rising, ”Like you handled it last night?" 

He growls crowding my space, glaring down at me, breathing hard and fast. “Caleb tried to kill you. Damn near did. No.” 

Yeah, but technically—I tried to kill all of them first. 

A noise of pure frustration crawls up my throat.

“They’re not getting anywhere near you.”

I glare at him. Seriously ready to kick his ass. I spin away with a snarl, kick out hitting a tree. I kick it again for good measure.  

Breathe, just breath. 

He doesn't say anything. 

Doesn't touch me either. 

I'm not sure if I want him to.

It hurts at the same time that he doesn't. 

Damn it.

“Okay. Fine.” I exhale like it hurts. “We do it your way.”

Even though every cell in my body is screaming that it’s a mistake.

“Get in. And tonight, you get the fuck back out.” 

—or, I don't know what I’ll do.  

It feels like I ate a rock, the weight of dread pulling at my insides. 

I take another deep breath, we stare at each other for a moment.

"You sure you want to just walk in there?" My voice is quieter than I intended. 

Like Daniel and the lion's den. Only these lions are hungry, blood-thirsty monsters with no God.

"I'll wait till I see someone I know, tell ‘em I was looking for our people when no one showed up at the meeting spot."

I nod. It's not like we have many options. 

My original plan hardly works with innocent people on the farm we don't want killed and eaten during an all-out Walker assault. I don't look at him, the toe of my boots suddenly very interesting as I drag them through the dirt making a divot.

Any plan we’ve come up with is shit. 

Because this is insanity. Next to impossible. 

And there’s nothing I can do, which feels even worse.

Hours of gut wrenching worry. 

Watching from the woods. Hoping like Hell, I see him alive again before morning…that he hasn't been murdered in the middle of the night…

It’s just a few hours. I reason. 

A few hours to get my head together. 

Forget the feel of his mouth sliding over mine…

The grip of his hands bruising my hips.  

Fuck.

He hasn't said a word about last night.

Hell, he turned a brighter shade of red than my hair as soon as the sun was up and turned his back this morning so I could get dressed. I’m not sure what I expected, but my stomach has been twisted in anxious knots from the moment I opened my eyes.

"Right. I guess there isn't much else for me to do then."

I've been sidelined. He doesn't want me to help…but it's not like I could walk right onto the farm even if he did want my help. 

They'd put a bullet in both our heads before I jumped the fence.

"You don't know me. Never saw me." That shouldn't be too difficult.  

He’s barely looked at me the last few hours. Maybe in the light of day, not coming down off the rush of surviving a crisis he regrets what we did...either way…I don’t want him to die. 

And If they know…if they even suspect he’s involved with me in any way…

I stop that thought before it can curl around my insides burning like acid.

"Well, Off you go." 

I'm not going to watch him walk away…

I can’t.

Until he drops his crossbow.

I blink. What?

He pulls the fleece over his head, steps toward me, almost touching. 

And just like that, my stomach tightens and I can't breathe. 

His eyes really are the most beautiful shade of blue I've ever seen. 

I swallow.

He slides the leather bow strap off my shoulder, without a word. I don't protest or move when he lifts the leather strap of my quiver over my head, pulls it away and sets it on the ground by our boots.

I just stand there frozen. My stomach is twisting with knots…if he takes my shirt off next…my insides tremble…

If he keeps going. I’m not sure I can resist the intense urge to wrap my hand around the back of his neck and drag his mouth down to mine. 

The need to kiss him again, taste him, is so overwhelming my hands shake.

Instead of stripping me—he pulls the thick bunched material of his fleece jacket over my head. 

The world goes dark for a moment. Blocking my vision before it falls into place around me.  I slide my arms through the too long sleeves, not looking at his face now. 

I find myself staring intently at the buttons on his worn flannel shirt. The leather vest over it. It's not much protection against the cold. But he can hardly walk onto the farm wearing brand new clothes, I guess.