Lost and Found - iliveatlast (2023)

It's the first thing Daryl thinks to himself any time he gets hurt. It's reflexive - after a nasty wipeout on Merle's bike, nursing busted ribs and black eyes from bar fights, that time he fell off a roof working construction in Amicalola, coming down from a bad trip with panic in his chest, after eighteen years of living with his old man - after something's gone bad and he's hurt, the first thing he thinks is, he ain't dying. It helps somehow. Because if he's not dying then the only thing to do is suck it up, keep moving, get himself put back together. No other option. He's either dying or he ain't, and if he ain't, the only thing to do is get up. And so far, he's always been right. Daryl's gotten the shit kicked out of him more times than he can count but he's always gotten back up again. He hasn't died yet.

I ain't dying, Daryl thinks to himself, but it's the first time he's not sure if it's true.

He blinks, tries to get the blood out of the corner of his eye. His side feels wrong, bad, stuck through on his own arrow like a fucking joke. The first time he'd fallen, landed in the water, he'd half-swum his way back out, tied himself up with his shirt, found his fucking bow, and gotten on with it.

"Y'ain't dead," Daryl'd mumbled under his breath as he pulled himself up the side of the creek bed. "You ain't dying, you dumb sumbitch. Come on. You've done half. Stop being such a pussy."

The air above him is hazy and unclear and Daryl blinks once, twice. His eyes won't focus. That's bad. That's a concussion thing, that's -

"Whyn't you pull that arrow out, dummy? You can bind your wound better."

Oh, no.

The air is still hazy but somehow Merle is ultra-clear, kneeling over him, his face almost amused. Which Daryl thinks is a good sign because Merle's seen a lot of shit and if he thinks there's something funny here, it means Daryl's not as bad off as he thought. He feels a smile over his own face but it makes his whole head hurt and he closes his eyes again.

"Merle."

"What's goin' on here?"

"Shitty day, bro." His head is throbbing in time to his side, his shirt sticking to him wetly (with the water, from the creek, not from blood, he ain't dying), his mouth tasting of dirt and iron, and all Daryl wants, desperately, is to wake up on the shitty couch in Merle's trailer with a hangover and bruised knuckles and for the past couple months to have been nothing but dipping into the wrong part of his brother's stash.

"Screw you."

"Huh-uh. You're the one screwed from the looks of it."

And he is. Daryl's fucked. Punctured with his own arrow, bleeding in the bottom of some creek bed, horse gone, nobody there to watch his back. Because Merle's gone.

Oh. Merle's gone.

"You're gonna die out here, brother. And for what?"

Maybe he is dying this time. Even Merle thinks it. And this Merle isn't real, because Merle is gone, running around one-handed somewhere, if he's still running at all.

Maybe he's really dying and Merle is already dead and he came to find Daryl.

"Girl," Daryl says, because that's what he remembers all of a sudden. He doesn't need Merle to come find him, because he's the one out looking. He's looking for Sophia, he remembers now, and it makes something kick in his stomach, something get clearer around his vision. "Lost a little girl."

"You got a thing for little girls now?"

"Shut up," Daryl says, something sick crawling in his skin. It ain't like that. He ain't like that. Merle knows he ain't -

"Cause I notice you ain't out looking for ole Merle no more."

Oh. That's what it is. Yeah, Merle talked a big fucking game, taking care of Daryl, always having his back. But he'd disappeared for huge stretches at a time, juvie or prison, the army, out on a bender who knows where and only rolling back into town when he ran out of money. But Daryl was meant to be there for Merle, have his back, twenty-four-seven, never stop, never have a life (Merle cackling, "What would you even know what to do with a life?") -

"Tried like hell to find you, bro," he tries to explain, but Merle ain't listening. He never listens. Not to Daryl, anyway.

Daryl loses another chunk of the conversation somewhere. He knows Merle is talking and he's talking back - conversations with Merle aren't hard, especially when the Merle he's talking to is either a ghost or made up in his own head - until he hears "You his bitch now?"

"Ain't nobody's bitch," Daryl says, automatically, that same feeling crawling in his stomach. It ain't like that. Who are they even talking about? Rick. Merle's saying he's Rick's -

"You're a joke is what you are, playing errand boy to a bunch of pansy-asses, niggers, and democrats. You're nothing but a freak to them. Redneck trash. That's all you are."

He doesn't need Merle to tell him this. He knows it. That's the only reason Merle can tell it to him - because it's something he knows, understands, deep in his bones.

"They're laughing at you behind your back. You know that, don't you? I got a little news for you, son. One day they gonna scrape you off their heels like you was dogshit. Hey."

He can almost feel Merle smacking at his chest, trying to get him to pay attention. But it's so hard.

"They ain't your kin, your blood. Hell, you had any damn nuts in that sack of yours, you'd got back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me. Now you listen to me. Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you except me, little brother. Nobody ever will."

Yeah. Daryl's known that his whole life. Ain't nothing new.

"Don't be dead."

He ain't dead. Not yet. But he's close, he figures. Someone is shaking at his shoulders again now - the touch too light to be Merle. He groans and tries to pull back.

"Please don't be dead. Please, please -"

It's a woman, maybe. His ma? She wouldn't want him to be dead. She's dead herself though, so why would she care -

"Mr. Daryl, wake up. Please wake up."

Wait.

Wait.

Daryl's eyes feel almost glued shut, it's so hard to open them. But he manages somehow, he pries them open and he squints and -

No. Oh, no.

"I'm sorry," Daryl croaks out, and Sophia's face floods with what looks like relief.

"You're awake!"

"M'sorry," he says again. Because she isn't real. Merle was here with two hands and now here's Sophia and that must mean they're dead, all three of them. All his looking was bullshit. He didn't find her in time. He wants to scream somehow but he doesn't want to scare her.

"Where's my mom?"

Ghosts are meant to know that shit. Ain't they? Daryl doesn't know a lot about ghosts. He grew up on ghost stories Merle told, shit that made him scared to go to sleep, where ghosts strangled you in the dark or drove you crazy or possessed you. He didn't know shit about sad little girl ghosts who wanted their mamas.

"Back at the farm," Daryl says. "Worried."

"I - where's the farm?"

"C'n show you," Daryl slurs. He waves a hand. "When it's over."

"When what's over?"

"When'm all the way gone."

There's a long pause and when Sophia speaks again, her voice is choked and rough.

"No, no. Please don't die, please, please - we have to go, the walkers -"

"M'sorry," Daryl says again, and something tugs on his shirt, hard.

"Wake up! Don't go to sleep, wake up, please, you have to help me - please please please -"

For a ghost her grip is strong. He feels her hands on his chest and they somehow feel more real than Merle's. More solid. He can almost feel the heat of her hands through his wet shirt, warm on his clammy skin. It's so real he opens his eyes again and sees her. Her lip is wobbling like crazy and her cheeks have two red spots of color in them.

Sophia's dirtier than last time he saw her. Her hair is all tangled and there's a smear of dirt over one cheekbone and her arms are all marked up with what looks like pricker scratches. Her pants are ripped at the knees and grass-stained and her face almost looks older. Maybe because she's scared, or maybe because she looks a little thinner than she did four days ago.

Merle hadn't looked like this. Merle had looked exactly the same as he had the last time Daryl saw him. Daryl shakes his head a little, groans as the movement jars his brain. There's something missing here. There's something he's not getting.

"Please stay awake," she says, and she sounds like she's going to cry. "I - I don't know how to get out of here by myself."

"I'll getcha out," Daryl says. It sounds like a promise. How fucking stupid is he, making a promise to a ghost?

"Don't go to sleep," she begs, and he nods again as his eyes start to close.

"No, no no no -" he hears Sophia saying, and then Merle is back.

"You're dumber'n shit. You find this girl and you're gonna let her get eaten?"

"Gone," Daryl mumbles. "We're gone."

"You ain't dying, you fuckin' moron. Now get up 'fore I have to kick your teeth in."

Something splashes somewhere nearby.

"Let's go!"

And then Sophia is shrieking and Daryl's eyes snap open faster than he thought possible. Because ghosts don't sound like that, ghosts don't sound scared, ghosts don't scramble over him with sharp little knees digging into his wounded side as they try and get away from walkers.

Walker.

Sophia.

He found her.

Or more to the point - she found him.

He's not going to lose her again. Not now. Not after all this.

Daryl kicks out with pure instinct, but it's enough to move the walker off to one side. Daryl's scooting back on his ass, hand flailing out for his bow, and he backs into Sophia.

"What do I do, what do I -"

"My bow," Daryl yells, and he slams his weak fists into the walker, turns it onto its side. "Fuck girl, gimme my bow!"

"Where is it? I can't see it, I -"

He grabs a stick near him and slams it into the walker's mouth over and over until the head is a wet, pulpy mess. There's not even hardly time to register that the walker in front of him is finished when he sees the next one staggering out of the woods.

"I've got it! I've got -" Sophia's crawled over to his bow and is lugging it back towards him. "I -"

Fuck. This is going to hurt.

Daryl doesn't scream when he pulls the bolt out of his side - he's not some pussy, and he ain't dying. But it hurts like a bitch and he hears himself, a sharp little whimper as the fletching tears through his skin.

"Bow!" Daryl yells out, and the bow is there, in his lap, wet from being soaked in the water, but solid and real. Drawing back is harder than it's ever been, even when he was just a weedy little kid lugging around his dad's Barnett Thunderbolt. But he manages to pull back and nock the arrow just in time.

The walker falls, the arrow piercing through its skull, landing right between him and Sophia. He can hear her breathing behind him, shaky and quick.

"Y'a'right?" Daryl asks. He's panting too. His side is on fire. He can feel the blood leaking out of him, soaking into the sandy grit of the creek bed. But somehow he feels better too. Livelier. Less confused.

Merle ain't here. But Sophia is. And he's got to get her home.

She nods at him. But her eyes are welling up with tears and she sniffles, once.

"Ain't no time for that," Daryl says roughly. And there isn't. There's a lot to do to get home, with him fucking skewered like a shish kabob and the horse spooked off who the hell knows where.

"I - it's not - I'm not scared," Sophia says, her lip wobbling like crazy. "I - I just - I didn't think anybody'd find me."

"Yeah, well," Daryl says, propping himself up against the rocks so he can get a good look at her. "Din't find you. You found me."

She nods but her lip doesn't stop wobbling.

"I gotta - I gotta rest a minute," he says. It's different than earlier. He doesn't feel like he's about to pass out or hallucinate anymore, but his whole body is screaming from what he'd put it through the last few minutes. "Then we gotta go."

Sophia bites her lip. "Okay."

Daryl looks at the walker near him. One last push. He reaches over to the front of the skull, where the fletching of the bolt pokes out. He grips it tight between his fingers. Its slippery with blood - his own? Or the walkers? Not worth thinking about. He pulls the bolt out. Grits his teeth as he cocks the bow one more time. That really takes it out of him. His arms feel like spaghetti or some shit. But the bow is cocked and loaded. He beckons the girl over.

"C'mere."

She looks almost scared as she comes near him. He doesn't blame her. He's covered in dirt and blood and walker shit and he's holding a fucking crossbow. But he just waits till she sits next to him and he holds out the bow.

"Don't fire 'less you need to. Try an' get me up first. But if somethin's comin' an' I ain't wakin', you pull that trigger here, a'right? Aim for the head."

Daryl tries not to think of the likelihood of this little girl in her rainbow tee shirt having good aim. It's better than leaving her totally unprotected. It'll have to do. He leans back against the rock and closes his eyes. Feels something digging into this back. Reaches around and pulls.

"Think this is yours," he says gruffly, and he holds out the sodden doll, now stained a little with his blood. Maybe she doesn't want it anymore, all gross like that. But she takes it with one hesitant hand, tucks it in the crook of her elbow. It looks weird, cradled there, the bow gripped in her hands right next to it.

"Where you pull to fire?" he asks as his eyes start to close.

"The trigger," the girl says promptly, even though her face looks pale and scared. She bites her lip. "You - you promise you'll wake up, right?"

The bow looks heavy enough to break those little stick arms of hers, and Daryl scoffs.

"Course I'll wake up. I ain't dyin'."

He isn't. And neither is she.

Not if he has anything to say about it.

Daryl's head is clearer when he wakes up. He'd say he feels better, but he feels like shit. But he guesses shit is better than dead shit, so he'll take it.

Sophia is crouched next to him still, crossbow cradled in her lap. When he opens his eyes, he staring at the head of an arrow.

"Point that shit somewhere else," Daryl says, and it comes out almost like a growl. Sophia jumps then and Daryl feels his life flash before him - but her finger isn't on the trigger and soon the bow is pointed wildly elsewhere.

"Sorry," she says. Her cheeks look red and she's biting her lip. Her brow is furrowed in a way that looks weird on a kid. "I - I was scared you'd -"

Turn. Daryl looks down at himself. Yeah, he does look pretty close to walker food. But he isn't dead. And he's not going to be until he gets this girl home. That's enough. Daryl nods at her.

"I ain't bit. But that was, uh. Smart," he says grudgingly. And it was. If Daryl's stuck out here all fucked up, at least the girl's got some brains to help them get home. The crease between her eyebrows lessens at that.

Fuck. Daryl doesn't know kids. He didn't like kids even when he was one. They'd all been loud and rude and picked on Daryl like crazy until Merle beat them up. Then they never talked to him at all. Well, whatever. Ain't like they're going to be together that long. Just got to make their way back to the farm, hand her off to her mama, and that'd be that.

"In the future," Daryl says, his voice gravelly. "Don't point that at nothin' you don't want dead."

Sophia swallows and nods.

Daryl sets to work getting himself ready for the trek back. His legs are fine, which is good. He'd already ripped the sleeves off his shirt for the first bandage, but that one is soaked through so he rips the rest of his shirt up. Wasn't one of his favorite anyway, but he's sure he'll regret it come fall - it was one of the only ones he'd had left with intact sleeves. Sophia watches his every move carefully. Daryl can't tell if she's trying to learn something or if she just wants to make sure he doesn't keel over on her.

"Is - is my mom okay?"

Daryl looks up at the girl. She looks like she's trying to be brave, which actually just makes her look little and scared.

"Yeah," Daryl says. He swivels his torso, tests the bandage. It'll hold. "Mean - worried 'bout you. But she ain't hurt or nothin'."

The girl nods.

"Found a farm," Daryl adds. "Been usin' it as a base, to look for you. Maybe couple hours walk." Probably more than that, without that fucking horse and with him all banged up. But Daryl pushes that aside. He'll get her there. No matter how long it takes.

Weirdly, that makes the girl seem more worried. She's chewing at her lip so hard he's surprised there's anything left. He sees her throat bob up and down like she's swallowing hard. What'd he do now?

"Ain't - we left you a note," Daryl says. Maybe she thinks her mama forgot about her or something. "Back at the cars. But the farm was safer, that's all." He doesn't mention Carl getting shot. Ain't anything she needs to worry about right now.

She nods again. "Um - Mr. Daryl -"

"Jus' Daryl." Fuck. Southern mamas and their manners. Back at the quarry, he'd heard her refer to people as Officer Shane or Miss Jacqui, but he hadn't thought Carol'd ever told her to call Daryl anything special. Hell, he was surprised she knew his name at all. At the quarry, he and Merle had kept a certain amount of distance from the others where possible. Especially the kids.

Sophia flinches at that. Fuck. Is everything he does gonna scare her? "Um, I - I need to find a stick."

What? Daryl wonders if he's fading out again, if he's hearing things. "A what?"

"A - a stick?" Sophia points at the bloody mess of walker head, a big stick jutting out from it. "I - uh, I was using that one, but -"

"Usin' for what?"

That makes her more nervous. Daryl sees her fingers twisting in the ragged yarn hair of her doll. "Um - I, uh, I -"

Daryl makes himself stay still. He doesn't want to scare her. He looks away from her then - makes a show of checking his bandage, making sure he's still got his knife. He sees he's still got the squirrel he shot earlier, which is a pleasant surprise. Maybe they'll have themselves a snack before they head back.

"Kin find you another stick, sure," Daryl says. What the fuck does he care? It's not worth scaring a little kid. "Ain't no problem."

"I - just I kind of hurt my ankle? When I was - but it's not that bad, I promise!" She sounds panicked now. What? Does she think Daryl's going to leave her behind, now that he's found her?

He looks over at her, but not at her face. Daryl's not one for eye contact at the best of times, and he thinks this girl probably don't like it much either. He looks at her ankle. Sure enough, it seems like she's favoring the left one - he can't tell if it's bruised or if it's just smeared with dirt.

"I can keep up, I won't slow you down," the girl says quickly. "I just - if I use a stick I can -"

"Yeah," Daryl says, and the girl clams up immediately. It'd be funny if it didn't make him feel like shit. What does she see, when she looks at him? Another Ed? Merle? Maybe his own father, Will Dixon back from the grave to fuck up another generation of kids. He forces himself not to scowl, which is harder than he thought. A scowl is Daryl's second most used expression. "We'll find you a crutch."

"I'm sorry," the girl says.

"Why? You do it on purpose?" Daryl asks. But it's too rough and he's treated to the girl flinching again.

"I - no. When - I did what Rick said, I kept the sun over my shoulder, but I saw a walker in the bushes and I tripped and -"

And lost her way.

"Must hopped pretty quick, outrun a walker on a bum ankle."

Sophia blushes. "I - climbed a tree."

Great. A tree. Probably where they lost her trail. Daryl feels suddenly furious at himself and stupid as shit. He couldn't figure out that a kid might have climbed a tree to get out of danger?

"It - I mean I think I hurt it when I tripped? My ankle? But then when I was coming down from the tree I kinda -" The girl shrugs once, almost embarrassed. "But I can still walk, I promise."

"A'right," Daryl says. Some of the anger he's feeling at himself must leak out on his words because Sophia is tense again. "When'd you last eat?"

Sophia shrugs again, uncomfortably. "Um - I think yesterday." Her face suddenly looks even thinner, and Daryl wonders what he looked like when he came home from being lost in the woods. Ten years old and gone for nine days, did he look this hungry? Probably. Daryl was always hungry back then. Nine days in the woods just amplified it. "I found a hickory tree? But the nuts were really hard to crack."

Daryl's mostly impressed that this girl found a hickory tree. "Well, let's have a little grub an' head on out. Getcha home for some of your ma's cookin'." The girls face lights up at that and Daryl feels guilty for getting her hopes up. "Ain't nothin' special, y'know. Jus' squirrel." Daryl feels stupid again. Why didn't he think about this, carry more shit for Sophia? He'd known she'd be hungry when he found her. He'd had some protein bars and shit in the saddlebags on the horse, but he should have kept that shit on him.

"I don't mind squirrel," Sophia says. "I had some back at the quarry. Remember?" Daryl doesn't but he guesses he did gives some squirrels to the others to cook up. "It tastes okay."

High praise. "Y'd probably eat that bow right now if I told you it was edible," Daryl says and is rewarded with a small smile.

"Maybe."

But her smile fades when Daryl pulls out his knife and starts to gut the thing in front of her. She looks a little queasy like she wishes Daryl would do it somewhere else, but she doesn't say anything. Daryl's not sure if that's manners or just her being scared again.

"Ain't pretty," Daryl says suddenly as he pulls the entrails out of the critter. Sophia's staring at him, and maybe if he talks she'll just listen and not feel like she has to look. "But you gotta do it. Else you'll get sick. Ain't nothin' they don't do to whatever you buy at the grocery store. Jus' that you're doin' it with your own hands." His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He's never had to explain this shit before.

"Bought," Sophia says, and Daryl squints at her. She still looks pale, but no longer like she's about to be immediately sick.

"Huh?"

"Bought. At the grocery store."

"Yeah," Daryl says. Sure. Whatever. Bought.

He finishes up and stops squinting at Sophia in order to scowl at the squirrel. If it were just him, he'd probably just eat what he could raw and use that little boost to get him out of there. But Sophia looks like she'd puke if he gave her the still warm heart of a squirrel, and he doesn't want to deal with a puking kid on top of a lame one. He's got his lighter in his pocket but it got doused in water. Merle had a trick where you held the lighter upside down to drain it and clicked the wheel and shit, but Daryl thinks that's probably bullshit. He looks at Sophia.

"Y'think you can get some tinder?" The girl's face looks blank. "You know, uh - shit that'll light easy. For the fire. Dry bark or leaves or stuff. Cloth." The yarn hair of her doll would probably catch pretty good, but he doesn't mention that. He got stabbed in the gut for that fucking doll, he's not going to snatch the thing bald. Daryl looks at her ankle. "If you can't -"

"I can," Sophia says quickly. "I can, I'll - I'll be right back."

"You don't gotta go far," Daryl says. Like going far is even a possibility, down here on the creek bed. Which reminds him.

Sophia stays within eyeshot the whole time - constantly looking over her shoulder like she thinks Daryl will disappear on her. There's not much at the creek bottom and the girl is moving slow - Daryl finds himself chewing his own lip when he sees how bad her walking is. If he were well, he'd just sling her over his back - his bow's probably heavier than her. But as it is, it's going to take them a lot longer than a couple hours to get back to the farm. They might not make it before dark, and no way he's hauling through the woods with a wounded twelve-year-old girl once the sun goes down.

Maybe he could wrap it, he thinks as Sophia returns with a scant handful of twigs, leaves, and broken wood. The fire he builds isn't anything special, but it'll do. He chars the carcass as he looks up at the sky - they're already losing daylight. Daryl wonders if it's better to find somewhere to hole up for the night, start out fresh tomorrow morning. In which case he's pretty stupid to be sitting down here making snacks at the bottom of a creek bed when they should be finding shelter. But Daryl doesn't think he can get out of the creek bed without something to give him energy. Well, whatever. He's probably doing things in some kind of ass stupid way, but it's the only way he can think to do them.

"A'right," he says finally. Sophia's looking greedily at the squirrel, and Daryl chops off a leg for himself and hands the rest of it to her. "Dig in."

The girl frowns at the squirrel and Daryl wonders if she's really that spoiled, that after four days of nothing she's turning her nose up at a decently cooked squirrel.

"I - we could split it. Fifty-fifty. That's fair."

Huh? "Had your mama's eggs for breakfast," Daryl grunts. Kid's been living on a handful of hickory nuts and she's trying to give him food? "That's your share."

He feels bad for mentioning her ma - but Sophia still doesn't bite anything but that fucking lip. She's gonna draw blood by the time they get back to Hershel's. "But -"

"Girl, what'd I say? It's yours. Eat it." He sounds rougher than he means to and he winces a little, inwardly. He's so fucking bad at this.

Sophia jumps and shoves the squirrel in her mouth - more out of fear, Daryl thinks, then out of hunger. Although hunger kicks in pretty quick and the squirrel disappears rapidly. Daryl gnaws on his own serving - he doesn't need much, he did eat the heart and stuff while Sophia was off gathering fire stuff. When she wasn't looking so she didn't puke everywhere.

"A'right," Daryl says as Sophia dips her fingers into the creek to clean off. Daryl'd licked his own fingers clean, which he'd vaguely regretted when he tasted the tang of his own blood on them. "Lemme see that ankle."

Sophia seems hesitant. "I - it's okay, really," she says. "I - with the stick I'm much faster. I promise, I'll - "

"Jus' wanna see it," Daryl mutters. "Might be able to help."

Sophia holds out her foot then, extremely reluctantly. Daryl manipulates it gently in his hands, winces again when he hears Sophia hiss.

"Sorry," Daryl says. He tugs at the laces a little. It's been long enough since it happened that he's not overly concerned that taking off the shoe will increase the swelling, and this way he can wrap it, maybe even let her soak her foot in the creek while he figures out the best way out.

Which reminds him. "How'd you get down here, anyway?" He peels the sock off her foot and hisses himself - it's a nasty sprain. Her foot is different shades of purple, yellow, and sickly green, and it's fat in the ankle part. "Wiggle your toes."

Sophia does, and Daryl breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't know what the fuck he'd do if she had a broken foot or something. "I - I saw you from over there." She points behind him, the part of the creek that's water going over slick stone. "I - I mostly slid down."

Well. That explains how she moved so damn fast. Daryl looks at the rocks considering. Yeah, they're steep, but the way up he was planning, clawing and climbing through the dirt and using tree branches for handholds, ain't going to work with Sophia in tow. If they don't plan on going back tonight anyway, the rocky side of the creek bed will actually take them up near that house he'd found the other day. Well, nearer. His stomach rumbles at the memory of the jars in the cupboard.

"You know that house up that way?" Daryl asks, and he's slightly disheartened when Sophia stares at him blankly. Well. There goes that theory. "There's a house yonder, maybe an hours walk with us all slow an' shit." Hm, maybe he should try to swear less in front of the kid. "We leave now, we can get there by dark. Have a roof over our heads tonight, start off for the farm tomorrow."

Sophia bites her lip. He's not sure if it's with pain - he's started wrapping her ankle with the last remnant of his shirt sleeve, and while he's careful not to go too tight, he's sure it stings some. "I - can't we go back to the farm now? I promise it doesn't hurt that bad. I can be fast -"

"Ain't you," Daryl says roughly, even though he's pretty sure by himself he'd hit the farm before sunset, even like he is. "I'm movin' slow too. An' I only got one arrow. We gotta move smart."

Sophia nods slowly. "But - you promise? In the morning, we'll go?"

"Hell, we'll leave with the sunrise." Daryl finishes wrapping her ankle. It doesn't look like much, a raggedy plaid bandage, but it's something. "How's that? Too tight?"

"N-ooo," Sophia says slowly, wiggling her foot around.

"Well, it ain't a cast or nothin', still gotta be careful," Daryl says brusquely. "Imma find you a stick an' then we'll head out. You could soak that foot a little if you want." The cold water certainly won't hurt it.

Daryl wishes he had a water bottle or a canteen or something. He's cautious enough about beaver fever that he doesn't just slurp the water down, but he splashes his face, his hair, in an attempt to cool himself, to wake up. If he had a canteen, he could bring the water with them, try and boil it or something when they hit the house. But they don't have that so no use wishing. His water rode off with Nelly.

Maybe that's the answer. Maybe he should try and find Nelly. Sophia ain't large, the horse could carry both of them back. Daryl allows himself a moment of imagination - Nelly, her reins tangled harmlessly in a tree right at the top of the hill, him riding back to camp like a fucking hero with Sophia - but he quashes it pretty quick. He's in no condition to run down a horse, especially not a jumpy fuck like that. With his luck, the thing would probably toss Daryl and Sophia and break both their necks. Not worth it. The plan is a solid one - find shelter, more food, make a fresh start in the morning.

He finds a fallen tree limb with a decent number of branches and drags it back to her. She's got her foot in the water, obediently, and she looks incredibly relieved to see him.

"Stand up," Daryl grunts. The girl complies quickly, almost too quickly - Sophia almost overturns into the water as her balance wavers. Daryl doesn't say anything about it. Just holds the tree limb up next to her, measures it. He cuts it down decently fast with his knife, and the branch he's got even has a Y-shaped crook at the top she can slot into her armpit.

"You ready?" Daryl asks as Sophia tests the crutch. She is faster with it - marginally. Daryl's own injuries are throbbing now, insistent, to the beat of his heart, but he pushes it away. He'll deal with that later. Merle's got a bottle of Oxy in the bike's saddlebags, he'll have one when he gets back. A fucking reward.

"A'right," Daryl says. "Let's go."

It's a good plan. A roof, food. A fresh start in the morning.

And if it wasn't Sophia, who'd been camping out there? Well. Hopefully, whoever it is is long gone.

If not - he'll deal with it. If he has to.

Right now, they've just got to get out of the ravine. Everything else, Daryl will figure out.

So he sets off, over to the slippery rocks, the limping scrape of Sophia's sneakers following just behind.

They get to the house just as the sun starts to set. It makes it look like something out of a storybook, Daryl thinks - the sky all pink behind it, silhouetting it against the sky. Sophia's face is soft when she sees it, almost dreamy. Like it's something literally out of a dream.

Which doesn't mean anything when Daryl tells her to hide in the bushes while he checks inside.

"I'll come getcha when it's clear," he tells her, and her mouth is set into a mulish line. In a way he's pleased with that development - at least she isn't acting scared of him - but he's also sort of annoyed. There were signs of somebody in that house, and Sophia's not going anywhere that's not safe.

"I - but what if something comes when you're gone, and you have the bow?" Sophia asks. She's picking at the peeling bark of her crutch.

She's got a point. He unsheathes his knife and hands it to her. Sophia stares at it like he just handed her a live snake.

"I - " She looks at the knife doubtfully and tries to hand it back. "I'll be careful. I'll be real quiet, and I'll just -"

Yeah. Maybe leaving her the knife doesn't make sense. He takes the knife back and hands her the bow.

This makes her look scared. "What if you go in without the bow and there's a walker in there and you get bit?"

"I get 'em with the knife." He's done it before.

"What if it's a person and they have a gun and you can't get close enough to -"

"We ain't got a choice," Daryl snaps, and he grits his teeth as Sophia flinches. Fuck. "We just gotta do the thing that'll keep us both safe. That means me in there and you out here. I'll come back for you when it's clear." He turns around again. He's not going to give her a chance to argue again. He'll be in and out quick and then it won't matter if she was scared for five minutes.

"I don't want to be alone again," Sophia says in a tiny voice. It's a voice Daryl knows well. It's the voice you use when there's something you need to say but you're scared if someone else hears it, things will just get worse. It's him asking his old man to drive him to school when he missed the bus, it's him telling Merle don't you think you've had enough, it's him hovering in the doorway of his mother's room asking if she's all right. He could pretend not to hear her. That's the whole point of the voice. But that feels wrong, makes him scowl just thinking about it. Which probably doesn't make Sophia less scared.

They compromise. Sophia waits outside the door, holding the bow and covering the entrance. Daryl leaves the front door open and he clears the place room by room. Everything looks the same as it was when he was last here - Daryl wishes he'd done something obvious when he came before, balanced shit over doorframes, or left a dusting of flour by the doorway so that he'd know if the place had been disturbed. He doesn't notice anything different, but his head is throbbing and the light is fading. He could miss something.

Daryl finally lets Sophia in - he'd pretended not to notice how she'd crept further into the house with every room he'd cleared.

"Should we - go upstairs?" Sophia asks as Daryl finishes up there and heads back to the main floor. Sophia's leaning against the wall, awkwardly keeping her weight off of her injured ankle while still holding the bow against her shoulder like he showed her, finger next to but not on the trigger.

"Why?"

"I - I don't know." Sophia quiets, but Daryl waits her out. She had a reason for saying it. "Just like - like climbing a tree. Walkers don't climb."

"They climb stairs," Daryl points out. "Ain't secure like a ladder or a tree or whatever."

Sophia bites her lip. "Oh."

"But s'good thought," Daryl hears himself saying, and he almost feels himself blushing. What's he doing? The kid doesn't care what he has to say about this shit.

"There's some blankets up there and stuff, I'll bring 'em down," Daryl adds. "We don' wanna stay anywhere we ain't got multiple ways out."

Multiple ways out can also mean multiple ways in. But ultimately Daryl decides on one of the corner rooms - windows on both walls, plus the door into the room. He grabs the blankets from upstairs and from the cupboard downstairs, the lone weird pillow. There's a room with a fireplace which would keep them warmer, but he's not sure how he feels about the smoke, and it's still summer - with the blankets, they should be warm enough. He makes a little nest in the corner without any windows - figures the kid would prefer to sleep with her back to the wall. He would have when he was her age.

Hell, Daryl'd rather sleep like that now.

"C'mon," he says. Sophia's been hovering behind him, bracing between the wall and the crutch like she's scared if she sits he'll take off without her. "Gotta figure out a trip line."

"A what?"

"Uh - " Does she really not know what that is? They'd had one at the quarry camp, hadn't they? "Jus' like - a warnin' system. Case anything tries to sneak up on us."

There's gardening twine in one of the drawers and empty cans littering the floor of the kitchen. Mostly booze. Couple of soup cans with the tops still attached, half peeled off, which is lucky - Daryl's not sure how he'd string them altogether if the pop-top wasn't there. He sends Sophia over to the cupboard. "Look for any shit in there we can use or eat."

Sophia's eyes are wide and she's emptying the cupboard as quick as she can. It's not much - a jar of tomato sauce, another tin of sardines, a thing of olives. Couple cans, probably soup or beans or something. There are some unlabeled jars that look like self-canned preserves or some shit, some that look like jam, but Daryl looks at them warily. Could be botulism or whatever the fuck in there, or they could be deliberately fucked with. Best not to risk them.

There's a bottle of booze tucked into a dusty back corner. Bourbon. He pretends he doesn't see it, that he doesn't notice Sophia's eyes darting nervously between him and the bottle.

"M'gonna go hang this," Daryl mumbles. "Bring everythin' we can eat back to the room." He pauses, looks at her. "If you - uh - gotta, y'know - go?" Suddenly his mind is blanking on child-appropriate euphemisms for the bathroom. Somehow he thinks telling the girl not to shit in the toilet isn't going to go over great. "Don't - uh -" There's a blush creeping up the side of his neck which makes him scowl. What is he, some fifth-grader, blushing about basic bodily functions? "There's a toilet back there but it won't flush," he finally settles on. "Just, uh - so you know."

Sophia is blushing too, and she nods rapidly, not looking at him. Saving both of them, Daryl escapes outside with the trip line.

He starts to feel progressively worse as he goes. His side is like fire every time he breathes or bends over and his head feels woozy and light. There's something starting to creep around his vision, a kind of fuzziness that makes him feel like he's spinning. Fuck. He was going to stay up, keep watch, but as soon as he sets the line he thinks he'll go prop up against some wall and pass out. He wishes he could have some of the bourbon - help dull the pain, at least. But that's a stupid idea. Just dehydrate him more, and he can't afford to be out of it if something happens.

Plus the girl'd probably shit her pants, and he wouldn't blame her.

At the very least though, maybe he can use it to clean out his wounds, try and stave off infection until he can get back to Merle's stash of antibiotics. So Daryl's slightly pissed when he gets back and it's gone.

"Where's that bottle at?" Daryl asks, and he scowls when the girl flinches at him. Shit. "I ain't gonna - I jus' wanna use it to clean my shit out." He looks at Sophia consideringly. She didn't seem to have any open wounds, but it's possible. "Yours too. You got any cuts?"

Sophia shakes her head. She looks scared all of a sudden, more scared than when she thought he was going to drink the booze. "I - no."

Daryl waits. It's like the girl is trying to make herself say something, but she can't. She swallows, her fingers twisting in the yarn hair of the doll, and when she does speak it's so quiet Daryl can't hardly hear her.

"I - I poured it down the toilet."

Daryl's not sure what his face is doing - probably looking kind of pissed, although not at her. Was a fucking smart move on her part. She's a kid, she didn't know there'd be any use for it other than getting shit-faced.

"I'm sorry," Sophia says in a rush. Her voice sounds wobbly and he can see her pulling into herself, trying to make herself disappear. "I - I didn't know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"S'fine," Daryl says, but he's not sure how convincing he sounds. He feels sick all of a sudden, really sick, and he's not sure if it's because of the pain radiating out of his side or the way she's looking at him. Like he's about to haul off and whale on her, like he's going to pull out his belt and learn her good. He wonders if she'd done this before to Ed, if Carol had. Can't imagine Ed would react well to losing his supply.

Daryl'd done something similar once - he'd been eight and dumped all his pop's pills and powder down the toilet. He hadn't been sure at the time why he was doing it - maybe Daryl was hoping that when his pop got back from his latest bender, he'd just figure he'd gone through it all himself and have to get sober for a while. Or maybe he was mad - his ma'd been dead for a year at that point and his old man seemed to have totally forgotten she'd existed. Oddly enough, it hadn't been his pop who'd caught him out. It'd been Merle, Merle with a face like curdled milk, who'd smacked him so hard Daryl's head had rebounded off the shitty plastic of the sink.

"Fuckin' moron - the fuck you do that for, he's gonna skin you alive -"

Daryl hadn't understood maybe, how pissed his pop would be. Hadn't understood that even then Merle'd already been dipping into their pop's shit. But that hadn't been the whole reason Merle'd been mad. He never knew what Merle had done, but he'd gone out and come back four hours later with a handful of replacements, pitifully small compared to what Daryl had flushed.

"He asks, you tell him nothin'. You don't know shit. Fucker musta used it hisself an' forgot. Y'hear me, boy?"

Daryl'd nodded, his head still stinging.

"You pull that shit again, s'on you. I ain't coverin' for you no more. Fuck, fuckin' eight years old, too old to be pullin' shit like this -"

That part had been all talk. Merle'd covered for him that night when their pop came home. He'd covered for Daryl for another two years. Until he left.

Then Daryl was on his own.

He shakes his head to clear it, which only sets it off pounding again. Hell. His voice, when he speaks, is gravelly and rough. "Whatever. S'fine. Ain't like it were real antiseptic or whatever anyway. Prob'ly wouldna done nothin'." He wishes he could smile or something, tell the girl it was fine, but his whole head feels like it's about to explode. He settles for a shrug, which tugs at the wound on his side. He can't win.

"I'm really really sorry, I -"

"Said it's fine," Daryl snaps, and the girl goes totally still and silent. Fuck. He looks instead at the jars of food, neatly lined up.

"Leave them unlabeled ones," he mumbles. Daryl forces himself to get up. Tries to ignore how the girl flinches back at his movement. "Dunno what the fuck's in them." Daryl can hear his voice slurring a little bit. Shit. He's got to get some rest. He lets himself drop into the corner near one of the windows - conveniently on the other side of the room for the girl. He looks outside, pointedly avoids her. "None a that shit needs cookin' so y'can just dig in. Go slow - y'eat too much too fast, you'll get sick." He remembers walking into the kitchen of their shitty trailer after nine days in the woods, the only thing there bread and peanut butter. Being so hungry he almost didn't even make it into a sandwich. The feeling afterward, throwing up half-chewed bread and globs of peanut butter. "Save some for breakfast."

"What about you?"

"Ain't hungry." Daryl isn't - the squirrel earlier, the eggs at breakfast, it's enough to hold him over until they get back to Hershel's. He's gone longer without food and anyway, his head is whirling and his stomach's roiling and he thinks if he tries to eat anything he'd just puke it up anyway. Not worth wasting it when the girl could eat it. "M'gonna jus' - rest a while." His eyes are already closing as he says it, and he forces them back open. Gets the crossbow into his lap, still loaded. "You wake me, you hear anything." He can see the trip line from the window. Anything hits it, he'll have a clear shot. Of this side of the house, at least. "An' wake me if you're gonna go to sleep so I can take watch."

His eyes are closing again.

"Are - are you okay?" he hears Sophia ask him, but her voice sounds small and far away. He can't tell if it's because he's fading out or if it's just because she's little and scared.

"Gonna be fine," Daryl mumbles. He leans his head against the wall, the solidness of it feeling comforting, almost cool against his too tender head. "Just gotta rest."

And after that, he doesn't hear anymore.

When Daryl wakes up, it's like he's drowning. Like he was trapped underwater and waking up tosses him back to shore. He takes a couple of huge, sucking breaths. He's got his bow in his hands, which calms him down some - fuck, he's worse than that girl, she's got a rag doll and he's got a weapon with a hundred sixty draw weight.

The girl.

The room is darker than it was when he fell asleep. He can barely make her out, huddled up near the bed he'd made her in the opposite corner. With the moonlight from the window, he can see the barest outline of her, arms wrapped around her bony little knees, head down.

Fuck. She must've fallen asleep before waking him. He can't quite bring himself to be mad at her for not waking him - hell, he's not sure if he would have wakened. Daryl'd felt almost dead when he'd dropped off. But it wasn't good policy to leave them without somebody keeping watch.

Daryl's feeling better now - not good, but better. He wonders what woke him up - he must have heard something, to jolt him out of sleep like that, but when he listens now it's quiet. The trip line looks undisturbed around the house. It's not until he hears a sniffle, quiet enough that he almost wonders if he's imagining it.

Oh. She's crying. Probably in her sleep. Daryl wonders if he should wake her - if she's having bad dreams. He'd been having bad dreams, he thinks. Something about his dad, about - it doesn't matter though. They'd slipped away into the dark when he woke up. Maybe he should wake her too. But he'd probably scare the shit out of her. Daryl shifts a little, unsure of the best move. That's when he notices the blanket.

She'd clearly been nervous to get too close. Which was smart, him clutching that fucking crossbow. It looks like she'd thrown the blanket out over his lower legs, his boots poking out from the edge of it. There's something else there, too. Daryl leans over, knocks it.

It's a dented can of soup.

Shit. He feels bad now. He scared that girl silly and she still saved food for him and tried to fucking tuck him in. Daryl shifts a little more. He should wake her. He shouldn't let her twist herself into knots in her dreams. Plus, he probably should make her sleep in a real bed. Well, Daryl thinks, looking at the nest of blankets at rags he'd made earlier - the closest thing they had to a bed.

"Sophia," he says softly, and the sniffling stops. She's rigid all of a sudden, and Daryl tries to keep his voice soft and low, like talking to a spooked horse. "Girl, wake up."

"I'm not asleep," Sophia says quickly, and then she's looking up at him. Her face shines a little in the moonlight, smudged tear tracks through the layer of grime on her cheeks. "You said not to sleep unless I woke you."

Daryl feels a stab of guilt. Maybe he didn't phrase that so good. "Din't mean - you gotta sleep," Daryl says, still trying to keep his voice calm. It's easier in the dark, somehow. Like he doesn't feel like she's scared just by looking at him. "Jus' meant somebody's gotta keep watch while you do."

"You should sleep," Sophia says. "You're sick."

"Naw," Daryl replies. "Just had me a good nap. Your turn." He jerks his chin towards the blankets then realizes she probably can't see him. "G'wan an' lay down."

Sophia hesitates. "I thought that was your bed."

Man, he's really messing this up. Daryl struggles to keep his voice level and calm as he responds. "Naw. Made it for you." She doesn't move. "C'mon girl. Bed ain't gonna bite."

Sophia creeps forward then and perches almost delicately on the blankets. Her little shoulders look stiff, like she's waiting for him to change his mind. When Daryl doesn't say anything, he sees her silhouette relax some.

"Ain't like what your mama's got waitin' for you back at the farm," Daryl says awkwardly. "She been uh. Workin' real hard."

There's another sniff then and Daryl feels stupid. Shit. Shouldn't talk about her ma, maybe. Probably just upset her. Daryl doesn't know what upsets kids.

"Y'don't - gotta cry," Daryl says awkwardly. "I'll getcha back soon."

"I'm not crying about that."

"A'right." Then what the fuck is she crying about?

"I just - I didn't think anybody would find me."

A pang then. It'd taken Daryl four days to find her, and in the end, he probably would have missed her again if he hadn't gotten thrown by that stupid horse.

"Had a lotta people lookin'," Daryl mumbles. "Sides, you din't need nobody to find you."

He hears a sniffle again. Shit. Maybe she thinks he means that he didn't think they should have wasted their time looking.

"Jus' mean - found yourself, din't you?" Daryl explains. He's chewing on the skin around his thumbnail, grateful for the darkness. What a fucking pair, the girl with her doll and Daryl practically sucking his fucking thumb. "Hell, din't think nobody'd find me. All fucked up in that creekbed." Shit. He shouldn't say fuck. "Mean, all hurt and shit." Fuck.

"But you knew how to get out. You're brave." Something curls in Daryl's stomach, and it takes a minute to realize it's a good feeling.

"Naw. Jus' know how to handle myself. That ain't brave."

"I don't know anything." She sounds so convinced, sad about it, and Daryl hates Ed with a fucking passion at that moment. Fuck that guy, that his kid's so sure she can't do shit.

"Knew how to climb a tree," Daryl points out. "Found food. Water." He thinks about his own time lost in the woods. "Didja wipe your ass with poison oak?"

Sophia seems incredibly still all of a sudden, and Daryl wonders if she's blushing.

"Jus' - I got lost when I was younger'n you. Nine days in the woods, eatin' berries an' shit. An' I'd been camping before, y'know? So I shoulda known better. But used poison oak for toilet paper. You ever touched that?"

When Sophia speaks again, there's the hint of a giggle in her voice, which makes Daryl feel better about the fact that he's telling a twelve-year-old girl about a rash on his ass. "No. But I know it's bad."

"Itches like hell," Daryl agrees. "Surprised I ever stopped itchin'. Could barely sit still for a week." His teachers at school had been pissed already that he'd missed a full week. They hadn't been happy when he showed up and couldn't stop squirming.

"Ew," Sophia says. Daryl can imagine her nose wrinkling, but there's still that sound in her voice, like a little bubble of laughter.

"Yeah, ew," Daryl says, a smile on his own face.

"How'd they find you?" Sophia asks, and Daryl feels his smile fade a little. He shrugs, even though it tugs at his side and she probably can't see it in the dark.

"Ain't nobody found me. Came on the house again after a while, s'all." He wonders if he should tell her no one was looking, but that feels weird. Like he's asking some traumatized kid to feel sorry for him. And Daryl'd been fine. He was still here, wasn't he? "Hadta find myself. Jus' like you."

There's a moment of silence and another sniffle. Shit. Fucked that up again.

"Sorry," Daryl mumbles. "I ain't - good with kids."

"No, no, I'm not - I just -" She sniffles again and when she speaks her voice is wobbly. "I don't know, I just was really scared. That's all."

"Well, yeah. S'fuckin' scary," Daryl says. He wishes he were someone else - Lori maybe, or Rick. Rick'd know what to do. Probably give the kid a hug and tell her it's all going to be okay, do some dad shit that Daryl can't even imagine. But the idea of hugging the kid makes Daryl nervous and he thinks she's more comfortable with him on the other side of the room anyway. "Weren't no geeks runnin' around when I was a kid. Mean - there were bears, I guess, but they had better things to do than mess with me."

"You saw a bear?"

"Couple of 'em," Daryl said. "Were up in a tree. I went off the other way." That was actually what had eventually gotten him going the way that led him home. Thank god for bears.

"I've never seen a bear."

"Good," Daryl says, and he's rewarded with a snotty huff of breath that maybe could be a laugh. "Bet that doll a yours was better company than a bear anyway."

"She's - it's Eliza's doll."

The fuck is Eliza?

"I mean - I'm twelve, I'm too old for dolls," Sophia says, and she sounds so impossibly young as she says it. "I'm not a baby. But Eliza's only eight, so."

Daryl hums. A picture is coming to mind - one of them other kids, Morales' squeakers. He'd never heard their names. Their mama had kept them far away from him and Merle, with good reason, after Merle called one of them a bean taquito. There was a little girl, younger than Sophia, he guesses. Eliza.

"When they left she gave it to me, so." Daryl thinks he can almost hear Sophia shrug in the dark. "I don't know. I just - kept it."

She sounds a little embarrassed, and Daryl wants to tell her not to be. Wants to say he knows how it feels, the comfort of something solid in your hands, something to cling to. He'd had a bear until he was four, a bear Merle was constantly hiding on the top of the fridge or burying in the trashcan. Til their pops had gotten mad one day at the racket Daryl was causing, whining at Merle to give the bear back, and ripped the things head off. "Shit boy, what are you, some kinda faggot, cryin' over some goddamn doll?"He'd sucked his thumb for too long, a habit that Merle had tried desperately to break him of, dipping his thumb in tabasco or soap, smacking his hand whenever it inched near his mouth. "Pa sees you he's gonna make you sorry," Merle'd warned him, and eventually Pa had seen and Daryl had been sorry. It'd taken six weeks of his father putting out his cigarette in the pad of Daryl's finger until he'd broken the habit for good. The pad there is still a little too smooth, the whorls and swirls of his fingerprint obscured by scar tissue. He'd been sorrier to lose the one thing he had to hold onto, the solid thing that could make him feel safe even when he was hiding under the bed hearing his pops and his ma get into it.

Daryl doesn't say any of that though. He doesn't know how to say it without it being weird.

"S'nice doll," Daryl mumbles instead, and he squints at Sophia. "Y'should sleep, girl. Got a lotta walking ahead of us tomorrow."

Sophia's shoulders are stiff with that but she lays down. Daryl looks at her consideringly.

"Y'want me to - tuck you in, or whatever?" He wants to punch himself the second he's said it. What'll he do if she says yes?

"No thank you," her tiny voice replies. Southern mamas and their manners.

"A'right then." Daryl feels awkward again, weird, and he looks out the window. At the grass, already wet with dew, the moonlight glinting off of the battered cans of the trip line. The darkness of the trees beyond. It's a six-mile hike back to the farm from here - six miles with her bum ankle and him all torn to shit. He wonders if he could convince her to wait here for him, if Daryl could hike back and get another horse or a vehicle or something to come get her. But Sophia probably wouldn't consent to getting separated again, and this house isn't a sure thing - somebody'd been here recently enough that they could still be coming back. He's not sure if there are even roads to get to this place, at least not roads that Hershel might know off the top of his head. This place was even more in the middle of bumfuck nowhere than his dad's house.

Later, when the sky is lightening enough for the black outside to fade to a murky gray, Daryl wonders if he jinxed them.

" - you sure this is where they ran to?"

Fuck. Daryl's over and shaking Sophia before his body has time to protest. He's glad he thought to put a hand over her mouth because her whole body stiffens as he shakes her, and he can feel her mouth opening to cry out under his hand.

"Shh," he whispers - it's hardly a whisper, more an exhale. "We got company."

She stills immediately.

Daryl can see them now - three guys. And he's only got one arrow. Fuck. They're coming up on the house from the southeast - if they bail out of the window,

"I mean I ain't sure but it's the only place up around here they could go - "

"Fuck man, you lost us that pussy an' I'm gonna take it out of your ass -"

"Like to see you try!"

A moment of laughter. Daryl pulls Sophia out of the room and over to the closet where they'd found the canned goods. "In here," Daryl hisses, but Sophia's hands claw at him, dig into his shirt, jarring his wounds.

"Don't leave!" she says, an almost hysterical note in her voice. "Please, please -"

"Ain't goin' nowhere," he says, pulling her hands off of him. "Jus' can't fit in there with you. G'wan."

"Please -"

"Stay in here till I come getcha," Daryl says. "I'll be back. Promise."

Sophia's eyes are staring at him, wide and pleading, her lip wobbling out of control.

"Randall, check the front of the house, make sure they don't slip out. Ladies!" The last word is booming, loud - these guys don't care if whoever's in here hears them coming, which is their mistake. "Ladies, you left before we had a chance to kiss goodbye!" The guy's voice is oily, with some northern accent like from a TV show. Daryl shuts the cupboard door on Sophia and shoves some shit in front of it - the two chairs, some trash - camouflage her some. There's a china cabinet on the opposite wall - if Daryl thought he could move it without passing out, he would.

"Shit man, maybe they ain't here. Coulda cut out towards the highway, 85 ain't far -"

"Might as well check. Someone set that alarm out there. Them bitches seemed too dumb for that, but you never know. Max an' me'll take inside. Randall, you keep watch out here."

"What? I found the place for you, y'all wouldn't've even found it if not for -"

"Shut up, kid. You're lucky we even let you come, after -"

Splitting up. That's good. Daryl goes up to the top of the stairs, tucks himself away. Bow drawn and ready.

They think they're fucking with him? Mess with the girl? They've got another thing coming.

Daryl'd jammed a chair up under the door handle before they went to bed, but that doesn't stop him from seeing the knob turning. Fuck. He should have blocked the front doors better. But he'd been thinking flight, not fight. Not with him all fucked up and a kid in tow. He didn't want to curtail any of their ways out. But now they've got no choice, so Daryl readies himself to do what he has to.

"Someone's in there. Locked the door." A knocking at the door. "Little pigs! Little pigs! Let us in!"

"Fuck man. We could just bust that window there, go in that way -"

There are windows in the room Sophia's hiding in. Daryl doesn't want to risk it.

"Whatcha want?" Daryl hollers, and he hears the men outside stop.

"Shit. That don't sound like Brenda."

"Could be the other one - she was sounding pretty hoarse after I -"

"Man, don't be a dumbass -"

"Hey man, we're looking for some friends of ours," the main guy yells back. "Couple a broads. You seen 'em?"

"Ain't seen nobody," Daryl yells back. "Y'better go."

A pause. "Hey man, you'll forgive us if we don't just take your word for it."

There's a slam at the door and Daryl can see the chair jump under the doorknob. It's not going to hold for much longer.

Daryl knows what he should do. Knows what Merle would do. First guy in, pick him off with the bow. Make it two against one. Hide upstairs with the knife, take out another. Maybe one of them has a gun, something he can use on the third. It's not much of a plan but it's something. And he should do it. He's got Sophia to protect, and these guys sound like bad dudes. The way they talk about the women they're looking for makes his skin crawl.

But Daryl's never killed anyone before.

The door handle jumps again. "Look man - we don't want any trouble." The main guy, the smooth talker. "We're just looking for our girls. You let us in, let us take a look - if they ain't there, we'll go. Promise."

Do they honestly think Daryl's that stupid?

"You on your own, man?"

"Yeah," Daryl yells. Then he thinks, stupid. He shouldn't have told them that. Should have said there were more guys, puffed himself up. But he's not saying anything that gives even the slightest hint that Sophia exists. "S'how I like it."

"We get that, man. Look - let us in? We'll do a search and get outta your hair. No problem."

"Where you from, man?" One of the others yells out. "You local?"

Daryl doesn't say anything.

"Hey, we've got a local here. Randall, he's from Senoia. You from that way?"

"Don't tell him where I'm from," he can hear one of them hissing. Randall, he guesses. "What if he -"

"What's he gonna do? Where you from, man? Senoia?"

"Naw," Daryl says. "Passin' through."

"Us too." There's a pause."We're gonna come in man. All right? Just take a look around. It'd be better if you'd open up for us."

Daryl doesn't move.

"Bust it, Max."

Max is the first one in. He's older than Daryl thought, wearing a backward baseball hat and jean shorts. He's panting like a stuck pig from knocking the door in.

Shoot, Daryl tells himself. Shoot. Get him in the eye, or the throat. Easier than killing a walker, you can hit him lots of places and he'll go down. Do it. Fire.

But his finger doesn't move. He's never killed anybody. He's hurt people sure, he's won his share of fights (and lost more than his share), and he's been muscle for Merle a few times on deals. But he's never just shot a guy in cold blood.

"You get upstairs," the second guy says. He's the one in charge. He could almost look handsome, Daryl thinks, if it wasn't for his eyes, which look mean and hungry. "I'll look down here."

"Yeah, Greg. Got it."

This is it. He should aim for Greg first. Greg's the threat, and Greg's the one whose prowling around on the first floor. But he sees the flash of a gun at Max's belt and it makes Daryl wait. If Max comes upstairs, Daryl can take him out quick, grab the gun. Then maybe -

"Where you at, man? Come on out. We shoot the shit."

He's delayed too long. The choice gets made for him. Greg's ducked into a room - the front room where they'd been sleeping, not the one in the closet where Sophia is hiding. Max is huffing his way up the stairs - really? This guy is that out of shape? How'd he outrun walkers in that condition?

"Man, them girls aren't here. Shoulda gone east instead, bet they're running for Whitewater or something -"

Daryl's quick when he wants to be. He doesn't let himself think when the arrow pierces the guy's throat. There isn't time for more than a gurgle, wide brown eyes staring at Daryl, fingers clawing at the fletching protruding from his neck. The guy might not be dead right away, but it'll come soon enough. Daryl doesn't wait. Draws his knife over the guy's throat - it feels disturbingly like field dressing a deer, the same sort of action. Then the guy doesn't do anything.

Daryl makes his way down the stairs careful, drawing back the bow again, putting his blood sticky arrow in place. He slings the bow over his back though and wields Max's gun. It's flashy but it's loaded. It'll do the trick. He can hear Greg kicking shit in the bed area.

"Come on man. We don't mean no harm. You tired of being on your own? We got a camp, you know. Good guys. Friendly guys. We take newcomers if they can earn their keep. Randall out there, he's earning his keep for us right now." Then all of a sudden the noises stop.

"Max!" Greg calls and Daryl freezes on the steps. "Ain't our girls here. But some girl is."

Daryl doesn't breathe.

"Hey, sweetie. You lose somethin'?"

Daryl starts down the stairs as fast as he can without alerting Greg to his presence. His heart is pounding in his ears, his side. It's okay. She's not in there. She's smart, she'll stay in the closet til he gets her.

"Think your dolly misses you. Why don't you come out and get her?"

Fuck.

"Hey sweetheart, it's okay. I don't bite. Hard." Greg laughs at his own joke. "That your dad here with you?"

Daryl's almost to the door frame.

"We got a camp, you know. Room for you and your dad. Or maybe we'll get you a new daddy. How's that sound? Want me to be your new daddy?"

Greg's head explodes before he even knows Daryl's there. The gunshot roars in Daryl's ears and Daryl staggers - it's all catching up with him now, his side and his head and the fact he just killed two people in cold fucking blood. He steps over Greg's slumped body, makes for the front - the third one, the kid, the one from Senoia -

"Shit -"

The kid is running, scrambling north through the branches, tripping over himself. Daryl watches for a second. He could hit him, he thinks, if his head wasn't swimming and he didn't think he was going to puke. But the kid's running fast and he's running the opposite way from Hershel's farm and two people's enough for one day, ain't it?

"Don't be a pussy, little brother," he hears, and Merle is there, leaning against the doorjamb. He's lighting a cigarette, both hands intact. Daryl watches the flame play between his fingers, the smoke curl outwards. "You do what you gotta. But hell," Merle says, blowing a perfect smoke ring - something Merle had spent most of his life trying to master. "Best get that girl outta here before them geeks hear that gunshot and come chomping. You done rung the dinner bell, boy."

When Daryl opens the cupboard door, Sophia's clutching the empty bourbon bottle in sweaty hands and her breath is unsteady. When she sees Daryl, she throws herself into his arms, clinging to him. He grunts as she smacks into him and staggers back.

"Sorry, sorry," Sophia is saying, and Daryl doesn't know what to do with this shit. "I heard the gun and I thought you might have -"

"M'fine," Daryl says gruffly. "But s'time to go." She doesn't let him go right away and he twitches - he doesn't want to shove her or nothing, but there isn't time for this and it isn't like he's so great at hugs and shit even at the best of times. Sophia seems to understand the twitch though. She backs off.

Daryl holds out the doll to her. There was a little blood on the doll's head, but he thinks maybe Sophia won't notice with all the other dirt ground into it. "Ready?"

"My - my stick's in the other room."

Yeah. Guess he hadn't really given her time to grab that. Daryl chews on his lip.

"You - wait here, a'right? I'll get it." Sophia shifts and he looks at her, hard. "I mean it. Don' follow me."

She's scared enough of him as it is, she doesn't have to see what he's done.

"Okay," she mumbles. She's working the yarn of the doll's hair in between her fingers. "I - I'll wait."

Daryl's quick when he goes it the room. He scoops up her crutch, the can of soup she'd left him, scours the ground for anything else. The jar of olives is still half full, so he pockets that too.

He throws a blanket over Greg's body and thinks about doing the same for Max upstairs, but doesn't. He's wrecked from all that. Daryl's not sure he could make it up and down the stairs another time, which doesn't bode well for him getting himself and the girl back to Hershel's farm in one piece. He grabs Greg's gun and shoves it in his waistband. There's a knife too, a buck knife with a folding blade, and he takes that too. It's small enough for Sophia to handle.

He hands her the knife and the stick and she looks at him, worry sketched around her eyes, teeth pulling at her lip.

"Are you - you don't look so good."

He doesn't feel so good either but it doesn't matter. He isn't dying. Just got to keep moving.

"Ain't a good idea to stay here," Daryl says. "We're gonna leave now anyway. We leave now, might be at the farm for lunch."

Dinner, he thinks dizzily. Dinner if they're lucky, with him all fucked up like this.

Sophia nods and bites her lip. He hands her the knife. She stares at it.

"I - I don't know how to -"

"S'good to have a knife," Daryl says to her. "Handy. Just take it."

She doesn't say anything when he hands her Greg's gun.

He thought carefully about it. Greg's gun is lighter than Max's, and it has more ammo. Sophia stares at it with scared eyes and doesn't reach out. Like she's scared it's going to bite her or something.

"Don' use it unless you gotta," Daryl says. His arm trembles a little with the effort of holding the gun out to her, and that makes him mad. At himself, at how fucking weak he is, at how the hell he's gonna get this girl home in one piece, and a little bit at the girl. Can't she see he needs her help? "Sound'll draw walkers, so it's only for a real emergency."

"I - I'm not supposed to play with guns," Sophia whispers.

"Yeah, well, y'ain't gonna play with it. You're gonna hold onto it and give it back to me at the farm," Daryl says. "Safety's here. Trigger's here. Don't point at nothin' you don't want dead."

"M-my dad told me -"

"Well, he ain't here!" Daryl snaps and immediately regrets it. Sophia flinches back, hands on her stick like if he comes at her she'll bop him one. Which makes him feel a little. Good girl. Anyone comes near her, she should bop him one. He takes a breath. "Look. Ain't - s'just in case. Y'can't draw the bow yourself or I'd give you that." Daryl doesn't mention she'll probably be better at aiming the gun, that the gun gives her more chances than the bow. "But if we get separated, ain't no good me havin' everythin' and you havin' nothin'."

This only makes her more panicked.

"I - I don't want to get separated," Sophia says, her voice quaking.

"Me neither," Daryl says frankly. "Just gotta plan for the worst case. That's all."

He waits her out for a long minute. He's getting impatient - they've got to go. Who knows where the camp was that these fucks were talking about, how long it'll take Randall to sound the alarm. He should have killed that kid. Stupid.

Daryl's about to shove the gun back into his waistband - fuck it - when Sophia's hand reaches forward and takes it, quick and light, brushing against his hand like a butterfly.

"Sorry," Sophia says miserably. "Sorry, I didn't - I'll carry it. Sorry."

Fuck. Daryl's too tired for this. He's bad at kids anyway, probably worse at girl kids than boy kids because at least he was a boy kid. Girls are totally alien so he'd probably be fucking this up anyway, even if he weren't leaking blood with a pounding head and shaking limbs and the word murderer slamming around his skull.

"S'okay," he says roughly. He shoulders his bow, checks his gun. "We jus' gotta go. That's all."

And they do.

As they pass the front, Daryl sees the flowers again. Cherokee roses.

"Hold up," he says. Sophia stops, looks at him.

Daryl pulls three flowers off - mindful of the prickers, careful not to get stuck. He strips the last of the thorns off as he gets back to Sophia.

"Here," he says gruffly. Sophia stares at the flowers like they're not quite real. "Bring these back for your mama."

Sophia takes them. Rubs one of the petals between her fingers.

"They're pretty," Sophia offers tentatively. Daryl grunts.

"Cherokee roses," he says, and then he's got to save his energy. "C'mon. Let's move. Git those back to your mama 'fore they wilt."

Their progress through the woods is slow. Sophia moves at a snails pace, hopping along with that stick, and it takes Daryl longer than it should to realize that she's actually holding back for him. He's shuffling along like a fucking walker himself. The bow is heavy and grinding against his back and he can feel his steps getting jerkier, less even. He's not being as observant as he should be - he knows he'd notice if a human was on their trail, or even a walker, but otherwise all his attention goes to staying upright and putting one foot ahead of the other in the right direction.

"Should we - do you want to stop?" Sophia asks hesitantly, maybe two hours in. "We could - eat lunch or -"

"Ain't past ten," Daryl says, pushing against his side. "It'd be breakfast."

"Do you - want breakfast?"

"Naw. Wanna get you home."

They walk for maybe another thirty minutes before she works up the courage to ask again.

"Maybe - maybe we should stop now."

"Girl, we ain't stoppin' -" Daryl starts, but he stumbles over a root, almost falls flat on his face. Like some stupid city slicker. He catches himself on a tree, the rough bark cool under his hands, and that's when Daryl realizes he's probably running a fever. Shit.

"I think we have to," Sophia says in that bad small voice again. "You're - you look bad." She realizes that this isn't maybe a polite thing to say, which Daryl thinks is funny because why on earth would it matter now how polite you are. "I mean - sick. You look, uh. Maybe sick."

"Dunno where their camp was," Daryl mumbles. His lips feel super dry all of a sudden. He should have drunk that water yesterday, even if it'd meant he'd shit himself silly. He's so thirsty. "Dunno how long we got, 'fore someone comes lookin'."

Sophia is quiet, and he wonders if she hadn't realized earlier. What he'd done. That those guys were dead. That he'd killed them and that there were probably more of them.

"What do I do?" Sophia asks suddenly. She sounds scared and lost but also frustrated. Maybe angry. Well, good. She should be angry. Angry's better fuel than sad or scared, burns hotter and more powerful than lost. Angry'll get both of them home.

It's got to.

"I don't know what to - I think you're really sick, Mr. Daryl."

"Don' call me that," Daryl croaks, and the girl flinches. "They'll patch me up at the farm. Don' worry. Jus' gotta get there."

"But -"

"Hey," Daryl says, and Sophia looks at him. He tries to think of what to say, of how to explain it to her. What'll make her feel better, be less scared?

"I ain't dyin'," he says firmly. "So c'mon. Let's get you home."

They keep going.

This thought appears as it becomes clearer and clearer that they aren't going to make the farm before sundown. Daryl's moving just too damn slow. The girl too - she's not holding back anymore, trying to match his pace. She's slower than he is, hours of hobbling around with that dumb excuse for a crutch catching up with her. Her every move is stilted, more drag than step, and Daryl's not much better, although by midday he feels less flushed and thirsty. They stop at noon, near a creek that's barely more than a trickle, and he builds a fire - "Dry wood," Daryl explains as he coaxes the thing to life, the emptied soup can nestled in the flames, "Means less smoke, means no one can track us with it." The can is so shallow that it boils quick, and both of them drink two cans worth, even though it tastes muddy and brackish and faintly like cream of celery soup.

They're close to the farm now. Maybe another two miles. Going at the rate they're at now and assuming they make camp for the night, they should be there before noon tomorrow, easy. But only two miles out means they're almost back on Hershel's turf. Rick could be out looking for them, Glenn's horse girl could ride up on them, hell even Shane might find them, two miles out.

Unless no one's looking. Unless they figured he just lit out, stole Hershel's horse, and ran off like some nineteenth-century horse thief. Like he'd leave Merle's bike behind. Or maybe they haven't even noticed Daryl's missing. He keeps to himself well enough. Rick's the only one who checks in with him regular or whatever, and that's just about the status of the search.

Carol'd probably notice he hadn't come back - at the very least, because she watches him like a hawk when he comes back into camp, waiting for good news. But the others don't listen to Carol really. They act like because she's torn up about her kid she's useless, and frankly they'd acted like she was useless for a long time.

Daryl'd seen how Ed treated her, back at the quarry. Merle had told him to keep his nose out.

"Bitches like that don't leave 'less they want to," Merle had said. "Remember Ma?"

"Ma din't leave," Daryl had grumbled. "She died."

"Exactly, baby brother," Merle had said, his teeth bared in his shit-eating grin even if something around his eyes was sad. "Exactly."

Merle hadn't mentioned it, but it'd made Daryl remember too when he was little - before his ma had died, so he was probably six or seven - and his ma's sister had come to visit for a couple of weeks. Aunt Elaine, he remembered suddenly. She'd come up from Macon to stay and his dad had gotten into a screaming match with his ma that had ended with her sobbing on the kitchen floor, her hand over her swollen cheek, and booze everywhere. Aunt Elaine had yelled at his pop, had said "I know what you are!" and "You touch her or those boys again, you'll regret it!"

Which had led to the worst summer of Daryl's life, as his dad proceeded to tar each and every one of them bloody and then invite Aunt Elaine over for dinner.

"Whatcha think?" he'd ask her, leering, more than a little drunk. "I regrettin' it yet?"

She'd never come for another visit. And Ma had died a couple months later.

Daryl'd learned an important lesson then, about outsiders messing in family business. It could only end bad for the family.

But Daryl wasn't a cop. Cops sucked, but they weren't meant to just sit by and watch some woman get beat on and stay out of it because it wasn't their business. The worst thing about cops was they made everything their business. So why, at the quarry, had Rick and Shane just looked the other way?

So even if Carol did notice Daryl was missing, he wasn't sold on the idea that the others would take her very seriously. Especially not about some redneck scum like him.

No. No point in waiting around for rescue. They had to get themselves back. And they were close.

Just a little further.

"Are we almost there?"

Sophia was cringing even as she said it like she expected him to wallop her for daring to ask. But Daryl's more impressed that she'd waited so long - it's been hours since they stopped at the creek, and he'd expected complaining to come pretty soon after they started walking again.

"More'n halfway," he said, and the look on Sophia's face is hard to read. Nervousness, anxiety. Excitement.

"Will we get there tonight?"

Daryl squints at the sky and sighs. Shakes his head. "Tomorrow."

Sophia bites her lip. He expects a little whining. He'd said tomorrow yesterday, and the girl probably wanted to be home five days ago. But she just nods and looks around. At the trees, looming overhead, the underbrush wild and tangled around the forest floor.

"Are - where are we going to sleep?"

It's a good question. Daryl frowns, suddenly.

"Where'd you sleep?" he asks, realizing he'd gotten hardly any information about how the girl had lasted as long as she did. "When you was alone?"

Sophia shrugged, uncomfortably. "Um - in trees?"

Daryl stares at her.

"What?" he asks slowly. He gets that climbing trees was how she'd shaken the walkers off. Hell, she'd found that hickory tree, sure. But sleeping in a tree - "What are you, some kinda squirrel? Where'd you think of somethin' like that?"

"Um. It was in a book?" Sophia says softly, her voice quirking up at the end almost like a question. He can't tell if it's the good kinda soft, like when he almost made her giggle last night, or the bad kind like she's scared of him.

"A book?"

"Yeah. Um. The Hunger Games?"

Daryl looks at her. Sophia is looking back, and all of a sudden something shifts in her face. "You - don't you know about The Hunger Games?"

Hunger Games feels like what they're in now - some game where they're starving, the walkers are hungry, and whoever eats first wins. He shakes his head.

"Naw," Daryl grunts. "Ain't much of a reader."

"Katniss sleeps in a tree. She's got a sleeping bag and she belts it to the branches so that the Careers don't see her when they're hunting and so she doesn't fall out if she falls asleep."

Huh. Some of that sentence makes sense.

"And Rue is good in trees too. That's her friend. She can walk from tree to tree, really like a squirrel. I tried to do it but my ankle hurt too bad, so I stopped."

Shit. Girl was hopping tree to tree, no wonder Daryl'd lost her trail. He was surprised she hadn't broken her neck.

"You ain't got a belt," Daryl points out, and Sophia nods.

"Yeah. Mostly I tried to use my shirt - like I'd poke a branch through the neck hole or the sleeves so if I moved it'd wake me up before I fell out. I mean - I didn't like really sleep super good or anything, but. I just figured, since walkers can't climb, that it'd be safer..." Sophia trails off. "It was stupid."

"Why would it be stupid? You're alive, ain't you?"

"I guess," Sophia mumbles.

A minute of silence later, her quietest voice comes from behind him.

"My dad hates those books."

Daryl looks at her. She's staring at the ground, her feet.

"Why?" Daryl's dad hadn't cared about books. He'd holler if he saw Daryl lazing around doing homework when he could be doing something useful, but he never gave a shit if the stuff in the books was violent or pornographic or whatever. As an adult, Daryl wonders back at how literate his dad actually was. Like he was pretty sure Will Dixon could read, but he wonders if his dad actually ever sat down and read a whole book or whatever.

"The Hunger Games. He says they're violent. It's a bad example."

Like Ed cared about setting a bad example. Probably didn't want Sophia getting ideas about fighting back. Fucker.

"Just - That's not for girls. That stuff. It's why I'm not allowed to touch his gun. It's not for girls, stuff like that."

Daryl figures Ed had plenty of reasons not to want Sophia to touch his gun. Or Carol.

He wonders if Sophia realizes she's speaking in the present tense. Wonders if it's just a habit, or if it hasn't sunk in yet, that Ed is gone. That he's not going to say shit like that to her again, that she can read anything she wants. Wonders if it'd be a relief or if she misses him. When his old man had died, he'd felt nothing, not even relief. There'd been a sort of emptiness where he thought grief was meant to be, just a blank void in his chest. It'd been hard to believe it was real.

"Ain't that person in your book a girl, one tied herself to the tree?"

Sophia just nods.

"Well," Daryl says like that proves his point. He's not sure if it does, but Sophia gives him a small smile anyway.

"That's what my mom said."

"Your ma's smart," Daryl grunts.

"Yeah," Sophia says, her tone wistful. "She is."

They walk in silence for another bit, nothing but the crunch of dirt and dead leaves under their feet.

Daryl sets up camp and asks Sophia, only half-joking, if she's sure she doesn't want to sleep in a tree.

Sophia shrugs, the ghost of a smile around her face. "I - I guess I'd probably sleep better, um. On the ground."

"A'right. If you're sure." The lean-to Daryl threw together isn't his best work, but it'll keep her sheltered and dry while he keeps watch. Maybe he'll wake her when he gets tired, or maybe he'll just push through till morning, although his side twinges at the thought, like it's warning him to take his injury serious. He's never been good at that. But the girl deserves some rest. Daryl can sleep when they're safe.

It gets dark quick in the woods. One minute the light is there and the next it's gone, leaving them in a gritty grayness that fades into black as Daryl layers the top of the lean-to with more branches. He's done it so often that the lack of light doesn't affect him too much - ain't like the thing needs to be a work of art or whatever. Just gotta keep her dry and warm.

"I - um -" Sophia is mumbling and Daryl tries not to react while she does. He hates it when people ask him to speak up, be louder, say it again, and he's a grown-ass man. Little girl's probably twice as sick of it. He spreads another layer of leaves on the floor of a lean-to, the best bed he can make. Hell, she uses that doll for a pillow and it might actually be kinda comfortable. "I could - go find tinder again? For the fire?"

"Naw," Daryl grunts. She should rest that foot, is what she should do. "Don't need a fire. You'll be warm enough in here."

"Oh." She's chewing on her lip again, fingers picking at the doll in her lap.

"Normally we would," Daryl adds. "If we were jus' camping. Can scare off animals, y'know. Most times, they don't wanna find humans anymore'n humans wanna find them. We're dangerous."

"So - shouldn't we - make one, then? To keep -" Sophia scrunches her nose up, shakes her head. "I mean - sorry."

"Naw, s'good question," Daryl mutters. He adds another layer of leaves to the bed. "Animals'd keep clear, but the light draws walkers in. Maybe the heat too, I dunno." Daryl doesn't mention potential other pursuers, people from that camp Randall'd probably run back to. If she's forgotten about it, he doesn't need to remind her, make her scared of more shit. "Plus, can kinda blind you, you know."

Sophia looks at him, worried. "Blind you?"

"Naw, not - jus' mean, your eyes adjust to light. Right? Like - when you're inside with the lights on and you go out an' it's dark, you can't see so good." There are words for this that are better, science shit. Hell, if he were Rick or Shane or Glenn, that motor mouth fuck, he'd be able to explain anything. As it is, he's tripping over words, scrambling for examples. Kid probably thinks he's a fucking idiot.

But she's nodding, slowly. "Um - like when you're playing outside and it's sunny and you go inside and it's like all black and green and it's hard to see?"

Smart kid. "Yeah. S'like - if we had a fire, I'd only be able to see the stuff the fire lit up, an' if I had to look away, I'd be pretty bad. But if I ain't never had the light, then my eyes'll adjust or whatever, to the dark. Be able to see better."

He can't tell if that makes any sense, but Sophia's nodding again. "Um. Mr - sorry."

Daryl tries to hold in a sigh. "What?"

Oh. They'd had this problem twice already - Sophia, stammering and blushing, her body weirdly rigid, fumbling around telling Daryl she's got to take a piss. Daryl's not sure why the girl is so embarrassed about it - just means everything is working normal, doesn't it?

"Gotta hit the head?"

Sophia nods, biting her lip.

"Well. We should go a little further out," Daryl says. It'd been different earlier - she'd just hung back a little, ducked behind a tree, and they'd kept walking. But now, stopped for the night, Daryl doesn't want the smell of shit or piss to draw animals to them, especially with no fire. Daryl wishes she'd figured out she had to go earlier - he'd have dug a latrine or something. "C'mon."

Sophia doesn't move. She's staring at him with a weird, watchful look.

"I can go myself."

"Girl, s'dark," Daryl says. "Don't want you wanderin' off." The girl flinches at that, and Daryl feels bad. He didn't mean to make her feel bad for getting lost. "C'mon. I'll stand watch."

"My - my mom says I'm not ever supposed to -" Sophia's shoulders are pulling inward, making her smaller, and suddenly something in Daryl feels sick and squirming. Fuck. Is she scared of him? That he'll do something while she -

"Ain't gonna look," Daryl says, and his voice sounds angry even to his ears, so he's not surprised when the girl makes herself even smaller. He's not mad at her. He's not even mad at Carol - whatever shit she'd told Sophia, it was good advice. He's angry that the advice was probably necessary, whatever shit Carol'd given her about to be careful about men, about being vulnerable, about getting cornered with your pants down and nowhere to run.

Hell. Daryl knows better than anyone the shit people do when they think they can get away with it. But he'd had to learn it the hard way. His ma hadn't given him any pointers.

"I - I don't have to go that bad," Sophia says, her voice very small. "I'm okay."

"C'mon." Daryl's pulling himself up then, his whole body protesting. He leans against a tree, jerks his chin without looking at the girl. "I'll listen out for you from here. Jus' make sure nothin' creeps up on you. You hear somethin', you holler, right?"

Sophia bites her lip. "I - I can -"

"Girl, git on," Daryl says roughly. "Don't want you pissin' yourself here. Draw the bears. Ain't gonna try nothin'. Jus' don't think you can hold a gun an' pee at the same time." Although maybe a girl could do that.

He's half expecting her to cringe herself into nothing, to pull herself so small that she disappears. At the very least to dart off like a rabbit, scared shitless of him. He's bad with kids. He shouldn't tell her there's shit out there waiting to creep up on her, that bears were coming, shouldn't have made it sound like she's some baby gonna piss herself at the first move. But she doesn't. Her chin stuck out in a way he'd call stubborn anywhere else, she's up, going by him in a blur of blonde hair and ragged tee-shirt, lopsided with her injured ankle.

A twig snaps and he almost aims the bow into the darkness before he realizes it's Sophia coming back. She's quiet, light-footed - could probably be a good hunter. A good tracker, too - she's observant. Daryl's almost afraid to speak to her. He doesn't look at her anymore as she creeps back into camp, settles down outside the lean-to.

He says nothing until it becomes clear she's not going to move without a push. "Better get some sleep," Daryl says, his voice gravelly. He looks at his hands instead, the spot of blood dotting the edge of his thumb. He rubs it off on the edge of his jeans, has a distant thought of how stupid he is, ripping open holes in himself and wiping them off into dirt when he's already in such bad shape. He leans himself against the tree.

"Yes sir," Sophia says, hardly more than a whisper, and Daryl feels his mouth pull and his gut clench.

"Ain't no sir," he grunts, and he doesn't have to look at her to tell the flinch. He tries to remember her face earlier, tasting the olives, the shy smile when they'd talked about that book. Before it got dark and she got scared. She's not wrong to be scared. Daryl remembers what can happen in the dark, the way that things that felt manageable in the day could morph and twist when you couldn't fix eyes on it. "Get some rest. We're startin' early tomorrow."

A rustle of leaves as the girl crawls into the lean-to is her only response.

Daryl goes into a sort of state that isn't asleep or awake - something he remembers from childhood, hunting in blinds with his dad. Daryl hated it - hated being outside but stuck in one spot, hated the close proximity to his father, the way that the enclosure made him feel half dumb without tracks to follow. His dad wouldn't drink when they went out tracking - he'd had that much sense. But in the enclosure, he'd bring whatever he felt like and drink the whole day and get pissed when he aimed at a deer and missed. On a good day, it'd only be a six-pack, and he'd crack one open for Daryl. On a bad day, a jar of his own moonshine, the smell of it clogging Daryl's head and burning his eyes with what he knew was coming.

Back then, Daryl'd zone out. That's what his dad called it, smacking him in the back of the head and telling him to quit dreaming, but Daryl never thought that was fair. He wasn't daydreaming - he wasn't thinking at all. He just went blank, his brain moving slow, his ears taking in information but not properly listening. It was easier to wait like that, zoned out, breathing still and even, hoping that if he stayed still enough a deer would stumble over their path and the day could be over, that his old man would forget he was there. Daryl had done it a couple of times at home, too - when he was really little, hiding under the couch listening to Merle or his ma get it, or when he was older, when Merle was gone and his ma was dead, his dad unbuckling his belt and riding that sound until he was far away.

Daryl's zoning out - just crouched against the tree, listening, watching, the weight of the crossbow in his hands, trying not to think - when he hears the girl crying.

It's different than the night before. Then, all he'd really heard was the odd sniffle or two, and if he hadn't seen the tear tracks down Sophia's face, he could have guessed she just had a cold or something. This isn't like that. It's not even like real crying - it's a sort of strangled whimper that doesn't cut out, burrowing under Daryl's skin and drilling through his ears to his brain so he can't zone out anymore.

He doesn't know what to do. She's asleep, she must be - she's too quiet to make this much noise willingly. He wonders what she's dreaming about to make her cry like that, and he decides he doesn't want to know. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he wonders if it's him.

He should wake her. She's not happy, he can hear that much, and he remembers that feeling, being stuck in a nightmare that you can't get out of, the fear clawing the back of his throat, the panic. (He remembers it better than he should - Merle'd ragged the shit out of him, that Daryl still had nightmares at his age.) She's not getting real rest that way anyway. He could help her, wake her, stop her from crying.

Or he could just make it worse.

Daryl's biting at the skin around his thumb again as he listens. She sounds like a wounded animal, a cat with its tail stuck in a door, a dog after a kick. It's driving him crazy, the sound, but what if he woke her up and it just made her cry harder? He can't imagine himself touching her, not after that shit earlier. He remembers waking her up when Greg and Mark had snuck up on them, the frantic way her arms had clawed at him, the look in her eyes. He can't do it.

But she sounds scared and it just drills deeper and deeper into his head until he can't take it anymore.

Daryl doesn't move. There's debris on the ground around him - snapped twigs and clods of dirt, little pebbles. He aims careful - he doesn't want to hurt her. But he starts tossing them onto the slanted leaf roof of the lean-to, gently. Making the structure move slightly, shaking the leaves where it hits with a low rustle.

It doesn't take long until the noise stops, which Daryl figures means she woke up. He tries to zone out again - he's tired suddenly, exhausted, and he just wants to hand the girl over to her ma and go into his tent and sleep for days. His side has been throbbing so hard that he almost can't remember what it feels like to not have this second, shadow heartbeat in his ribs. It'll be over soon, he thinks, pressing his hand into the wound, which feels hot to the touch. Fuck.

It'll be over soon.

Daryl's surprised when Sophia comes out of the lean-to. He figured once she woke up, she'd just lay there until she fell back asleep. But she crawls out, that doll clutched in one hand, and she sits in front of the lean-to silently, curled into herself, and Daryl doesn't know what to say. The silence feels thick and unnatural between them and Daryl hates it - silence for him has always been safety, he doesn't like the tenseness in it now.

He waits a minute, to see if she'll speak first, but she doesn't. Just stays curled up, miserable looking, hands knotted over her knees and the doll tucked under her chin. If there were a fire, it'd be easier - they could watch it, stare at it. The fire would fill up space. But there's no fire, nothing but the whisper of the woods around them and the dark.

"Can' sleep?" Daryl asks. His voice is rough and he swallows. No need to scare her more by sounding like Freddy fucking Krueger.

He sees her head shake, minutely. Her voice comes out after a moment. "I - I woke up."

Daryl nods. Licks his lips. "Y'wanna - uh - " The last thing he ever wanted to do was talk about nightmares, but maybe girls were different about that stuff. He fills with relief when she shakes her head again, faster, her tangled hair flipping.

"No thank you," she says quickly.

"Right," Daryl says. He looks up at the sky, squints. Maybe two or three hours from sunrise. He craves a cigarette suddenly, hungrily - something to do with his hands, something to keep his mouth busy. Wonders what happened to his - probably trampled half to shit from his plummet down the hillside, or submerged at the bottom of the creek. Not here, not where he needs them.

"Tell me 'bout that book," Daryl says suddenly, and he feels himself flush as Sophia looks at him. Hell. He doesn't know what to do - he's never felt the need to break the silence before. But the question is dumb and he feels stupid as he sits there, asking some kid about some fucking book like he doesn't know she was just crying her eyes out in her sleep.

"The - Hunger Games?"

Daryl grunts. "Yeah. Might as well. Got time."

"I - I didn't finish it. It was a library book and when my - I mean. We had to bring it back before I finished."

Fuck Ed. "Well, I ain't read it neither, so. Y'know more of it than me."

It's quiet again and Daryl leans back against the tree. Whatever. It was a stupid question. Kid doesn't have to talk if she doesn't want. Hell, Daryl doesn't have to talk either. They can just wait for sunrise and hike back to the farm and Daryl will never talk to anyone again.

"She uses a bow," Sophia offers. Her voice is quiet but not small anymore - he wonders how he can tell the difference between volume and intention, if he's just bullshitting himself at being able to read her, projecting his own ideas onto her. But at least she's not sitting there like a little ghost. "In the book?"

"That girl? One sleeps in trees?"

"Uh-huh. Katniss."

"Crossbow?" Is this really all he has to talk about? Next, he's going to be asking about the draw weight of some made-up weapon. Shit.

"No. Or I mean - it doesn't say it's a crossbow. It just said bow. She had to hide it outside the fence because they're not allowed to have weapons?"

"Why?"

That explanation is more complicated - shit about districts and capitals and something about the actual premise for the hunger games which sound like a horror movie he and Merle had watched stoned one late night. He doesn't try and follow, just lets it watch over him. The girl sounds better this way - her voice is stronger, less scared. He can't tell if she cares about what she's saying either, but she cares enough to keep talking, and when she talks some of the tension melts away, makes the silence feel like it used to, like a comforting blanket around him.

"And so she's listening to the rules change and she hears that they're going to let both the people win if they're from the same district and she yells out 'Peeta!' and that's when I had to give it back."

"Shit," Daryl says, frowning. "That's fucked up though. 'Bout the other kid."

"Rue," Sophia says. "I cried."

"Bet they win though," Daryl says. "Katniss and Peter."

"Peeta," Sophia says, which makes him frown again. Isn't that what he said? "I don't know. I hope so."

"Wouldn't write a whole book 'bout a girl then let her die," Daryl points out pragmatically. "Plus, she's got that bow. An' she's a hunter. Survival skills."

Sophia shrugs, something deflating in her, and Daryl swears in his head. Shit. Fucked it up. "Guess so."

"What? Y'think Peter's gonna die 'fore she can find him?" He wants that moment back, listening to a kid tell a story. He'll sound like an idiot if that's what it takes. "Hell, she's a tracker. She'll find him."

"I don't know. Maybe." He sees her little shoulders shrug. "There was going to be a sequel, too. But - "

"Well, if there was a sequel, bet that means they live," Daryl says.

"Guess." She messes with the doll's hair for a second before speaking. "Just - we'll never find out probably, right?" Sophia's looking at him then, her eyes wide in the darkness, and she looks incredibly young all of a sudden. But it clicks what she's saying, and Daryl thinks it again. Smart fucking kid. Hiding out in the middle of the goddamn forest and she's mourning a world of stories and possibilities that have been snatched from her, that she'll never have. It feels wrong all of a sudden, that Daryl had so much time - hell, he'd probably spent as much time trailing Merle, dealing dope, as she'd been alive. She'd had hardly anything, all of it tainted with fucking Ed, and now that world is gone. Bringing her home to her mama won't make it come back.

"Shit girl, ain't like them walkers eat books," Daryl says roughly. "We can find you a copy." Ain't like books are food or meds - he bets the bookstores haven't hardly been touched. He has a vision suddenly of going to a Barnes and Noble and leaving with armfuls of books for her.

Sophia's face brightens at that, like the moon's full shining out of her eyes. "You think?"

"Hell yeah," Daryl says, trying not to think how stupid it is to promise anyone anything. "Hell, Hershel's got daughters, back at that farm. One a them might even have 'em a'ready."

"There are kids there?"

"Naw," Daryl says quickly, not wanting to get her hopes up. "Or I mean, Carl is there. Hershel's daughters are older - teenagers, I guess." Glenn's horse girl was probably older'n that, thinking about it. Or at least Daryl hopes so, the way Glenn's been panting after her. "They got horses though," Daryl offers, like that's a replacement for kids. Which, when Daryl was a kid, it would have been - hell, Daryl'd have traded his whole third-grade class for just one horse. His Uncle Jess had worked as a farmhand for a while when he was in elementary school and Daryl'd go and help tend the horses sometimes. It'd been peaceful work until his pops found out and smacked him for giving away his labor for free.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Rode one of 'em when I was lookin' for you. Sorry piece a shit," Daryl grumbles, then remembers who he's talking to. "Uh - just mean, she threw me, so. Yeah." Daryl rubs at his head. "You don't gotta tell your mama 'bout all the bad words I said, a'right?" But then that feels weird to say. "Not that - uh - I mean, shouldn't keep secrets from your ma," Daryl fumbles. "Jus' - if she don't ask, you don't gotta tell her 'bout the cussin'."

"Okay," Sophia says. "It's okay though. My dad says bad words." Something shifts in her face. "Or I mean. He did."

Shit. Fucked that up again. "Yeah, well," Daryl says, picking at the scab near his cuticles. "Sorry."

Sophia's quiet for a long time. When she speaks, her voice is low, like it's something she's not even really aware she's saying. "I don't feel bad," she whispers, and Daryl hears her perfectly. "Is that bad?"

"Naw," Daryl says immediately. "Feelin's don't work like that. You just feel shit when you feel it." He remembers the feeling after his dad died, the emptiness that didn't feel like loss because he just didn't care. He wonders if he'll ever care. Daryl misses something - he misses the idea of having a dad he could miss, the idea that one day his dad would get sober. But that wasn't never Will Dixon. Daryl wonders, at that moment, if he'll ever miss him. It makes something move in his chest.

It's quiet again, and Daryl squints at the sky. Almost dawn.

"He was in my dream," Sophia says, almost silently, and Daryl freezes. He's not sure if he was meant to hear it or not. "He was a walker and I was in the woods running and he -"

"Ain't gonna happen," Daryl says firmly. He shouldn't tell her he watched Carol turn her daddy's head to jelly with a pickaxe back at the Atlanta camp, so instead he says, "He din't turn. He can't getcha."

Sophia nods slowly, her fingers working over the yarn head of the doll, twisting.

"Dreams suck," Daryl mutters. "But they ain't real." It's what Merle would say to him, after mocking him mercilessly for waking up scared. They'd shared a bed then, Merle off in juvie often enough that their pa had figured it wasn't worth springing for two mattresses. Merle'd smack him with a pillow to wake him, then throw a rough arm around his shoulder, circling Daryl's neck in a way that if it'd been his father would have made him piss himself.Dreams suck, little brother, he'd say,but it ain't real.Sometimes he'd press a rough kiss to Daryl's forehead and shove him away again, roll over and go back to sleep.

Daryl suddenly wants Merle more than he wants a cigarette.

"They feel real," Sophia says, and Daryl picks at his cuticles.

"But they ain't," he mumbles. He sees Sophia's shoulders deflate again and it makes him deflate a little too. Fuck. What'd he say wrong now? "Have 'em too, sometimes. But y'always wake up."

Daryl tries not to think about times in his childhood, dreaming about running through the house, looking for his mama, smoke everywhere. About waking up crying and his dad being there, the feeling of being plunged from one nightmare straight into another-

"But you're grown up," Sophia says, watching him careful, like she's trying to tell if he's lying. He shrugs.

"Guess," Daryl mumbles. For a moment he's terrified that she's going to ask him what he dreams about. She'd said hers. Fair was fair. He's not sure he can do it. He's bracing himself for it, but the question doesn't come.

The only thing that comes is the first hint of the sunrise, the darkness lightening just enough.

"C'mon then," Daryl grunts, pulling himself up. He's moving stiff and slow, and he wonders if he should try and nab a stick for himself before they start off. "Don' wanna waste the daylight."

Sophia cracks a smile at him like she got that it was a joke, which makes something ease inside him. She doesn't seem scared of him anymore. Maybe since the sun came up. Shit looks different in daylight - Daryl knows that.

"Jus' another few hours," Daryl says as Sophia uses her stick to lever herself up. "Won't have no nightmares when you're sleepin' in a real bed." Carol will be there, he wants to say. Carol will chase the dreams off. But presumably, Carol'd been there for Sophia her whole life and who knows if that had ever stopped anything. "Y'ready?"

"Yeah," Sophia says. She scrubs at her eyes, her face. There's a determined set to her jaw - she must be hurting something fierce too, but she doesn't say nothing. "Oh, wait." She makes as if she's going to crawl back into the lean-to, and Daryl scoffs.

"Shit, jus' take the roof off. Ain't worth crawlin' in and out again."

Sophia does, tentatively - like she's unwrapping a present. Leans down.

There, in the empty olive jar from dinner, are the three Cherokee roses. Looking a little draggled and worst for wear, limp from being crammed in a pocket all day. But Sophia takes them out like they are precious and perfect, placing them with extreme care into the side pocket of her capris, the heads poking out like they need to breathe.

"Okay," Sophia says, straightening. "I'm ready now."

So is he.

They go.

Daryl finds strength from someplace he didn't know he had. Maybe it's because the woods around him are familiar now - he'd passed through them every time he left on a search and every time he came back, so he knows they're getting close. It makes him move faster, even though he's pretty sure he's running a fever again. He feels sweaty and hot and his side is radiating pain. He tries not to go too fast, but maybe Sophia is sensing something too. Not that she's seen the farm before, but maybe something in her is drawing her to her ma, an invisible thread between the two of them winding tighter and tighter.

Or she's just fucking observant and can tell Daryl's picking up speed. Because she is observant. She's picked up on the fact that he's probably got a fever again. He can feel her eyes watching him as he goes, but he just keeps pushing. They're so fucking close.

"Are you okay?" Sophia asks from one side of him as he tries to maneuver himself over a three-rail fence. The fence is half-rotted and splintery, broken up here and there by trees and bramble, but it's the boundary marker for Hershel's property. Which maybe is why he's trying to vault over it like a fucking Olympian even though his side is on fire and his hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat.

"Great," Daryl grunts, and he finally topples over the top of the fence, landing hard on his front on the ground. Luckily it's mostly on his uninjured side, but the impact sends a jarring wave of agony through his whole body and he can't keep back the yelp of pain. Which probably doesn't convince Sophia he's doing fine.

"Daryl!" he hears from behind him, the tiny scrabbling of a lanky twelve-year-old sliding on her stomach under the fence. She touches his back and he flinches back before he knows what she's doing. He's lucky he doesn't try and deck her, but he's got that much composure. Enough that all he does is hiss and pull away like some stupid fucking cat. Sophia's hand jerks back like she's been burned and Daryl flips over on his own, panting with exertion.

"M'fine," he says, his voice sounding breathy and pained even to his ears. "M'fine."

Sophia is looking at him, uncertain, her hand tangling in her doll's hair again. "Sorry," she says, pulling back further. "I didn't mean to -"

"Ain't you," Daryl says shortly. The pain is fading somewhat, or at least relocating - his side is pulsing now and it feels wet, hopefully from sweat but probably from blood or pus. Shit. "Jus' don't like bein' touched."

Sophia just nods, her face unfathomable. "We're almost there," Daryl adds, pulling himself into a seated position. "The fence marks his property line. I can make it." He feels a moment of embarrassment, that he's convincing a twelve-year-old that he can walk another hour, like some kid begging to stay up past their bedtime.

Sophia nods again, and the look on her face is full of yearning. But she bites her lip. "I - I could go ahead," Sophia offers. "I could go tell them you need help and come back -"

"Ain't splittin' up," Daryl says, hoisting himself from sitting to standing. It's not so bad, especially with the end practically in sight. "Y'said you din't want to get separated."

He'll be damned if he loses her again this close to the finish.

"Sides," he says as he starts walking again, his hand braced against his side, his steps a little uneven. "Wanna see the look on their faces. Carl's gonna shit himself."

He hears her footsteps start up again behind him, feels her draw even with him.

"Ew," she says, her nose wrinkled but her mouth grinning, and Daryl grins back.

Of course, it's not as simple as that, as Daryl and Sophia emerge from the trees into an open, scrubby field. Daryl can see the RV, the line of tents, the house. Sophia looks like she can't believe what she's seeing - not that she hadn't believed him the whole time or whatever, but like it's really unbelievable. She starts to run or tries to, but she only makes it two steps before she stumbles, almost falls. Daryl catches her elbow, hauls her up quick.

"Careful," he says. "Ain't wanna turn you over all messed up." He squints a little, the late morning sun making it harder to see details than he'd like. But he can see some figures pulling away from the campsite, running towards them. "Sides - they're coming to us."

It's the men, Daryl sees as they run closer. T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Rick.They're armed to the teeth, which Daryl appreciates in one sense but in the other thinks is fucking stupid when it's just him and the girl. Any appreciation Daryl felt for their cautiousness evaporates when Rick aims that fucking gun at his head again.

"Fucks wrong with you," Daryl snarls, taking a wobbly step forward as the others all slow down. Rick is staring at him like he doesn't understand what he's seeing. "S'fuckin' kid here man, shit. Been through enough without you pointin' that gun at her."

Daryl sees all of their eyes shift, away from him, to the smaller figure behind him.

"Oh my god," Rick says, and he sounds almost near tears. "Sophia?"

"Where's my mom?" Sophia asks, her voice shaky.

It's the last thing Daryl hears before the gunshot.

The only thing he thinks as he falls is that his head hurts worse than he would have thought possible and somehow he's glad for it because it means whoever is shooting hit him and not Sophia.

He almost falls on top of the girl and he hears her cry out, the others all moving forward at once

"Daryl!" Sophia is saying, over and over, and he can feel her hands on him and he doesn't have the strength to move away. Soon her hands are replaced with others, and he finds himself looking up at Rick, Rick with a halo of light behind his head.

"She hit?" Daryl slurs and he sees the shape of Rick's head shake, making the sunlight spark and bubble around him.

"She's okay, she's fine, you did it, Daryl, stay with me -"

But Daryl can't stay any longer. He got her home.

The next thing he knows he's being carried somewhere, his feet dragging along the ground as two people hoist him up. It pulls at his side and he groans a little, which whoever is holding him seems to take as a good sign.

"Glenn, get Carol, hurry - tell Hershel we need -"

"Daryl? Daryl, wake up. Wake up -" Sophia's voice is high and scared and he stirs somewhat at that. Is she okay? Gotta get her ma. Gotta -

"He's all right honey - get out of the way, now, we need to -"

"Sophia? Sophia!"

"I think he's just grazed but he looks bad - he's covered in blood, what -"

"He's sick, he got - he got hurt bad, he's been - Daryl, wake up -"

"Baby!"

"Mommy -"

He doesn't need to hear anymore after that. He drifts away again.

The next time Daryl emerges from unconsciousness is less pleasant. Someone is tugging at his shirt, which hurts like a motherfucker because with all the blood and shit on him it's practically welded to him, and when they pull it tugs at scabs. It's a feeling he remembers from childhood, welts leaking onto shirts and getting ripped off, and maybe it's that or maybe it's just the feeling of hands-on him, but Daryl can't stop his arms from lashing out. He catches someone across the cheek, hears a grunt.

"Pin him, he's going to hurt himself -"

"More worried 'bout him hurtin' me," someone snarks - Shane, a voice in his head says, and Daryl hears Sophia over all of them.

"Stop! You're hurting him! Mommy, don't let them -"

"It's okay Sophia," someone says, their voice even. The old man. Daryl's brain stutters for a second, the words 'old man' doing something to him, before the name of the guy emerges. Hershel. It's just Hershel. "We're not going to hurt him. But we have to see what's wrong. You said he's hurt, right?"

"He doesn't like people touching him," Sophia says. "Mommy -"

"Do you have to be so rough? Give him a moment, he must be -" That's Carol's voice, and something eases in Daryl with that. Knowing that they're together makes him relax a little, stop fighting so hard. Remember where he is.

"Hey there," Hershel says, and suddenly there's a light shining into his eyes, blinding. Daryl closes them automatically. "You with us?"

"M'fine," Daryl rasps. "Lookit the girl first, she's hurt, her ankle -"

"I'll decide who gets seen when," Hershel says, and Daryl opens his eye again, scowling.

"Fuck you, old man, m'fine I said. She's been runnin' on that ankle for near a week, she -"

"And I'll see to it," Hershel says. "But we've got to see to you first."

Hershel's hands are tugging at his tank top again, and Daryl flinches back from it. Hershel stops for a moment, looking at Daryl calculatingly. He can see how the man's eyes linger, at the ugly, puckered scar on his collarbone, on the thin lines that stretch over his shoulders.

"Let's clear the room," Hershel says in a tone that brooks no argument. "Too many people in here. Won't be able to work. Go on. I'll tell you when we're done."

There's a shuffling, a scraping, many boots leaving the room. A hum and hubbub of voices, spilling out into the hallway. He isn't really listening to them, though, because suddenly Sophia is there, in his line of vision, and she looks more scared than he's seen her, which he guesses is saying something. Carol is there too, right behind her. He can see Carol's hands fixed on Sophia's shoulders, her fingers stroking Sophia's tangled hair, Sophia's hands fisted in Carol's shirt.

"M'a'right," Daryl croaks, and Sophia's lip trembles. "Don' worry."

"Thank you," Carol says suddenly, and when he looks her lip is trembling too. She and Sophia look so alike at that moment, a matched set, fitting perfectly into each other. "I'll never be able to -"

"Din't do nothin'," Daryl mumbles. His eyes dart away, look for Hershel, who seems to be arranging medical supplies on a tray with an inordinate amount of interest. "She'll tell you. She did the hard shit."

"You knew you'd find her," Carol says, and Daryl coughs. He doesn't know what to do with this, these eyes, this attention. He figured when he came back Carol'd look at Sophia and nobody else for a while.

"Din't find her," Daryl mutters, eyes looking anywhere else. "She found me."

"That's enough talking for right now," Hershel says, stepping forward. And Daryl never thought he'd be grateful to the old man for rescuing him. "You can see him again when I've patched him up."

"I can't leave," Sophia says, her voice wobbling along with her lower lip. "Not until I know if he's gonna be okay. We said we wouldn't get separated -"

"Honey, Daryl probably wants his privacy," Carol says, which makes Daryl blush like a fifth-grader. Privacy. Shit.

"But what if he -"

"You can come to visit when he's feeling better," Hershel says, and it's too much talking all of a sudden.

"Kid can stay," Daryl barks out and regrets it almost immediately. He's a fucking mess, not just his injuries, but the scars on his back, his chest. Give the kid nightmares. "If she wants, I mean," Daryl mumbles, eyes closing. "Don't care."

A moment of quiet. "Carol, why don't you two go sit over by the window," Hershel says slowly. "I need to pay attention so you'll have to be very quiet, all right, Sophia?"

Daryl doesn't hear anything so he guesses Sophia is nodding. Daryl has just enough presence of mind to turn himself in the bed so that his back faces away from the Peletiers, although that means that his face is looking towards them. Carol's settled in a rocking chair near the window, Sophia cradled in her lap. She can't stop touching the girl - her hands running over her arms, smoothing her hair, every so often kissing her cheek or the back of her neck. Sophia is like a puddle in her grip, melting into her, but her little face is tense as Hershel unwinds the shitty bandage from his side and cuts his tank top off of him.

Then Hershel is poking at his side and Daryl feels himself starting to drift away. It's a different feeling from falling asleep, but only because he can't imagine falling asleep while he's shirtless in front of some guy who is poking his side which feels like it's been shoved with burning irons while his head throbs wetly around his ears. But Daryl doesn't fight it. Maybe he could, if he tried, but he feels as limp as that doll Sophia's got tucked into the crook of her elbow, and it's not like he wants to watch Carol and Sophia while he gets stitched up anyway.

"Well, now, let's see what we have here," Daryl hears Hershel say.

And then Daryl doesn't hear anything.

He's almost tired of waking up. Daryl figures he's probably woken up seven or eight times already today, and it's exhausting every time.

Hershel isn't touching him this time. He vaguely remembers Hershel cleaning his head, his side, the feeling of the needle puncturing his skin as he stitched Daryl up. The room feels still and quiet and for a moment Daryl just lets himself breathe before he hears a shifting from the seat by the window.

Oh. Carol and Sophia. They're still here.

"You want more to eat? We can get you more," Carol says. He's never heard her like that before. He hadn't really heard her speak much at the quarry, and most of what they'd done at the CDC was lose their shit and Sophia'd been gone since then. She sounds like a blanket, Daryl thinks incoherently. There's a warm weight to her voice that makes Daryl feel sleepy. "There's plenty here."

"M'okay," Sophia says sleepily. Her ma must sound like a blanket to her too.

"Okay. Because I know Hershel said not to eat too much too fast, but you don't have to be hungry. There's crackers or -"

"I'm full, Mama."

"How's the ankle?"

"It hurt worse before," Sophia says. "It's been better since Daryl wrapped it up."

"Well. You're gonna take it easy the next few days. All right?"

Sophia hums, the sound like a contented kitten.

"Beth has some books you might like. Better than what Dale's got in the RV. We can have a Reading Day." Daryl can practically hear the capital letters and wonders, sleepily, if Reading Day is a thing everybody knows about or if it's something only for them two.

"Daryl said we should see if they have The Hunger Games."

He can almost hear Carol raising her eyebrows. "Daryl's read The Hunger Games?"

"No, but I was telling him about it, and I told him how we had to bring it back to the library before we could finish, and he said maybe Hershel's kids have it and even if they don't that maybe we could find it somewhere else because walkers don't eat books."

"He's right. They don't. Well, we can ask Beth. I don't know if it's quite her thing, but can't hurt to see."

"I think he'd like it. Because he's brave like Katniss. And he hunts and uses the bow and stuff."

There's a soft sound of skin against skin, and he realizes Carol must have kissed her daughter.

"You're brave too," Carol says. "Making it out there for so long."

"I wasn't brave though," Sophia says, her voice quieter. "I was scared the whole time."

"But you didn't quit. That's what makes you brave. You didn't give up."

"You're brave too, Mama."

There's a sniffle from the corner and Daryl feels like he's intruding, even though they're the ones crashing his sick room.

"I missed you so much," Carol says. Her voice is thick with tears, and Daryl feels fixed to the spot. He doesn't know how to let them know he's here, he's awake, this is private shit they're doing. It's not for him. But he stays still, only mostly because he feels awkward about letting them know he's been listening. Part of him though is drinking this all in, the gentle voice, the care. It's like rainwater in a desert, something he wants to soak up quick before the sun comes back and dries everything up. But it's not Daryl's to have. He knows that. It belongs to Carol and Sophia.

"Me too," Sophia says, and he hears her sniffle join her ma's. "I'm sorry. I tried to get back but I -"

"Shh," Carol says. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I did what Rick said, honest, but then I tripped and I couldn't -"

"You did just right, baby. Everything. You're here, right?"

A little silence.

"We're not going to get split up again," Carol says, her voice suddenly fierce. "I promise. I'll never let that happen again. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should've -"

"You sent Daryl to find me," Sophia says. "Mommy, don't."

"I love you," Carol says softly, and it's like she just pulled her heart out of her chest and handed it to Sophia, still bloody and beating. "I'll never lose you again. Never."

"I love you too, Mama," Sophia echoes. Then they go quiet again. Daryl can hear a faint creaking from the rocker.

It's like something soothing from a memory, even though he's sure his ma never had a rocker in their house. But the sound of it creaks quiet in his head, lulling him until he's almost asleep.

"Glenn'll bring you the meds from Daryl's stuff," Rick is saying, and it's like he's swimming away from him, his voice echoey and strange. "We can do a run to town - try for some fever reducers, or -"

"Maggie's gotten most of that already from the places nearby. And if there are people coming this way -"

After that, everything is far away, again. Daryl drifts.

It's dark outside when he wakes up again. The room is lit by a little light by his bed. He feels sweaty but cold and he shivers, once as he looks around. The bedside table has a plate on it, loaded up with food gone cold - a hunk of mashed potatoes, a handful of green beans, a thick slice of ham. It's like a meal from TV or something, better than anything Daryl's had in his whole life. There's pills next to it too - he sees a little white round one that might be oxy, something that looks like acetaminophen. It's not until seeing the pills that his body hurts again, all of it in a rush, and he stifles a groan as he tries to pull himself to sitting. He's gonna eat that food first off, then he'll figure out the pills.

"You're awake."

Daryl's body jolts, which makes the pain flash and flare but he bites down on his tongue - he hadn't realized that he wasn't alone. But Carol is there, sitting in the windowsill. Curled up in the rocker, wrapped in a blanket with a pillow shoved under her head, wearing a matching pajama set and with wet hair, is Sophia. She's out like a light.

"Girl should be in bed," Daryl grunts. He scootches himself up in the bed some, leans his back against the headboard. He's still not wearing a shirt, which maybe is why he's cold.

"She didn't want to go until she gave you your dinner. I told her she could wait." Carol's smiling at her daughter, her face soft. "It's probably cold by now."

It is, but Daryl doesn't care. He reaches out for it anyway, stifles another groan when that tugs at his stitches.

"Let me," Carol says. And then she's walking over next to him, making Daryl pull the sheet up high on his chest like some embarrassed girl.

"Can do it myself," Daryl says.

"I know you can. But let me."

He doesn't know what to say to that. So he lets her.

She goes for the pills first. Hands them to him as she fills up a glass of water from an old-fashioned pitcher. Daryl squints at the pills, feels at them. He takes the acetaminophen no problem. Puts the oxy back down. Carol looks at him.

"I'll take it later," Daryl mumbles. He tries not to look at Sophia. What if he took it and she woke up and he was high? Ain't right.

Carol looks at him a long moment. Then nods. "Do you want this? I could go heat it up for you -"

Daryl just holds out a hand for the plate. Warm or cold, it'll all end up in his belly the same way. Carol hands it to him. He forgoes the fork and knife and just dives right in, picking at the green beans first. It's the first vegetable he's had in a long time that didn't come out of a can.

Carol is still standing there next to his bed, until all of a sudden she sits on the edge of it. Daryl forces himself to ignore her, to keep eating. He's not good at this shit. Feelings shit. He brought Sophia back. He'd fully expected Carol to forget about him by now. So why are the two of them still there?

He probably shouldn't have ignored her, because all of a sudden she's close to him, too close. Daryl freezes. The hand holding the plate doesn't move, but Daryl reaches down with greasy fingers and tugs at the sheet again. His chest ain't as bad as his back but it's still pretty messed up.

But Carol doesn't stop coming closer until her lips brush against his head bandage, the gentlest kiss in the world. Then she pulls away.

"Watch it, I got stitches," Daryl says. He doesn't know where to look. He remembers her kissing Sophia's cheek, running her fingers through her hair, and it makes his stomach turn over. Carol doesn't have to be nice to him just because he found her girl. She doesn't have to pretend.

"You need to know something," Carol says, her voice low. Sophia, in the rocker, doesn't stir. "You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy ever did in his whole life."

"I din't do anythin' Rick or Shane wouldn'ta done," he mumbles. He doesn't know what to do.

"I know," Carol says. "You're every bit as good as them. Every bit."

Daryl blows air out of his mouth, pffts at her. He's a redneck with a junkie for a brother and a back more scar than skin. He cussed the whole time and scared her kid and he took three days to get her home because he'd gotten thrown from a fucking horse. He didn't do shit for that little girl that she couldn't have done better for herself if her ankle hadn't been busted.

"I - I'll never be able to thank you," Carol says. Her voice is tight with holding back tears and Daryl remembers her in the RV, curled up in that chair like Sophia was, crying all night because her girl was lost. Her girl is found now, so why is she still crying. "Never. I'll -"

"Don't need thankin'," Daryl says gruffly. He starts to pick at the food again, more for something to do than because he's hungry. Although when he starts eating again, swooping a bean through the mashed potatoes, it tastes good enough to restore his appetite. "Didn't do it for thanks."

"I know," Carol says. "She's - she's everything to me."

"S'good kid," Daryl says around a mouthful of potatoes. "Smart." Carol smiles at him, and her lip trembles.

"I know I haven't - done enough for her," Carol says. Daryl looks at her. At her hair, close-cut to her head (remembers his daddy pulling his ma around the kitchen, fist knotted in her curls, her crying) the way her collarbone sticks out of the top of her shirt. There's the faintest ghost of a bruise on one arm like someone grabbed her. It's almost healed, just the faintest hint of yellow left. Nobody else even notices it anymore, he bets. But Daryl sees it.

"Y'done plenty," Daryl says shortly. And Carol has. He knows what the others must think - that Carol must not have loved her kid as much as she loved Ed, or she'd have left him. But Daryl knows that's not it. Knows that it's hard and complicated, to leave, and that care doesn't look how people think all the time. He knows how the others looked at him and Merle, Merle shoving and cussing at him all the time. They thought Merle was like their pa, mean and rough and treating Daryl like shit. They didn't understand. Care looks different depending on where it's allowed to grow. And the care Carol has for that girl shines out of her face, her eyes, her voice, trickles out with every tear. That's real. That's what matters. "She asked about you first thing. She knew you was waitin' for her."

"She's - after the quarry -" Carol doesn't say Ed's name, Daryl has noticed. "I said, it's a new start. I can be - how I was meant to, with her. I can keep her safe. And then the first thing -"

"World ain't safe," Daryl says. And it's true. It never has been. Not for them. "You got her now."

"I do," Carol says. "Thanks to you."

The food is almost gone without Daryl realizing it. He feels less cold - maybe because he's got some food in him. Maybe something else.

"You gave us a second chance," Carol says. "I'm not going to waste it."

Daryl's about to open his mouth, to explain how he didn't give her anything. He could have been too late for that girl a hundred times over, he could have -

But then there's a whimper from the corner, a creak as the rocking chair shifts, and both their eyes go straight to Sophia.

Her face is puckered up some, and it's the same kind of noise from last night - like a little wounded creature, caught in a trap. Daryl toys with the idea of throwing a green bean at her, but Carol's already over there, taking care of it. She's brushing Sophia's hair back from her face, a soft shushing noise coming from her mouth, and Sophia's face smoothes without her even waking up. The noises stop as Carol hums at her, a little tuneless thing that seems to sweep away the fear as quick as it came. It's not until Carol finishes, takes a step back, that Daryl realizes he's been stock still, watching.

"Should get her to a real bed," Daryl mutters, finishing the last of the food on his plate and shoving it back on his nightstand. He wipes his fingers on his sheets, realizing a half a beat later that he probably should have asked for a napkin or something. "Wake up with a crick in her neck, she stays like that." He looks at Carol. "I could - help you carry her if you -"

"No," Carol says. "That's all right. I've got her." She scoops Sophia into her arms - not the most graceful maneuver, and she staggers a little as she tries to juggle Sophia into place, but she manages. Carol smiles at Daryl. "Won't be able to do this for much longer. Got to make the most of it."

Sophia snuggles down in her mother's arms. She makes a noise, a questioning noise, and Carol runs a hand down her back.

"It's all right. Go back to sleep. Daryl got his dinner so it's time for us to go to bed. Hershel made up a whole room just for us, aren't we lucky?" Carol looks at Daryl. "You should take that," she says softly, head nodding at the abandoned oxy on the table. Daryl shrugs, which makes his whole body tense with pain again. Which seems to prove Carol's point. Sophia mutters into her mother's shoulder again, stirring, and Carol runs that hand down her back again. "Come on. Time to sleep. Say goodnight to Daryl."

"Gnite," Sophia mumbles into her mother's neck.

"Night," Daryl says back awkwardly. Carol smiles at him.

"See you tomorrow," she says softly. And carefully, she edges her way out of the room and down the hall.

Leaving Daryl alone at last and with too much to think about.

Daryl wakes up to the late morning sun and an unexpected visitor.

Carl Grimes, in his daddy's hat, has come to call.

He's sitting on a stool near to Daryl's bed, watching him. Daryl can count on one hand the times he and the Grimes kid have talked, and still have a finger to flip somebody off with. He blinks stupidly, the sun in the windows too bright - he's slept late, too late, should have been up by now - and Carl Grimes jumps when Daryl blinks like he's a statue that's suddenly come to life.

"You're awake!" Carl says. He beams at Daryl. "And I didn't wake you, right? I told Mom and Carol I wouldn't wake you, that I'd just sit quietly 'til you woke up on your own. And I did, right?"

"...yeah," Daryl says. He's missing a step here. He can't for the life of him figure out why Carl Grimes is in his bedroom watching him sleep. His brain is moving slow still - maybe from the oxy he took last night, maybe from all the shit he'd done to himself the past couple days. "Sure."

Carl smiles at him again, looking doofy under his dad's sheriff hat. Daryl's not sure he's really seen Carl since he got shot. He'd been kept inside by his ma, recovering, and Daryl'd been out looking. Daryl looks the kid up and down.

"Y'a'right?" Daryls asks finally.

"Me? Yeah, great. I mean - my side still kind of hurts, where I got shot?" Carl says it like maybe Daryl forgot he'd been shot. "But Hershel says it's healing good and Patricia says I should walk around so I don't forget how."

"...Cool," Daryl mumbles. He looks at his nightstand. The water pitcher is still there, and the glass, but he feels like he'll spill it if he tries himself and he'd rather light himself on fire than ask Carl Grimes to pour it for him.

"Where're the others at?" Daryl asks. Not that he expects any of them to be with him - hell, they've got better shit to do - but there's something unsettling about being alone except for one kid.

"Um. Shane's going to do gun training today so he and my dad went to go find a spot to do it. And Maggie and Glenn are going on a run. They're going to look for more medicine for you."

"Don't need more meds," Daryl says. "M'fine."

Carl shrugs. "I guess they're getting other stuff too. Nobody's been on a run since you went missing. They were busy looking for you." Daryl scowls a little at that. Great job they'd done - where the hell had they been looking? Carl doesn't seem to notice. "Shane's going to take me when they do gun training. So I can learn to shoot. Isn't that cool?"

"Guess," Daryl says. "Ain't a toy though."

"Well, yeah, I know that," Carl says, rolling his eyes. "I want to be able to help the group. So next time -" Carl quiets then, and he looks at Daryl seriously, so seriously that Daryl almost looks over his shoulder to see what's coming.

"Thank you," Carl says, weirdly formal in his stupid hat. "For finding her." He folds his hands, almost primly in his lap. Daryl is staring. What the fuck is happening? "I thought - I thought I'd be the one to find her," Carl says, and he suddenly sounds like a kid again. "But if I couldn't - I'm glad you did."

Daryl nods. Carl is looking at him like he's expecting something but Daryl has no idea what. "Whatever," Daryl mutters. "Din't do nothin'. She did the hard work."

Carl nods back at Daryl, then grins. "Do you think Carol will let her come with us? For the shooting lesson?"

"Uh-uh," someone says from the doorway, and Daryl stifles a groan as Lori Grimes comes in.

She's carrying a tray full of breakfast - a real farm breakfast, eggs and sausage, and a hunk of homemade bread slathered in butter. Daryl's stomach growls loud enough for Carl to give him a delighted grin.

"Lucky you, on house rations," Lori says, sliding the tray onto the nightstand. It barely fits. "What'd we have outside this morning, baby?"

"Oatmeal," Carl says, and he makes a face. Daryl doesn't get kids who complain about food. At Carl's age, he'd eat anything.

"How are you feeling?" Lori asks. Her hand brushes over Daryl's forehead and he jerks back. What is it with everyone touching him all of a sudden? Lori looks a little nonplussed. "You all right? You don't feel warm."

"M'fine," Daryl says. He looks at the tray of food.

"Why can't Sophia come?" Carl asks Lori. "I'd help her, she could -"

"Sophia is taking it easy. And you should be too. I don't know if going shooting today is the best -"

"Mo-om! No! You said already that I could, Shane said -"

"Is Shane your mother? Or am I?"

Daryl's head hurts suddenly, hearing Carl and Lori talk at each other. He misses the quiet of last night, Carol and Sophia in the rocking chair. He wishes he could be alone again, go back to sleep. Just have silence again.

"He didn't wake you, did he, Daryl? He promised that if we let him stay -"

"Naw," Daryl mutters. He wants that food in his stomach and to be left alone. If Carl weren't there, he'd tell Lori to get the fuck out. But something about the way Carl keeps looking at him, the shy sort of wonder, makes him hold his tongue. He can wait them out.

He hopes.

Daryl doesn't have to wait that long though, because a minute later, Sophia and Carol are back.

It's amazing how much difference a day can make. Yesterday Sophia was filthy, injured, dragging herself across the forest with a fucking stick. The thing that strikes Daryl, as she hobbles into the room on a pair of oversized crutches, is how healthy she looks. Sure, she's still a little haggard from her time out there, and she's hopping along on those crutches, but she's clean and her hair is brushed and her freckles are somehow more vibrant. It's weird to see her in different clothes - it almost makes her feel like a different person than she was in the woods, and Daryl feels almost shy as she smiles at him. He scowls instead - he's not some blushing kid, acting shy - and looks longingly at the food on the nightstand that Lori still hasn't handed over to him.

"Hi Carl," Sophia says. She hovers in the doorway, clearly still trying to figure out how best to swing around on those crutches. "Shane's downstairs and he says if you want to do gun training -"

Carl's out of the room so fast Daryl's shocked he doesn't leave that hat behind, like a cartoon character running out of their shoes. Lori heaves a huge sigh and is following him, saying "Carl, baby, don't run -"

The room settles almost immediately when the two Grimes leave. Carol leans over first thing and plops the tray onto his lap, thank god, and Daryl just digs into the food. He shouldn't be that hungry, he ate that whole plate last night, but he's ravenous. He feels conscious suddenly of how fast he's moving and tries to slow down.

"Feed a fever, that's what Patricia said," Carol says absently. "Good morning." She looks at the window. "Well. Good afternoon."

"S'afternoon?" Shit. He'd slept half the day away. How was there breakfast for him when he was waking up at noon?

"Almost," Sophia says. She's balancing two books under her arm as she tries to balance on those crutches, and it's only a second until everything slips. Carol's there in a heartbeat, taking the books, letting Sophia lean on her.

"Should get up," Daryl mumbles around a mouthful of toast and eggs. "I can -"

"You're still on bedrest," Carol says. She doesn't sound mean about it, but it's firmer than he's heard her speak before. He looks at her uneasily as he picks up a sausage with his fingers and takes a bite.

"It's a Reading Day anyway," Sophia says like that's supposed to mean something.

"Wha's a readin' day?" Daryl asks, chewing. As he speaks, he realizes he's probably not modeling good manners or shit. Not that anyone had ever modeled them for him - mealtimes were sort of a fend for yourself type deal when he was growing up, and Merle wasn't much better. The only cutlery they'd used regularly were spoons for shitty off-brand cereal. But maybe he wasn't supposed to talk with his mouth full - he'd had a teacher tell him off for that once, said he was disgusting. He chews more.

"It's when you're sick or not feeling good -" He can see Carol stiffen a little at that, her hand on Sophia's back. "So you stay in bed all day and read books and have breakfast in bed and get cozy."

It does sound cozy when Sophia says it. But looking at Carol, he wonders how many Reading Days there'd been where she'd been hurting too bad to get out of bed. It makes Daryl feel hyperaware of the fact that he's still shirtless under the covers, feels the scars on his back almost tingle.

"Just thought we'd stop by and bring you some things," Carol says. She hands over a shirt - one of Rick's, Daryl thinks, a tee-shirt that's cleaner than anything Daryl owns. "Thought you might want something fresh."

Or anything at all. Daryl takes it, already smudging it with his greasy fingers, and grunts. He'll wait to put it on till they leave.

"And -" Carol holds out another handful of pills. Daryl looks at them mistrustfully.

"Feel fine," Daryl says. "Don't need them."

"You might feel fine because you took them last night," Carol points out. "Anyway, these ones are antibiotics. You have to do the full course - that infection in your side is no joke."

Daryl takes the pills to get her to shut up. There are some yellow ones that must be the antibiotics, another round of acetaminophen, and one more oxy. He looks at Carol. What's wrong with her, giving him shit like that with her kid around? Oxy never made Merle mean - it made him almost too nice, pleasantly spacy. But he could get mean when he didn't have any, and he could do stupid shit, and just being around Merle high was a lot sometimes - Daryl remembers as a kid, being around his dad and not understanding why he'd change, sometimes, why he'd act different from one moment to the next. Oxy was never as bad as crystal or coke but it wasn't nothing. Daryl shouldn't be doing that shit around her kid.

"I - I brought you these," Sophia says. Now she's the one who sounds shy. She's still clutching the books under her arm, and it takes some maneuvering for her to hand them over to him. Daryl squints at them. He doesn't know enough about books to know if he'd like them or not - they look nicer than the books near grocery check-out counters, so that's something. He grunts again.

"Thanks." He flips one book over to look at the back, gives himself a minute. He can read, he's not an idiot. But the letters swim around sometimes, especially when his head hurts, and it can take him a moment to gather his thoughts. "You find that book you were talkin' about?"

Sophia shakes her head. "Beth didn't have it. But she had some other stuff, so. It's fine."

"A'right," Daryl says. When he's better, he'll go out and find that book for her. Bring it back. She deserves that, after all this shit. "Well, uh. Thanks." He holds up the books awkwardly. "For the shirt an' stuff too."

"Do you need anything else?" Carol asks. She was taking his plate - emptied now, just a couple crumbs and a smear of yolk left. "We can -"

"Naw," Daryl mumbled. And he didn't. There was nothing. Right? "M'gonna head back to my tent anyway. Rest better there." Daryl's not sure if that's true - this bed is probably the most comfortable he's ever had, and even with Merle's bedroll for extra padding, the ground in his tent is going to be hard on his stitches. But being in the house is bad in its own way - something about walls, about being stuck in bed with an open door where anyone could bust in. It itches at him in a way that has nothing to do with stitches.

"You can't," Sophia blurts out. Carol's mouth is open too - probably going to try and tell him what to do, which he's not going to take. She ain't his fucking mother. But Sophia looks so plaintive, so worried, that Daryl bites back the venom he was ready to unleash and just frowns at her.

"Be fine. My tent is uh. Cozy." That's stretching it some - sure, it's his, but it was his and Merle's before and his daddy's before that. It's old and reeks of cigarettes and sweat but it's his. That's enough. He darts a look at Carol. "I'll still be restin' and that."

"But - it's Reading Day," Sophia says. She looks at her mother, then back at Daryl, and she flushes like she's embarrassed. He can see her shoulders start to hunch in on themselves, see her making herself smaller, which makes Daryl scowl. Fuck. She'd been almost bouncy, what the fuck had he done now?

"Daryl needs to rest, sweetheart," Carol murmurs, a hand on Sophia's shoulder. "He'd probably like to be alone."

Oh. The kid had thought - Daryl can't even picture what the kid thought. Himself and Carol and the kid, all cozied up, reading books together? The image feels alien, too foreign even to be funny. Just weird. No wonder she's embarrassed to have thought it. She's probably regretting it now.

"S'fine," Daryl mumbles, looking anywhere but at the set of Sophia's shoulders, at Carol's stupid face. "Just ain't had a - readin' day before." He feels stupid just saying it. "Din't get that it was uh. Somethin' you did as a group."

Sophia shrugs. Tense little shoulders. "It doesn't matter," she says.

Fuck it. "Naw, jus' - I'll probably fall asleep or whatever," Daryl says. "Won't be good company." Like he's ever good company.

"Come on, sweetheart. We'll set up in Beth's room again. She won't mind." Carol's shooting Daryl a look that's mostly sympathetic. Like she's trying to say it isn't his fault he made her kid all sad and shit.

"Didn't say y'hadta go," Daryl says. Sophia, who's been starting to crutch away, stops. Looks back at him.

"I -" Her face looks indecisive, nervous. Daryl rolls his eyes.

"Girl, sit down 'fore you fall on your ass and bust that leg up worse." He probably shouldn't have said ass. He looks at Carol, ready for the reprimand.

Instead, Carol is looking at him like he hung the moon.

Sophia's focus is on navigating over to the rocker - those crutches are grown-up sized, even on their shortest setting they look uncomfortable, jammed under her armpits. Daryl takes the opportunity to pull on the shirt Carol brought him - kid's too busy trying not to fall to be looking at him.

But in keeping his body angled away from Sophia, he realizes he's turned his back fully towards Carol.

Fuck. Before this shit, he could count on one hand the number of people to see his back. The doctor at the ER when he'd fallen working construction. Some girl he'd been messing around with when he was nineteen - she'd taken off his shirt and frozen. It'd gotten too weird to go further, and with the next girl, he'd left his shirt on. Uncle Jess. (Don't think about that.) The tattoo artist down in Elijay who'd done his back piece, who Daryl'd never made eye contact with. Hershel, yesterday.

And his daddy. Fucking stand-up group.

Merle used to rag on him endlessly like he was so fucking shy he couldn't take his shirt off in a Georgia summer. Merle took his off no problem, and Merle's back was as tattered as his own. Maybe a little less - once Merle got big enough, he'd never been afraid to fight back, which had made their dad warier around him. But even Merle never told anyone where the scars were from. Daryl'd heard him tell a chick once that he'd gotten them in Afghanistan as a POW when everyone knew Merle never made it out of the States before his dishonorable discharge.

So Merle went shirtless, sure. But Daryl never did. He didn't know what Merle thought would happen when Merle left Daryl behind. If he thought their pa would stop, or if he just didn't care, figured Daryl could watch his own self. But if Daryl took off his shirt, if Merle saw, then Daryl would know. If Merle wasn't mad about it, if Merle wasn't surprised, if Merle saw the scars and kept going, it'd mean he'd known when he left what would happen. And he'd gone anyway.

Daryl didn't know if he could stay with Merle if that were true.

Not that it mattered anymore. Merle was gone, best-case running around with a stump somewhere, worst case dead. His dad was dead. Jess was dead. Everyone who'd seen his back was dead, apart from Hershel.

And now Carol.

Daryl doesn't look at her. Yanks at the shirt, angrily, so hard he has to force himself to slow his hands. If he ripped the shirt he'd be back where he started.

When Carol circled around to join Sophia back at the rocker, she doesn't look any different. There's a tightness around her eyes, maybe, but Daryl busies himself with the pills - swallowing the antibiotics dry, leaving the others - and avoids her eyes. Lays back in the bed, the shirt cool against his skin.

"What are you going to read first?" Carol asks as Sophia settles herself in the chair. For a moment Daryl thinks she's talking to him, until he sees Sophia scrunch up her face.

"You pick."

"Nuh-uh," Carol says, producing more books from somewhere. "Your turn." It sounds familiar between them, there's a rhythm to it. Daryl wonders how often they've had the same exchange, how many times they'd done this. Cozied up somewhere to rest, recover, heal wounds. Just the two of them.

"Um - Little House?"

"You sure?" Carol asks. "We've done those before."

"Yeah, but." Sophia shrugs, which sets the rocker to moving a little. "I don't mind."

"All right," Carol says. She hands one of the books to Sophia. Looks at Daryl. Daryl looks away quick. Grabs one of the books at random, squints at it. Looks like a detective book. He opens it, waits for the letters to stop jumping.

"Will - will you read it?" Sophia asks her mother. Her voice sounds small. "I know I'm too big -"

"You're not," Carol says. "But why don't you read to yourself a little. Maybe Daryl would like the quiet."

"Don't care," Daryl grunts. He doesn't look up from the page of his possibly-detective book. "Ain't gonna bother me."

He can hear the smile in Carol's voice. "All right. I'll read first. Then you can do some too. Sound good?"

"Yeah," Sophia sighs. The book opens - Daryl can hear the pages as he pretends to read. He figures he'll give it a minute then pretend to sleep. Then the kid'll probably get bored and want to go.

But Carol's voice is soft and soothing, making Daryl relax a little even without meaning to.

"Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs."

Daryl wonders why Sophia wants to read a book about big woods when she was just lost in some big woods.

"The great, dark trees of the Big Woods stood all around the house, and beyond them were other trees and beyond them were more trees. As far as a man could go to the north in a day, or a week, or a whole month, there was nothing but woods. There were no houses. There were no roads. There were no people. There were only trees and the wild animals who had their homes among them."

Sounds like his kind of place, Daryl thinks as he feels his book falls against his chest.

"...But Laura and Mary were never afraid when Pa went alone into the Big Woods. They knew he could always kill bears and panthers with the first shot. After the bullets were made and the gun was loaded, came story-telling time."

"Skip the story?" Sophia says suddenly. "I - I don't like how it ends."

"Okay," Carol says. Daryl can hear the pages flipping. "Should we take a break?"

"Is he still asleep?"

Daryl tries to keep his breathing even.

"He's pretty sick. He'll probably need a lot of sleep before he's a hundred percent again."

"Would - would he be better if he'd got back quicker? If I hadn't slowed him down? Mr. Hershel said -"

"That's not what he meant," Carol says firmly. "He just meant - it's serious, Daryl's injury. We need to take it seriously. But it was always going to be serious, whenever you all got back. And he's going to be okay."

"Should - am I bothering him?" Sophia asks in barely a whisper.

"If you were, he'd tell you," Carol says, and Daryl gets the suspicion that Carol knows he's awake.

"Do you think - are those guys going to find us?" Sophia asks.

Daryl stays incredibly still.

"What guys?"

"The guys - from the camp? The friends of the ones Daryl - I - I heard Sheriff Rick and Mr. Hershel talking when I - I wasn't sneaking," Sophia says, which in Daryl's experience means she was definitely sneaking. It'd be funny if she didn't suddenly sound scared. "I - Patricia was finishing Daryl's eggs and I was just waiting and they were talking in the hallway, I didn't mean - I'm sorry."

"Shh," Carol says. "Slow down. It's all right." There's a moment of quiet. "Daddy is gone," Carol says suddenly, and Daryl almost flinches when she says it. The tone is stiff, awkward. Like Carol doesn't know what to say, how to express it. It sounds like a lie, even though Daryl knows it isn't, saw the proof with his own eyes at the quarry. Carol smashing in Ed's skull. "You don't - I don't think eavesdropping is polite, but. You're not going to get in trouble."

"Okay," Sophia says. She sounds like she's lying too. "Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry," Carol says. "We - we'll get used to it. We're not going to be sorry anymore. All right? Me neither."

Fuck being sorry. Being sorry doesn't do anything for anybody. And Sophia has nothing to be sorry for.

There's a long moment, and Sophia shifts.

"You want to take a turn?" Carol asks. And all of a sudden it's Sophia's voice reading, clear but halting.

"Chapter Four. Christmas. Christmas was coming. The little log house - was almost buried in snow. Great drifts were banked - against the walls and windows. And in the morning when Pa - opened the door, there was a wall of snow - as high as Laura's head."

It should have been annoying. But it isn't. Maybe that's why Daryl figures it's time to wake up.

He shifts in the bed a little, grunts. From the suppressed grin Carol shoots at him, he's doing a shitty job at faking waking up. But Sophia doesn't seem to be able to tell. She looks up from her book at him, shy again.

"How long I been asleep?" Daryl asks. Carol's mouth twitches like she's going to rat him out.

But she doesn't get a chance, because that's when the gunfire starts.

"I -" Carol looks pale, drawn. "Glenn had it. I - I think he put it in your tent -"

In other words, too far to be any use. Daryl looks at Sophia. She's still got that book in her hands, gripping it too tight to let it fall. Her ankle propped up in front of her. Okay. Shit.

"Is - maybe it's the shooting lesson," Sophia says. Her freckles are standing out on her face like they were painted on. "Remember, Officer Shane was going to teach Carl and everyone about guns, maybe -"

"They wouldn't do that on our doorstep unless they wanted walkers to come calling," Daryl says. But it does tell him something useful. The fact that they're hearing guns at all probably means the shooting lesson is over.

"Keep watch on that window," Daryl says briskly. Because there isn't time to fight about it and Sophia's the kind of kid that'll do something if it makes sense, even if she hates it. "Give a yell if you see anyone out there, anyone coming down the road. Gonna need some warning if we're gonna fight on two fronts. Hear?"

Sophia's mouth is set in a mulish line, but she jerks her head in a stiff nod and limps over to the window.

"Dunno," Daryl mumbles. He's perched back on the bed, his side throbbing something fierce. He wishes he could be the one to go downstairs and get information, wishes he could be the one asking what the fuck happened and why were there walkers in the barn and where the hell did the Morales boy come from, anyway? Daryl tries to remember if he ever exchanged two words with the kid and he can't. Which means he probably hadn't. The kid had kept pretty far from them after Merle called him names. But he was so small out there.

So small and all alone.

Sophia's got that doll against her chest. She nods, once. Bites her lip.

There's yelling from downstairs suddenly. Or maybe it's outside. The window in their room is open some, and the doors are all screens. Makes it tricky to tell where noises are coming from. Sophia tenses in the rocker, which makes it rock slightly. Daryl reaches out with one hand, grabs at the armrest to slow its movement. Sophia doesn't move. She's too busy listening.

"Ain't nothin'," Daryl says again. "Hear that?" Sophia's breathing slows a little as she tries to listen. Daryl listens too - it's quiet now outside, quiet downstairs. There's the mumble of voices, footsteps, but they're slow and measured and the voices just sound sad.

"It's over," Daryl says, and he's not sure what's over or if that's even true. "Ain't nothin'. Promise."

Sophia's breathing is getting more normal and Daryl pulls one of his hands out of her death grip. He settles his hand carefully onto Sophia's shoulder - he can't touch her back. He can't make himself. But he grips her shoulder in one rough hand, gives it a squeeze. He feels all thumbs, awkward and bad at this.

"Why are they fighting?" Sophia asks quietly. Her eyes are darting around, too quick, and Daryl squeezes her shoulder again clumsily.

"Some weird shit just went down. Sometimes that makes people yell," Daryl says awkwardly. He's hardly the person to explain human behavior to a kid. He shrugs. "They're just mad at each other. Ain't gonna aim it at you. Or your ma."

Daryl doesn't know how true that is, either. In his experience, angry people aim that shit wherever they want. They don't care who is in their way. But that's not helpful now, he's pretty sure, even if it is true. And he realizes there is something that is both helpful and true that he can say.

"Heard a noise," Daryl grunts. He doesn't say what the noise is - Carol probably knows, and it doesn't matter. Carol just nods, once.

"It's all right. Hershel was mad at Shane that Shane killed the walkers from the barn. They were just having an talk about it. But everything is fine."

"No, no," Carol says hurriedly. "No, they were walkers already, just - Hershel was hoping that maybe one day, a doctor would be able to stop them from being walkers. He was hoping if he kept them in the barn for long enough, someone would figure out a cure and they could be people again."

Daryl is staring at Carol. Is that true? Hershel really thought that? He can't tell if the old man has dropped in his estimation for being so fucking stupid or risen for taking such stupid risks for something that could never be anything but a dream.

After that, there is more - about Otis and the barn, about Louis Morales. No one can figure out how the kid got here. Daryl turns it over in his mind - it should have been a straight shot west from Atlanta to Birmingham, but maybe the Morales dad had taken a detour to avoid congested highways. Maybe they decided to make a pitstop at wherever they'd come from, get shit from home. Maybe the kid wandered off like Sophia and found himself too far south and all alone. Does it matter anymore how the kid got lost? The kid got lost and got bit and got killed and then got killed again.

Daryl hadn't even known to look for him. And if he had, he wouldn't have found him. Not in time. The thought echoes dully in his head, in time to the throbbing pain from his side, and Daryl can't stop seeing the little body, covered in a blanket. Waiting for a lonely grave far from anyone who knew him.

Daryl keeps thinking about Sophia, about what would have happened if she came out of the barn, and Daryl's fists tighten and release almost instantly.

Carol catches the movement and frowns at him, though. Looks at his face.

"You should have more medicine," Carol says. "Did you even take the painkiller?"

"Don't need it," Daryl mumbles. And he doesn't. He just needs sleep.

Carol looks worried. "If - Daryl, if you're in pain, you should -"

"I said I ain't in pain, didn't I?" He'd said it a million times. He's sick of saying it. "Just gotta get some more sleep."

Carol looks at him for a long moment, then nods. "Okay," she says. She touches Sophia's shoulder. "Come on, kiddo. Let's let Daryl sleep."

Sophia's eyes go to Daryl and then to her mother, wordless. Daryl doesn't know if Carol really wants to get Sophia somewhere else, unpack all this shit with the Morales kid, or if she thinks if she gets Sophia out that Daryl will take the oxy. Daryl just shrugs.

"Fell asleep fine with y'all in here before." Now that he says it out loud, Daryl takes a moment to marvel at that. He hasn't fallen asleep in a room with anyone but Merle for ages. "I mean - y'could go or stay, whatever. Don't care."

Sophia looks at her mother pleadingly. Carol relents.

"All right," Carol says slowly. She brushes at Sophia's hair, tucks it behind her ear. "But I told Patricia I'd help her with dinner. She's - a little upset from today, and -" Carol stops talking. "Well. And I said I'd help her. So if you stay with Daryl, you've got to read by yourself and stay here until I'm done, okay? I won't be able to come up and help you down again until after dinner's done."

"I'm not a baby," Sophia says. It'd be more convincing if she weren't still sitting on Daryl's bed with her ma petting her head. "I can read alone."

"And let Daryl sleep, all right? He needs rest."

"I will," Sophia says quickly. "Promise."

"I'll check back in when dinner's done," Carol says again. Her fingers brush against Sophia's hair one more time. "Love you."

"Love you too," Sophia says back. It doesn't sound particularly significant - it sounds almost rote, like a response learned by heart, automatic and easy. Somehow the fact that Sophia sounds mostly dutiful when she says it makes Daryl's heart clench in his chest. He busies himself with his pillows - rearranging them, punching one into a different shape - until Carol leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.

Sophia seems to realize then that she's still on Daryl's bed. She blushes red and leans over the edge of the bed, scrabbling for her crutches. Daryl has to yank the neck of her skirt to stop her from toppling off.

"Careful, girl. Gonna smack your head in," Daryl says gruffly. "Whatcha need?"

"Oh, um. Just - I was going to get my crutches so I could get my book and get back in the chair -"

Daryl squints at the chair. Points to it. "Ain't that your book there?"

And it is - sitting open-faced on the rocker, a little worse for wear for all the excitement. Sophia seems to blush harder.

"Right. I - sorry, I -"

"You can stay if you want," Daryl mumbles before he has the chance to think about it. She can - that rocking chair can't be too comfortable with her bum ankle, and the bed is so big that Daryl and Sophia don't even have to touch if they don't want to. The second he says it he regrets it - the kid didn't even want him to walk her to the bathroom, why would she want to stay next to him -

"You gonna stand there or you gonna come in?" Daryl asks. Carl jumps and steps in, closing the door behind him.

"What are you doing?" Carl asks, coming around to the abandoned rocking chair.

"Oh," Carl says. He scuffs a sneakered foot on the floor. "What book?"

"Little House in the Big Woods," Sophia says. Daryl thinks she should just hold up the book again. The kid can read, can't he?

This time Carl does wrinkle his nose. "That's a girl book."

"I guess," Sophia says. Which is more polite than Daryl's response would have been, of 'Well she's a girl, ain't she?'

Carl perks up at that. "Yeah?"

"I've read it before," Sophia says. "But I like it. They - I guess it's interesting to read it now." Sophia's fingers run over the edge of the book cover. "Because they don't have like electricity or the internet or anything. They just have to do everything themselves. So. Yeah."

"Your mom told you about Louis? Right?"

Apparently, it wasn't. Daryl feels Sophia still next to him. Doesn't open his eyes - they probably don't want to hear from him anyway, not when his brother had been such a dick to all the Morales'.

"Yeah," Sophia says quietly. "He - it was really him?"

"Yeah."

A pause.

"But Eliza wasn't there. Or Miranda or Juan."

It takes longer than it should for Daryl to figure out those are the Morales parents' names.

"No," Carl says quickly. "No. If they were, they'd be in the barn with him. Right?"

Daryl's not sure that thinking tracks but he doesn't say anything. Wouldn't be helpful anyway.

"Are they - what are they going to do with him?"

"Bury him," Carl says. "Glenn and T-Dog are digging holes. For him and for like Hershel's wife and stuff. They were in the barn too."

"Chapter Four. Christmas. Christmas was coming. The little log house - was almost buried in snow. Great drifts were banked - against the walls and windows. And in the morning when Pa - opened the door, there was a wall of snow - as high as Laura's head."

Sophia's an okay reader - not as good as her ma, a little stilted or whatever. But the Grimes kid isn't complaining, and Daryl isn't either.

"Rick - not back yet?"

" - Hershel - Beth -"

"What's goin' on?" Daryl croaks, and Sophia and Carl jump. Like they'd forgotten he was there, or that he could wake up.

"Um," Sophia says, darting a quick look at Carl, whose jaw is set. "Hershel - Hershel left and Beth won't wake up, so -" Sophia shrugs her shoulders. "Um, I guess Mr. Glenn and Rick went to find him?"

Oh. That's why the kid looks like his puppy ran away. Daryl guesses in a way, it did.

"They're not back yet," Carl says. His face looks like he's trying to be tough, but there's a slight waver in his voice. "And it's getting dark."

Shit. How long has Daryl been out for? How much more sleep could he possibly need?

The one good thing about all that sleep is that Daryl actually does feel better. Not just not-dead, but actually better. Sure he's not ready to do another three-day slog through the woods or whatever, but he's well enough to get up and figure out what's happening from someone who actually knows what's going on. Like what does that mean, Beth won't wake up? He stifles a groan as he sits up in bed, and Sophia jerks as he does, looking over at him with alarmed eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asks, and Daryl grunts as he maneuvers himself up enough that he could swing his feet off the bed onto the floor.

"Gonna go find out what's up," Daryl says, and Sophia looks concerned.

"But - you're still sick. You shouldn't -"

"M'fine," Daryl says, and he's about to stand up when Shane fucking Walsh pokes his head in and Daryl feels himself go immediately hostile. Maybe he'll risk trying to walk with just Sophia and Carl for an audience, but he's not going to attempt to stand and potentially fall flat on his face in front of Shane.

"Hey man, where you been all afternoon?" Shane asks, his voice the weirdly genial tone he always takes with Carl. Daryl guesses that's how you're meant to talk to kids because Carl just looks at Shane and Daryl can see some of the worry drain away. Not all of it, but enough.

"Just hanging out," Carl says. "Are they back yet?"

"No, man, not yet. Keep your head up though. Your old man is the toughest - " Shane catches sight of Sophia, still sitting next to Daryl, and he cuts himself off. "Toughest son of a gun I know. He'll be all right."

Carl nods, just once. His fingers are playing with the brim of his sheriff's hat, with the tassels.

"How you doin', Sophia? All right?"

"Yes sir," Sophia says politely. Daryl feels his scowl deepening. Remembers Shane the other day, before he went out on that horse. Anyone could have holed up in that farmhouse.Shane hadn't been wrong - Sophia hadn't been there. But it'd been the way Shane had said it. Like he was looking for reasons to stop looking.

Shane woulda given up on the kid, and now he's treating her all sweet like he cares. He doesn't. Daryl knows that. And he wonders, from her tone, from the way she's holding herself, if somehow Sophia knows it too.

"What about you Daryl? You good?"

Daryl just grunts. Shane looks a little put off with Daryl's hostility, which makes Daryl's chin jut out more. What does Shane want from him? High fives and hugs? If they were outside, Daryl would spit.

"Well, uh. Right. I'll get these kids out of your hair, then," Shane says, and Daryl scowls more at that. Like sure, he'd rather have some space or whatever, but where does Shane get off saying that shit? Making it sound like Sophia's a nuisance or whatever? "It's just about time for supper. Carl, why don't you get your ma, and then you and Sophia can help Patricia set the table?"

Daryl's about to ask Shane how Sophia's meant to do that on crutches when he notices that Carl isn't moving. Whatever worry Shane's presence might have eased is back tripled and Carl is too still as he looks at Shane - like he's trying to decide if he should use his energy to freak out of not.

"I - I thought Mom was downstairs. With you."

Something about 'with you' hits Shane weird - which is just another piece in the picture Daryl has of what the fuck Shane and Lori got up to back at the quarry. "No," Shane says. "She ain't with me. What, you mean you don't know where she is?"

"I - no," Carl says. "I - I've been up here. I -"

Shane is out of the room too fast. Carl is up from the edge of the bed, gaping like a fish, like he's not sure whether he should follow Shane or stay put. He looks at Daryl, which Daryl doesn't get because he knows even less than Carl. He didn't even know Rick and Glenn and Hershel were missing, let alone Lori.

"Where'd you see her last?" Daryl asks, sounding dumb even to his own ears. He ain't a cop and Lori ain't a misplaced pair of keys. He doesn't know what he's meant to do to find some grown woman who went running off of her own accord.

"I - we were outside and she said she was going to go check on T-Dog, because he was - " Carl darts a quick look at Sophia. "You know. Burning the walkers. The ones we didn't know. And she said maybe Sophia would like company and I should go ask Carol where she was and I did and she said she was up here so I came up here and then -"

Great. Now Daryl's all caught up. "Why'd she wanna go see T-Dog?"

Carl shrugs. Great. That's useful. A bucket of clues, right there.

There's no time for any more detective work because then Shane is barreling back into the room so fast that Sophia flinches practically off the bed and it takes all Daryl's reflexes just to yank her back up.

"Carl," Shane is saying urgently, moving too quick - Daryl had grabbed Sophia's elbow to keep her from falling and even though he lets go as fast as he can, he can still feel the tremble working its way up her arm, almost unnoticeable but present as Shane rushes in like a fucking panther, all muscled arms and bald head and too intent face. Daryl can hear more footsteps following Shane and he wonders how crowded his sick room is going to get. "When's the last time you saw your mom?"

"This afternoon," Carl says. His face, which was pale already, suddenly looks the color of milk.

"Where was she?" Shane asks, and his voice gets louder. Daryl doesn't know what to do with the slightly shaking girl at his side. He doesn't know how to make her stop shaking.

"What you yellin' for?" Daryl snaps, shifting his position on the bed so he can stand up if he needs to. His hand braced at the side table for easy support. "Shit man, chill out, you're -"

"Where was she?" Shane says again, and he's moving on Carl too fast, it makes everything in Daryl prickle. He's shifted himself at an angle that he only realizes later is putting himself between Shane and Sophia, between the unpredictable wildness radiating off of Shane and the shaky silence of the girl.

"She -" Carl looks confused and too pale like he can't think. "She said - she was going to see T-Dog, she -"

"Carl ain't seen her," Shane calls out to the hallway, and he paces back and forth. Daryl can feel Sophia next to him, winding tighter and tighter, too tight as she tries to track Shane with her eyes. Shane slams his hand against the window sill loud enough that Daryl's pulling himself off the bed. Because this is his goddamn sickroom and if Shane's going to slam around like a fucking lunatic he can go do it somewhere else. "Damn it!" explodes out of Shane's mouth as Shane looks out the window, eyes scanning like Lori Grimes is going to pop out of a well or something. He's so preoccupied looking he doesn't hear Daryl come up, or maybe he just assumes Daryl isn't a threat. But Shane doesn't spin back around until Daryl is almost on top of him. Shane blinks once, maybe in surprise, but Daryl's already poking him in the chest with one finger, feeling wobbly as he tries to shove some sense into Shane.

"Calm the fuck down," Daryl snarls, and Shane's eyes go from surprised to angry in record time. "You're freaking them kids out, man, shit -"

"We need to find Lori," Shane says.

"She asked me to look in on Carl," Andrea says suddenly from behind Daryl. The others have caught up and are spilling in, making the room feel even more crowded - Dale who looks worried and winded from the stairs, Andrea looking concerned, T-Dog looking wracked with guilt. Carol, who has gone to the bed, to Sophia, a hand on her back. "Earlier. She was worried about Rick, she -"

"She went after them?" Dale asks, and Daryl sees the hallway behind them fill up more - Glenn's horse girl looking pinched behind the eyes, Otis's woman with a hand over her mouth. It's too many people and Daryl feels himself start to tighten, feels his fists clench.

"She didn't say that," Andrea says, and Carl is standing in the middle of the room, looking pathetically fierce with his dumb sheriff hat.

"Where is she?!" Carl asks again, his voice shrill with anger and panic, and something shifts in Shane. Something like guilt behind the eyes.

"Nobody panic," Shane says, which Daryl thinks is a little fucking late when Shane looks halfway to hell himself. "Gonna be around here somewhere. Come on."

And Shane is charging out of the room again, moving fast enough Daryl almost topples in his wake, and the room is empty as suddenly as it was full. Carl is almost running to keep up with the adults as they spread out in the weirdest and most demented game of hide and seek through the Greene farmhouse. The only one left behind is Carol, who is running a hand over Sophia's hair. She's like a horse whisperer or something because the second she does, whatever has been making Sophia clench melts away, like Carol is gathering it up in her hand and flicking it off of her.

Of course, the room emptying out of one shouting Shane Walsh and eight hundred bystanders probably helped with that too.

"What's going on?" Daryl asks gruffly. He's pretty proud of himself that he didn't just say 'the fuck', which is probably pretty pathetic.

Carol huffs a laugh with no humor in it. "What else? Just - everything." This is less than specific, but also Daryl figures that's pretty clear. Things are going to shit again. They always do and he guesses the apocalypse ain't no different. Carol is eyeing him carefully as he tries to make his way back to the bed. "You shouldn't be -"

"M'fine," Daryl says for what feels like the millionth time. "Been sleepin'. Ask the kid."

Carol actually does turn to Sophia, who nods, but then shakes her head. Daryl's about to ask what the fuck that means but Carol is already on her way over to him, looking like she's steeling herself for something. He's not sure if she's preparing herself to touch him or if she's preparing for him to cuss her out, but either way, it makes him still and scowl.

"M'fine, I said," Daryl repeats, and instead of trying to fight his way back to the bed, he collapses into the rocker so he won't have to have some mouse of a woman drag him back to bed. Collapsing probably isn't the best plan - it sets the rocker swinging wildly - but he's down and that seems to pacify Carol enough. Daryl's side is throbbing but nothing crazy, nothing he can't handle. And his head hurts, but that could be from Shane shouting like a goddamn lunatic. All in all, he's pretty much fighting fit.

Although the second he settles, he realizes something. All of a sudden it feels like days since he's gone to the bathroom. He feels a flush working its way over his face - blushing like some ten-year-old girl, pathetic - because it probably hasn't been days since he's gone. When he was out of it, somebody has probably gotten closer than he would have wanted, to help him -

Whatever. It's done now. But all of a sudden Daryl has to piss like crazy and he starts hauling himself up out of the chair, which would be easier if it wasn't a rocker, if it didn't swing and squeal underneath him as he tries to get up.

"Gotta take a piss," Daryl grunts, eyes skirting away from Sophia, reminded suddenly of the way she'd act when they were in the woods, stiff and watchful and scared of him when he offered to keep watch while she peed. He hears Carol getting up and his jaw sets in a scowl. "Be back."

Daryl gets out of the room before Carol follows him. Which is probably just her being polite because he's moving like an eighty-year-old who got thrown from a horse so it's not like it'd be hard to catch him. It's probably for the best that she follows him anyway - he has no clue where the bathroom is in this place. He forces himself to walk like nothing hurts, not to stagger. Not to let anything past him. He's not hurt that badly. The shakiness, the lurchiness of his steps, it's probably because he's been in that goddamn bed for days. (How many days? How long has it been since they got back?)

"Don't need a babysitter," Daryl snarls as Carol comes up beside him, her hand hovering near his arm.

"I know," Carol says, her hand never making contact, her voice even. "It's at the end of the hall."

After taking care of business, Daryl washes up some in the sink. He looks like hell when he sees himself in the mirror - a layer of grime that's mostly dirt but probably also blood sticking out against the almost blinding white of the bandage around his forehead, the stupid shirt Carol'd loaned him puckered and sagging in weird places. Someone'd probably wiped him down while he was out too, which makes him feel on edge, but they hadn't done that great a job and so Daryl cleans up how he can. He almost strips off the bandage to see the damage to his head - with his luck he's got a big gnarly scar over his ear from that fucking bullet - but he decides not to. It's not worth it when Carol or the kid'll just get all on him for messing with it.

Even Hershel's bathroom, small and probably a hundred years old, is nicer than any bathroom Daryl's been in his whole life.

He's not as surprised as he should be that Carol is standing there in the hallway when he opens the door.

"Don't worry," she says, a ghost of a smile around her mouth. "I wasn't listening."

It makes Daryl flush again, scowl. He feels steadier after pissing, after washing up. More alert, more awake. Less shaky. He doesn't need Carol trailing after him like he's her kid. He doesn't need anything from Carol. He hadn't brought Sophia back so he'd have a guaranteed bathroom escort for the rest of his life. Carol doesn't owe him shit.

"Hold up," Carol says as Daryl starts past her to the bedroom. He glares.

"Can walk fine," Daryl snaps. "Shit, you wanna baby someone, baby that kid of yours, she -"

"No, I just -" Carol looks a little unsure. "I just thought you might - I can talk a little more about. What's happening. I just didn't want Sophia to hear."

Oh. That's different. Daryl feels his scowl lessen, feels the flush on his face creep a little.

"Oh," Daryl says lamely. He leans against the opposite wall from Carol, crosses his arms. Waits.

"It's - sorry," Carol says, her voice a little nervous. "I shouldn't be making - it's not a big deal. Just Sophia gets nervous around - " Carol shakes her head. "Hershel went to find a bar. In town. After what happened, he -"

Oh. Daryl remembers Sophia's pinched face when she'd seen the bottle of bourbon in the abandoned farmhouse. Her fear when she told him she'd dumped it down the toilet. Yeah, whatever, maybe she doesn't have to freak Sophia out. Maybe Sophia's too young to understand that not everybody drinks like her old man.

But hell, maybe Daryl still doesn't totally understand that either because he finds himself thinking about Hershel. Daryl hadn't pegged Hershel for the type, which makes him feel stupid. He tried to reconcile the staid man in suspenders with his pa or Merle or even Daryl himself and he can't. Well, there are all kinds of drunks. He should remember that.

"Shit, he couldn't just do that here?"

"He doesn't keep it in the house."

Oh. That type of drunk. Reformed or whatever. Off the wagon now. Got it.

"After he left, Beth - they're not really sure what's wrong. She just - isn't responding." Carol looks worried at that. Daryl doesn't know shit about Beth, just that she's little and blonde and looks barely older than Sophia, but he frowns anyway as Carol continues.

"Rick and Glenn went to go get him, but -"

"But they ain't back yet."

"Right." Carol shrugs and it looks weird on her. That's his movement. It looks wrong on her slim, graceful shoulders. "I shouldn't have - I could have said that in front of Sophia. Just, she likes Beth, and I don't want her to be -"

Scared of what it means, that Beth isn't responding. Scared of Hershel. Yeah. Daryl gets it.

"Think Lori went after 'em?" Daryl asks her, and Carol bites her lip, looks worried. Daryl's reminded that Lori's probably the closest thing Carol's had to a friend in years.

Lori Grimes probably thought she was invincible, that nothing bad was ever gonna happen to her. Daryl knows she's wrong.

"Can go after her in the morning," Daryl says finally. Carol's eyes are boring into him all of a sudden and he looks away. "Mean - m'feelin' better, I told you. By tomorrow, probably be back to normal. Can go out then, if she ain't back yet."

"Daryl -"

What - does she think he should go out now? He thinks about it but in the dark, he won't be able to pick up a trail anyway, especially if she took a car, and he's not all the way there yet. But by morning he will be.

"You don't have to do that."

Daryl scowls. "Told you, I'm fine. Had worse'n this." He's not sure if this was true - maybe before the infection set in, but he can't remember a time when he'd been this wiped out, all that sleep and fuzziness. Maybe when he was a little kid or something.

"Shane can go. Or T-Dog. Or Andrea. You - you've done enough for now."

Daryl blinks at her. T-Dog and Andrea aren't trackers. Maybe Shane knows some police shit but that's concrete and cars, it ain't the woods, the wilderness. Not that Hershel's really in the wilderness if he's really holed up in some old bar downtown -

"She's probably just in Senoia. She probably found Rick and them and they'll all be back in the morning," Carol continues.

Daryl scoffs. Yeah. Because Rick and Hershel and Glenn just decided they were having so much fun at whatever hick watering hole they got in Senoia they decided to pull an all-nighter -

"Ain't no invalid," Daryl says instead. "Can pull my weight."

"You've pulled more than your weight," Carol says, and she sounds almost fierce, almost like she's yelling at him. Or whatever the mousy mom version of yelling is. "You - you don't have to keep trying to prove to them that you're worth something."

Daryl stares at her. The fuck?

"That ain't - I ain't doing that," Daryl mumbles, but he feels suddenly exposed and small, which makes him feel angry, as it has since he was a kid. The fuck does she know? She thinks since he did her a solid the others are suddenly all happy to have some redneck fuck in their little group? Think they'll think he's worth a damn? Daryl's seen the way Rick and Shane look at him, how Andrea does, the hint of distaste around Dale's mouth when he hears Daryl speak. "Ain't my fault the rest of 'em can't do shit," Daryl says with more force. "They try'n find her it's just gonna be some other person off lost, needin' a rescue, and then -"

"Then we deal with that then," Carol says. And why the fuck is she saying 'we', like they're some kind of team? But suddenly Carol seems to realize what she's said too, or maybe just the way she's been saying it, because the almost-yelling stops and she's a quiet mouse again, looking at him with a mostly blank but nervous face.

"She'll probably be back by morning," Carol says instead, softly. "They all will be. Probably."

Yeah. Right. Probably.

They run into Otis' woman, Patricia or whatever, as they head back into the sickroom. She's helping Sophia onto her crutches, and she shoots a smile, forced, at Carol as they come in.

"There you are. Well, dinner was ready when we realized that - just, no point in wasting a meal." Her tone is more forced than her fake smile. Carol blinks.

"Oh. Are you sure? We don't - "

"It was all made already," Patricia says again. "Mr. Walsh -" Her mouth puckers at that and Daryl wonders if Patricia is suspicious of what happened to Otis too. If she'd known it was her husband's gun Shane brought back with him. "Mr. Walsh has gone to get Lori and I figured no point just letting it all go cold."

She makes it sound like Shane has just run to the north pasture to fetch Lori for dinner instead of him going off in the dark by himself to a town infested with walkers and who knows what else. Daryl can't tell if she's trying to make it sound that way for Sophia and Carl or for herself. Who it is she's trying not to worry.

"If you're feeling well enough -" Now she's looking at Daryl, and Daryl doesn't know if he's ever said two words to this lady before now. "If you'd like to join us in the dining room, or - " She looks suddenly uncertain. "Or I could just fix you up a plate. It's no bother, you should rest -"

"M'fine," Daryl says immediately. Because he is fine. And the dining room is probably the closest he can expect to getting outside. From there he could probably get back to his tent for the night if he timed it right. Get his bow, maybe snag a rifle from the gun bag in Dale's RV. Because Daryl is suddenly aware of how vulnerable they are, a house of women and children and invalids. T-Dog is the only man left in fighting shape, and Andrea's a good shot (good enough, the scar on his head complains) but suddenly Daryl is remembering that walkers aren't the only thing they have to worry about. He and Andrea and T-Dog and what, fucking Dale, with a house full of people to protect and who knows how many people out there like Max and Greg and Randall, and who knows how close they are.

But he doesn't say this in front of the others because it will do nothing but worry them, frighten them, and that won't make them any better prepared. Maybe he shouldn't judge Patrica so hard for her fake smile and her pretend cheer.

"I can go down to dinner," Daryl says when Patricia looks unsure. "Ain't - 'bout ready to be out of bed, anyway."

Patricia looks at Carol - which makes Daryl scowl because Carol isn't his nurse or his keeper or any of that shit. If he decides he's ready to go downstairs, then he's ready. No one to check with but him. But whatever Patricia sees in Carol's face, she just says "All right, then. Sophia, sweetheart, you want to lead the way?"

Everyone is tense and unhappy and just as clearly pretending that they aren't for Carl, who is sitting in the middle of the table next to an empty place, probably set for his mama. His hat is on his head but as she passes, Patricia taps the brim and says "No hats at the table!" and Carl takes it off without any fuss.

Somehow Daryl ends up between Dale and Andrea. Which he thinks is weird as shit, and then he wonders why he thinks that, why he assumed that he'd be sandwiched between Carol and Sophia. Dale takes his hat off too, winking at Carl as he does so, but Daryl doesn't get why everyone is faking normalcy when both that boy's parents and his weird uncle/the guy fucking his mom are out in the dark somewhere without him. The others start passing around food in some sort of system that probably makes sense to them but Daryl doesn't understand, a crisscrossing of plates and serving spoons and shit he's never seen before in his life, on old china with heavy silver cutlery.

Daryl spent most of his childhood eating off of paper plates and shitty dishes from the dollar store and as an adult he hadn't done much different. Sometimes him and Merle would go to a diner but the waitresses just brought him the whole plate already made up. Daryl's sure there are some rules or manners to this that he just doesn't get. He finds himself watching Sophia, seated across the table from him. He wonders if she can tell he doesn't know what the fuck is going on or if she's just always deliberate with her movements, but she moves slow enough that he could copy. Dishing out a spoonful of peas (Carol leaning over and spooning a little bit more onto her plate, Sophia shooting her mom a quick, guilty grin), picking up a chicken leg with fancy tongs, a scoop of something that could be mashed potatoes, a slice of bread with a tiny, perfect pat of butter.

Finally, he can't take it anymore and he stands up. His chair legs screech and squeal as they push against the floor and all other noise stops, everyone looking at him in a way that makes his shoulders hunch up under his ears, makes him scowl. He hates it when people look at him like that. Fuck them.

"M'gonna - just need to get something," Daryl mumbles, and he slips away from the table as quick as he can without looking at any of them.

He's swiping his drumstick through a swirl of mashed potatoes when Andrea clears her throat. Daryl doesn't stop eating - not much can stop him from eating - but he scowls, feels his shoulders tense. She gonna give him shit for how he eats? He remembers one of the lunchroom monitors, when he was a kid, telling him he ate like an animal and making him sit in a corner till his manners improved. Bitch. Andrea tries that, he'll -

"I - I just wanted to - I'm so sorry. I feel like shit," Andrea says finally. Her voice is firm and frank and he finds himself respecting her a little more.

"You'n me both," Daryl grunts, and he picks up his chicken again and takes a huge bite.

Andrea blinks. Looks like she's trying to do some math in her head. "I - I'm sorry, I don't - I don't expect you to forgive me for - for shooting you -"

Now Daryl's the one trying to make an equation make sense. "Why?" Daryl says, his brow furrowed. "You were tryin' to protect the group. We're good."

Andrea nods again, now looking completely lost. "Oh. So. If you're not upset about that, what -"

"You coulda killed Sophia," Daryl says, and Andrea's face does something strange. Daryl doesn't know how to interpret it and he doesn't even try. "Whatever, you got that gun, don't mean you can just fire without using your damn eyes. What if she'd been in front? Or what if she'd made it back without me and you tried to clip her instead?"

"I wouldn't," Andrea says. "Or I mean, I won't. You're right. I should - I'll be more careful." It sounds like it costs Andrea something to say this, but when Daryl looks at her she looks nothing but sincere. "You did good, Daryl. And I really am sorry."

Daryl scoffs - he didn't do it for her, and he doesn't know what else he's meant to do with these words from everyone. Andrea nods again, then hovers awkwardly. "All right. If there's anything I can do -"

"Got a cigarette?" Daryl asks, and Andrea shakes her head regretfully.

"No. I could ask around -"

"Whatever," Daryl says. He gets up, stretches a little - he's gonna try and dart out to his tent real quick, get his bow, grab Merle's gun from the bike saddlebag. Just in case. Worth having. But as he's about to hop off the porch something happens that makes him pick up speed, makes it less of an amble and more of a sprint, his side protesting.

"Where's Rick?" Daryl hears as he trudges back up, his side twinging with each step, especially with the weight of the bow pulling across his back. Shane, his shaved head glinting in the low light, is walking away from Lori, his shoulders braced. Daryl can see the moment Lori figures it out. "They're not back? Where are they?"

"Look," Shane says, in the voice that is clearly his 'trying to keep everybody calm' voice but he's shit at it compared to Rick, because the second he starts talking everyone tenses up, Dale and Andrea looking at Shane, Carol looking over Lori, the blood trickling down Lori's forehead. "I had to get you back here."

He contemplates turning right back around and going right back to his tent, but his body is throbbing with just his little sprint down there and the idea of sleeping on the ground just makes it kick up more. Plus, he tells himself, Carol and them would probably hunt him down out there, give him hell for not staying put, chase him around with pills and such. He doesn't want to deal with any more of that shit than he has to. Might as well just stay put.

And if he falls back on the bed in his sickroom with a little extra relief, well. No one's there to see it.

"She's - helping Lori." One of Sophia's hands ghosts over her face - the lip Lori busted, the shadow of a bruise that had been blooming around her forehead.

Yeah. With Hershel gone, guess Carol's the closest they got to a medic. Well, better her than him.

Daryl grunts as he pulls his bow off his back. It's still spattered with mud and grime from their trek through the woods, and Glenn left the thing cocked. Daryl uncocks it, runs his fingers over it. He's been taking care of bows since he was a little kid, even before Uncle Jess bought him his first one. He'd looked after his dad's before that and so the act of maintenance is something easy, something he falls into as easy as breathing. It's a different kind of centering to put his hands on the bow, to clear around the cams, the stock, check the trigger box for dirt and debris. He dips the end of one of the pillowcases into the pitcher of water next to his bed and starts to wipe the whole thing down, clear it off. He's wondering if he should take the time now to run wax over everything and oil it up - he's got a thing of string wax and a half-used bottle of flight and rail lube, which Merle could never look at without sniggering - when he realizes that Sophia is watching him with as much care as he watched her at dinner. Like she's taking notes in her head, trying to figure out how it all works.

"Here," Daryl grunts, before he can think better of it. He shoves the bow out towards her - carefully, even though it's not strung or cocked and the bolts are halfway across the room. Doesn't hurt to show her how to treat something like a threat. "Hold that."

Sophia takes it hesitantly, but not as hesitantly as she was out in the woods. Daryl looks around in the saddlebag he grabbed from his tent for the string wax. First, he's double-checking there ain't nothing in there that shouldn't be - Merle normally kept his stash in with his stuff, but it's not like Merle was the height of tidiness, and Daryl's not gonna pull out a thing of meth in front of the kid. All he sees is his own shit though, extra string and cables for the bow, the rail lube, the little toolset, some shit for camping. Finally, the wax comes up. He'll be out of it soon - he wonders idly if there's a hunting store somewhere in town, get him some gear. Some more bolts. He looks at Sophia, at the enormous bow in her twiglike arms. She'd do better with a compound bow, maybe something like fifteen or twenty pounds draw weight. He squints a little, tries to picture it.

"Here," Daryl says, and he hands her the pillowcase, still damp. "Make sure there ain't nothin' dirty left on it. Then we'll oil it up so it don't snag."

Sophia starts obediently. Daryl watches for a second, then starts to wax the string. It means they're sitting practically side by side on the bed, but it doesn't feel weird. Just feels like company. Daryl's not sure he's ever had company like that - Merle was company, sure, but loud as hell. He'd never just sit quiet with Daryl, each to their own thoughts. Merle didn't work that way.

Daryl snorts. Holds out the tube of wax. "Here."

Sophia looks at him nervously, like he's trying to trick her, and she takes the tube. Holds it awkwardly between her fingers. Daryl waits her out. She was watching him do it - she knows what to do. After a long moment, she starts to slide the wax over the string.

"Not on the servings - there," Daryl says, pointing to the center serving. Sophia starts a little but she doesn't stop or anything, just skirts around the servings. "Not in the middle. You do that, wax gets in the trigger box, could jam." She's a little wobbly, but it's wax - ain't gonna hurt anything.

"I - how'd you learn about all this stuff?" Sophia asks. She sounds shy. Daryl feels his shoulders tense a little, but he just shrugs them, starts hunting around in his stuff for the rail oil. He can talk about learning on the bow, that's fine. That's easy. But from Daryl's experience, questions never stop at one and he's not sure where the kid is trying to go with this.

"Used to hunt. My brother'n me, when we were kids. Our old man taught us." About the only useful thing the old man had ever done. Merle'd given it up after he came back from the army - once he knew he'd have three squares a day and get to shoot with live ammo, bagging a squirrel must have seemed like nothing. Maybe he just didn't want to remember anything he'd gotten from their pop. He'd go out to the woods with Daryl every so often and stomp around, but Merle'd forgotten almost everything useful. It's Daryl who remembered.

Sophia inhales for another question and Daryl gives the bowstring and the cables one last once over. "Good," Daryl says. "Lay off that now." Daryl finds the bottle and puts two drips of the oil onto the sides of the rail. "Then we just spread this around." Daryl demonstrates, then watches as Sophia copies. "Yeah, good." Daryl leaves her to that, then starts to grease some of the weirder places - behind the safety knobs on the trigger box, the cams, the axles. He wants this thing running like brand new if he has to go look for Rick and them tomorrow.

"Did - " Sophia starts asking, her eyes fixed on the bow, but whatever she's going to ask never makes it out of her mouth. She slams her mouth shut instead. Daryl's a little surprised he doesn't hear her teeth click. He waits her out again, though. Maybe that's the secret to Sophia - just got to wait her out.

"Would - would you - teach me? How to -" Sophia shuts up again, her shoulders automatically curling in. "Or - I mean, never mind."

"Teaching you now, ain't I?" Daryl says. He takes the bow from her, gently. Hefts it around. "Good."

Sophia nods. Looks a little deflated. Why? What'd he - oh.

"Maybe, uh - maybe we could go out back, do some target shooting sometime. If you were interested." Sophia perks right up and Daryl feels something almost like pride lick through him - he hadn't thought he'd guess right.

"I - really? You'd show me?"

"Guess I'd better," Daryl says as he finds a spot to put the bow for the night. "If we get stuck out there again, better if y'know how to take care of yourself." For a second Daryl wonders if that's the wrong thing to say - it's certainly not all the way right. Sophia's taken care of herself for twelve years already, through plenty of shit. But Daryl's never been good with words so he leaves it be.

And Sophia doesn't seem to mind. She's smiling shyly at him, looking at the bow leaning against the side of the bed. "Y'can be like - uh - your book girl," Daryl says, and the little smile around her lips splits into an honest to god grin.

"Katniss," Sophia says. "Yeah. Maybe."

There's a knock on the doorway and Carol is there, leaning in the open doorjamb. She's smiling too and Daryl wonders how much she heard.

"Hey kiddo," Carol says. "Time to get ready for bed."

Sophia looks a little indignant. "It's not that late."

"Late enough. You can read a little longer once you're all ready. Come on."

Sophia heaves a sigh and reaches for her crutches. Carol's there, moving the crutches closer to her, helping her up.

"Night, Daryl," Sophia says as she balances herself on her feet. Daryl just nods, then realizes maybe that's rude or whatever.

"Uh. Yeah, night."

Carol smiles at him over Sophia's head and follows her daughter out to the hallway.

"Daryl was showing me how to take care of his crossbow," he hears Sophia say as they make their way down the hall. "He said he'd teach me how to shoot it too."

Shit. Maybe he should've asked Carol first if that was okay.

"Really? Wow," Carol says. A door opens, shuts. Then they're gone.

Even though it feels like all Daryl's wanted for days is to be left alone, now that he's got it the room feels weirdly quiet. He makes his way over to the window seat, plonks himself down in it, bow by his side. He can't see for shit - the room behind him is all lit up so the outside reveals nothing but darkness. If he cups his hands around the window he can see someone - T-Dog, he thinks - sitting on top of the RV, a shotgun perched over his knees. Keeping watch. Well, it's something at least. Daryl toys for a minute with going back out there and joining whoever the hell it is, but he reluctantly lets the idea go. He feels shaky just from the trek to and from his tent, from hauling up and down the stairs. Part of himself just wants to push through it all, bend his body to his will, but he knows from experience if he does that, it'll be worse in the long run. And the last thing he needs now is to collapse sometime when they really need him because he never took the time to heal up right.

But fuck. He wants to be out there. He wants to be anywhere but here, doing anything but sitting and waiting. He likes the quiet but he doesn't like this, the feeling that makes his back itch, the feeling of waiting for something to go wrong. Waiting for some storm to hit.

He's more than half-asleep when Carol knocks on his door again. He jumps more than he should - it's that feeling, of knowing that something is coming. But if something bad had happened nobody'd waste time knocking. When he turns around, Carol is still hovering in the doorway.

"Hi. I just - wanted to see if you needed anything before we - settled in for the night."

"Don't need nothin'," Daryl mutters, standing up from the window. "If I did, could get it myself."

There's a quirk to the side of Carol's mouth. If she were different, Daryl feels like she'd almost be rolling her eyes at him. "Of course you could," Carol says. "I just thought I'd check."

Daryl grunts. "How's Lori?"

Carol's smile goes a little fixed. "Oh, fine," she says. "Her and Shane are just - having a talk."

Yeah. A talk.

"I'll - go out tomorrow. Get Rick an' them back." Daryl wonders as he says it if Rick'll be enough to pull Shane in. Daryl had never liked Shane - stupid pig rattling on about something or another, and he hasn't forgotten what Shane had said about Merle. But at the beginning, Daryl'd thought that's just how Shane was with Dixon's, or people like them - with people he saw as dirty rednecks, drug addicts, criminals. But now Shane's acting that way more and more in little moments towards other people, normal people. Towards Rick. And Daryl's not sure what that means for everybody.

Carol must be able to sense this shit too because she doesn't argue with him just then. Just bites her lips and nods. "We - we'll see in the morning. If they're not back yet.:

Well. Shit. That's different than earlier. Daryl grunts again.

"Well, if you're - sure you don't need anything," Carol says.

"M'good."

"All right, then. Good night."

"Uh - yeah. Night." What is it with everyone here wishing everyone a good night? Daryl doesn't know if anyone's ever said that to him in his life. Maybe his ma, before she died. When he was a little kid, or whatever, but why are grown-ass adults saying good night to each other? It's another thing about being with these people that doesn't make sense. Just a way of being that is completely alien to him.

People. Weird as shit.

That's the last thing Daryl thinks before he settles into the bed and falls asleep. If he's going after Rick and them in the morning, he better be rested.

"You gotta get rid of 'im," Daryl says for what feels like the hundredth time. Rick is rubbing at his forehead, a look of pain on his face, like he's tired of having this conversation. But Daryl's not tired of it, Daryl's just getting started.

"We couldn't just leave him behind," Rick says again. "He would have bled out, if he lived that long -"

Good, Daryl wants to say, good, he should but that's not the way these people work. That's something Rick won't hear, so he has to try another way, but words have never been his friends and he feels his own head start to hurt as he tries to figure out what to say that Rick will understand.

"He doesn't know where we are," Rick continues. "He's been out cold, blindfolded. Once he's better, we give him a canteen, send him on his way."

It's the decent thing. The honorable thing. Daryl isn't decent or honorable. What he is is alive, and he plans on staying that way, on keeping Sophia and them that way, and Rick doesn't understand -

"He's one of them," Daryl hisses instead. It's a fucking full war meeting, with Carl and Sophia up in Beth's room with Jimmy, and Daryl's skin crawls with all the eyes on him, but he pushes on. It's what he has to do. "He was the one keepin' watch, that got away. His people, they're -"

"We know," Rick says, almost gently. "I know, Daryl. We ran into more of them in town. But he's - he's just a kid. Wounded. He's not a threat."

Daryl agrees with Shane which makes him uncomfortable for a whole different reason. But sure, maybe Shane's not a good guy, maybe he's out of control. But it doesn't mean he's not right about this.

Or maybe Daryl's just not a good guy either. Well, fine. That's fine. He doesn't need to be good. Never has been before. Doesn't need it now.

And then it stops being about Randall, it stops being about safety. It's about Rick and Shane, about Hershel's barn, about where they all stand. And then the meeting is over and Daryl hasn't made them understand, hasn't done what he needed to, hasn't been able to speak right.

Damn it.

"Hey," someone calls after him, and Daryl just keeps his head down and keeps moving. "Daryl, wait."

It's Carol. Of course it is. Bitch won't leave him alone, hanging off him all the time, trying to mother him or some shit. He doesn't need a mother. He doesn't need her or Sophia looking at him like some kind of puppy or any of them. He does better on his own, or with Merle. Hell, why is he even still here? He should be back in Atlanta, combing the streets for Merle, he should be -

"Daryl, please."

"What?" It flies out of his mouth, furious, and Daryl doesn't have to turn around to see Carol flinch, which makes him angrier. He didn't ask her to follow him. He doesn't ask for nothing, normally. He doesn't ask for shit he can't get. He -

"It's - I know. It's okay."

"Y'don't know shit," Daryl spits. He's facing her now and he can't tell if she's relieved he's looking at her or if it just makes her more nervous. "Y'know who that guy is? Y'know what his people done? Hell, two of them were tryin' to snatch up your own daughter and you're just going to let him -"

"I don't want him here either," Carol bursts in, and now she seems angry too. "You think I want him anywhere near Sophia? You think I want his people coming here, looking for -" She swallows suddenly and something twists in Daryl's gut, and some of the anger leaks away from him. Shit. What a fucking situation.

"If you - what do you think they should do?" Carol asks, and Daryl's gut twists again, unpleasantly. Because he knows what they should do. They should cut him loose right now. Not waste medical supplies on him, not try and fix him up. Just let him slip away before he knows what's happened. It's kinder than what Daryl did to his friends out in the woods. It's kinder than what Randall's people would do to them.

Well. Whatever. Let her think that, if they're all alive and untouched to think it, what does it matter?

But he doesn't need to say anything. Carol can see it in him, maybe, can read it on his face. But her face doesn't change. She just says, softly, "Talk to Rick. Explain to him -"

"He ain't gonna listen to me," Daryl mumbles. Because in what world is a cop going to take advice from a Dixon?

"He will," Carol says. "He - he trusts you. He knows you're -"

"What?" Daryl asks. It comes out rough and harsh and he sees Carol's body tense at the tone which makes him madder at himself. But he also wants to know. What do Carol and Rick and them think he is?

But Carol doesn't say. She just says, softly, "He'll listen to you. If you explain it right, he'll - "

Yeah. Because Daryl's so fucking good at explaining things.

"Mom?"

It's Sophia - hobbling across the yard on those crutches. Carol's going over towards her immediately.

"What are you doing out here? You have to be careful, Hershel said your ankle -"

"Hershel came to see Beth and when I came downstairs you were gone." Sophia leans against the crutches. "And I'm - I'm feeling better. My ankle, I mean. Soon I won't -"

"That'll be up to Hershel," Carol says. Her eyes are darting around like she thinks Randall is gonna pop out of a bush somewhere, like he's blowing some high-pitched whistle to bring his group after him. "Come on, let's go in. You need at least another day off your feet."

Carol starts to walk Sophia back, but Sophia drags a little bit. "Is Daryl coming?" he hears her ask.

"Not right now," Carol says. "Maybe later."

Yeah. Not now.

Apparently now, he's got some work to do.

If only he had the slightest idea of how to do it.

Maybe he's getting weak himself. Too much time around all them, around Rick and his fucking golden attitude, Hershel's do unto others bible bullshit, Carol's trusting gaze. He knows he should just go in and kill him, just make it easy.

But he's weak. He's not Merle. And if he murdered some guy, the others would make him leave. He knows they would, tries to tell himself it'd be worth it, to keep Sophia and Carol and even annoying as shit Carl safe.

But the idea of leaving, of being alone, makes his chest feel tight and his fists clench. He's not leaving. He won't.

It'll have to be Rick's decision. That's all.

"Hey man - hey, thank you, for - y'all saved me, I'm real grateful - but I gotta take a leak, you think you could -"

Daryl doesn't say anything. Just watches. The leg is bandaged up, white, and clean from the knee down. What a waste of supplies.

"Or I could - I could wait, I guess." Randall lets out a sigh. "I - I mean it, man, thank you. I - those guys I was with, they just left me, man." Daryl can hear real hurt in the kid's voice. Dumb kid. "It'll be nice to be with people that - "

"Who says you're gonna be with people?"

The boy stares at him. "You gotta be with people now. S'the only way to stay alive."

Yeah. Kid isn't wrong. That's why Daryl's doing this instead of just smothering the kid with a pillow and taking his chances with Rick's justice.

"I - I mean, I can't go back with the others," Randall continues, his tone going almost whiny. "I mean - they left me, man. They -"

"Bet some people wish they'd been left alone by them guys." Daryl thinks of Greg's wheedling tone, his hand clutching Sophia's doll.How's that sound? You want me to be your new daddy?

"How many were there, the people you were with?"

Randall's dumb but he ain't stupid. He can sense a trap somewhere, can tell he's heading onto shaky ground, but he can't figure out where it is. "I - "

"How many in your group?"

"I - they ain't my group, really, I just - I met 'em on the road, they took me in, they -"

"How many?"

"I don't know - uh, ten, maybe?"

"Y'can't count to ten?" Daryl starts unwrapping the bandage from the kid's leg. Looks at the stitches Hershel's done, neat and even.

"Or - I don't know, we've lost people, people - they weren't bad guys, really, there's real bad guys around, out in the woods, killed two of my friends without even -"

Daryl pulls out his knife and the kid's eyes go wide, frightened. Something twists in his gut. He can practically hear Merle behind him, hear his dad. Fucking pussy. He tightens his grip on the knife. The kid whimpers. "No -"

"How many people?"

"You're crazy, man, I ain't - I ain't done anything, I swear, I just - they weren't bad guys, they had a camp just like this one, women, and children like you got here -"

Daryl's got his knife up at Randall's neck before he can finish. "How'd you know we got women here?" He doesn't mention the kids. Doesn't want to give Randall that much information.

"I - I could hear them when they drove me in. I - I wasn't -"

"What else you hear?" Daryl shifts the knife down some. Starts bringing it closer to his leg. "You know where we're at?"

"How - how could I know that, I was blindfolded -"

"You know where your people are at?"

"I - we was never anyplace more than a night. And they - I mean we were confused in town, we thought - they thought y'all were those guys killed our friends in the woods, they thought -"

"How'd you know we ain't?"

Randall seems to look closer at Daryl and all the color drains from his face. "You - you were - I wasn't -"

"What, they wasn't your friends? Just said they were. You weren't lookin' for those women with them? Bring 'em back?"

Randall swallows. "I - "

"The women and children at your camp, they want to be there? Or they trying to run like them girls you were lookin' for?"

Randall looks like a trapped animal. "I - I'm trying to cooperate, man, I said, I'm not like those guys, I just - I just stand lookout, man, I was alone - we - the women at camp, they aren't - " He looks around wildly. "They're - they want to be there, they - they were alone too, they knew - we've all got to do our part, that's all, that's what -"

Yeah. Daryl knows about doing his part.

Randall seems to be able to tell that Daryl's not believing blanket denial, so he changes tactics. "But - but we go out sometimes, scavenge. Just the men. Sometimes we -" Randall swallows. Daryl can't tell if he's faking or not. "One night we - we found this little campsite -"

After that, it doesn't matter if Randall's faking or not. Daryl has what he needs.

The kid is alive, Daryl knows that. He can hear him still, whimpering in the now too silent stillness of the slaughter shed. The sound drills into Daryl's head, along with other things he wishes he could unhear.

A man and his two daughters -

"Daryl?"

For a moment Daryl thinks, wildly, that it's coming from the shed.

"I - I was - I saw you heading out here and I thought maybe you'd - you said maybe we could - shoot targets behind the shed if - but - " Sophia's staring at his hands, her breathing getting quicker, her voice higher pitched and scattered. "I - your hands, you're - you're bleeding - "

Randall gives a sort of yelling sob from the slaughter shed then, and Sophia flinches back when she hears it. She's not stupid. She knows what pain sounds like.

Daryl doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say, not really. He had to do it. For her and Carol and Carl and even nosy ass Andrea and old fuck Dale, for Hershel and his girls and Patricia who doesn't let people wear hats at the table, for Lori Grimes and Rick and T-Dog, hell, even Shane. For Daryl himself. He had to do it.

But she's scared enough without him talking. So he doesn't say anything. Just stays there, against the shed wall.

Notes:

TW for self-harm. Some sections of dialogue taken from the season two episode "Triggerfinger."

"They roll through here, our boys are dead," Daryl says for what feels like the hundredth time, Rick's face starting to set in something other than horror, more like disgust - at Randall, sure, but Daryl feels certain that the disgust is also for him. For people like him and Randall, animals. Daryl scrubs at his hands. "And our women - they're gonna wish they were."

He says women but all he can see is Sophia on those fucking crutches - wouldn't even be able to run for it, wouldn't get anywhere, clutching that stupid doll - Carol, her arms all bruised up again like when Ed was around, her face - Glenn's horse girl and the little blonde sister, Andrea not fast enough with her gun - them knocking the stupid hat off the head of Carl Grimes, cornering him and then -

"What?" he barks out as Carol rounds the corner. He's not looking at her, still looking towards the ground, but he doesn't miss her flinch, her inhalation of breath. He scared her.

Even after everything, Daryl thinks, his thumb digging into one of the new blisters on the back of his hand, he can't stop fucking up.

"It's almost time for supper."

This time Daryl can't hold back a scoff. "Ain't hungry." Like the last dinner had gone so fucking well.

"You haven't eaten all day."

Suddenly rage cuts through Daryl, hot and sharp and not like pain but close enough because it fogs out the thinking and the feeling shit, so it's almost as good. What's it to her, if he eats or doesn't? He's gone a hell of a lot longer than this without food. He's not weak, he's not some lost kid, doesn't need someone trying to fucking mommy him -

"Said I ain't hungry," he spits out, and he looks at her then. It's easier angry. "A'right? Y'done your bit."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Carol says it like she honestly doesn't know and that fuels something in him even hotter.

"Means y'can tell all them -" He's up on his feet and he doesn't remember getting there. Just sees himself throwing his hand out, to point down the hill towards the farmhouse, lit up against the coming dark, and sees how the movement makes Carol stiffen and still. Well, fine. Let her see him, then. He doesn't know what these people want from him. He's not like them - never sat down at a table and passed plates along like someone civilized, never turned away from getting his hands dirty. Never thought twice about hurting people who deserved it, and probably some who didn't, neither. He's not like them, he never will be, no matter how many fucking books they shove at him or kids who talk to him. Daryl's no better than this. Most of the time, he's worse. She might as well figure that out now. "Tell 'em y'tried and I ain't comin' and they won't think worse of you. Ain't like none of 'em want me down there anyway. Put 'em off their feed."

"That's - that's not true."

But that's a lie if he ever heard one, and that brings the anger back in him, a rush of relief, feeling something other than guilt, than - "Bullshit."

"Is that why you're - Daryl, she understands. Or she will. I understand. You had to -"

"Yeah, I fuckin' had to!" Daryl explodes, his own fists clenched. "Y'practically ordered me to! An' even if you hadn't, I'da done it anyway! Wasn't gonna let no -"

"Don't do this," Carol says suddenly, and Daryl takes a moment to check himself because he didn't know he'd done anything. He's still standing, fists still clenched, but he hasn't got any closer to her, hasn't made a move. So what's he meant to stop doing? "I'm not going to let you pull away."

The fuck does this woman want from him?

But whatever was going to come next, whatever stream of poison that was gonna pour out of his mouth, it's all off the tracks when Carol's voice changes again, no longer meek or accepting, no longer bracing for a hit.

"What happened to your hand?"

"What?" Daryl asks stupidly. His hand? The fuck does she care? Both his hands curl into fists, try to hide away. "I -" What?

"Your - " Carol's got her hand around his wrist before Daryl can pull back, and he feels himself freeze. Her fingers are cool and smooth and his skin feels suddenly too hot.

(When you do wrong, you get -)

"Daryl -"

"Damn, woman, I said leave me be!" Daryl barks, his tug getting more desperate. But she doesn't let go. If anything, her grip tightens. "Ain't none of your business. M'fine -"

"Don't," Carol says sharply, and it's so different than any other tone from her that it makes him stop trying to yank his arm away. She's looking at him steady and sharp and firm and almost angry. "Don't say it's nothing or you're fine or it doesn't hurt or you deserved it or - just don't, all right?"

"Sophia sent me up here," Carol says suddenly. "She - she was worried you'd get hungry."

Daryl squints at her. What? "Ain't gotta lie," Daryl mumbles. He's pulling his sleeve over his hand as best he can, but Carol isn't even looking at it anymore, which is a relief. "Didn't mean to scare her," Daryl finds himself saying, even though he doesn't mean to. Who cares if he scared her, some stupid ass kid poking around where she shouldn't? The kid isn't his problem. She's not his. She doesn't matter.

"I know," Carol says. "She - she knows too. She might not be able to - understand everything right now, but - she knows that what you do, it's just - you're looking out for her."

He's not. Or if he is, he's doing a shitty job of it - murdering two guys, not shooting Randall when he had the chance, getting thrown from that fucking horse, dragging her all over the woods with a busted ankle, scaring her left, right, and center. Letting her little friend get turned into a walker and gunned down. Not teaching her how to fire that fucking bow. He's barely able to look after himself, after all this time. He's certainly in no shape to be looking after a kid. Especially one like Sophia.

It's not like he's been avoiding her or whatever. Not more than anyone else. He sees her at dinner, seen her and Carl playing Little House on the Prairie shit, feeding chickens, collecting eggs. She's downgraded from two crutches to one - soon she'll be up on her own two feet again and the whole time in the woods will be like a bad dream. Something she can forget.

So he hasn't been avoiding her exactly, but he still wasn't expecting to run into her in the stable of all places.

Daryl's not exactly sure why he's in the stable. He'd heard that devil horse that threw him had come back, but he doesn't know why he's going to see it. Horse almost killed him, after all. But he finds himself in the barn offering the evil thing a slice of apple, his palm flat like Uncle Jess taught him when he was a kid. There's something weirdly comforting about the warm huffs of breath against his hand, the weird rhythm of chewing.

"Yeah, eat up, monster," Daryl mumbles, running a rough hand over her nose. "Betcha didn't even notice you left me for walker food, didja? Evil thing." The evil thing in question just chomps the last piece of apple. He's got his knife out, slicing off another chunk of apple, when the stable door squeals open behind him. Daryl spins defensively - he hasn't seen Hershel since that shit went down with Randall, and the man hadn't been well pleased with him taking the horse in the first place. But it's not Hershel, or Rick, or Carol.

Instead, it's Sophia, crutch under one arm and that beat-up doll under the other, looking startled. "I - sorry, I didn't - I just wanted -"

Daryl turns his attention back to the apple, pretends it doesn't sting how she's stammering at him - like he's Ed or something.

"Shit, girl, I don't bite," Daryl mumbles, focusing on cutting the apple into even pieces. Shit, he was gonna try and cuss less around her. Well, whatever. That was before he'd scared her. Bad words aren't gonna make a difference after she saw him after torturing Randall. "Your ma know where you're at?"

"Yeah," Sophia says quickly. It's quick enough that Daryl looks up and sees Sophia shifting around on her crutch. "Or - I mean, Carl said we could go look at the horses yesterday but he - um, he's busy, so I thought I'd just - be okay by myself. It's just the stable."

Daryl ignores the fact that the other outbuildings on the property have been a barn full of walkers and a slaughter shed with a dangerous criminal in it. It's not like the stable is a guaranteed safe place. But then, it's not like anywhere is a guaranteed safe place anymore.

"Thought you two weren't s'posed to go off alone." It's one of Carol's rules, he thinks - Lord knows Lori can't seem to keep track of Carl, even though that hat should make him visible for miles. But now Carol's got Sophia back, she's hardly gonna let her get lost again.

Sophia bites her lip. "Well, yeah, but - I'm not alone. You're here."

Probably it's just trying to keep herself outta trouble, but Daryl won't pretend something doesn't ease in his gut with her words.

Sophia jams the doll - shit that thing is worse for wear - under her crutch arm and takes the apple slice from him, holding it between her two fingers.

"Naw, don't - like this," Daryl says, demonstrating with a slice of his own flat in his palm. The greedy thing chomps down with glee on the apple like she's been starving for years, like he didn't feed her a whole damn apple already. "Just gotta keep your fingers outta the way - she wants that apple way more than she wants them."

"What's her name?"

Fuck if Daryl knows. He's been calling her 'monster' and 'devil-thing' since he got out here. "Uh -" He tries to remember what Hershel said, back when they'd first gotten back. "Nell, I think."

"Hi Nell," Sophia says in a whisper. Daryl drops another piece of apple in her hand and watches as Sophia's whole face lights up. "Yeah. Nell. That's you. Hi." She lets out a little giggle as Nell (who he guess he shouldn't call the spawn of Satan anymore) swipes over Sophia's hand with her tongue. "It tickles."

"Kinda," Daryl says, because while it's true, he's not sure he's ever admitted to being ticklish in his life. "Y'ever ride one before?"

Sophia shakes her head, her eyes still rapturously fixed on the horse. "Never even seen one up for real. I mean, up close. This girl in my class, in second grade, Claire Allen, she had her birthday party at a horse farm and everyone got to ride ponies, but I -" Something flickers behind the girl's eyes. "I was sick so I couldn't go."

Sick. Right. His pa probably wouldn't have let Daryl go to any birthday parties either, but Daryl'd never been invited to any, so it was kind of a moot point. The thought makes Daryl feel a little sick, and he finds himself scowling as he holds out the last slice of apple.

"Maybe they'll letcha ride one sometime. Not this one -" Daryl shoots a glare at Nell, who is pretending to be sweet and gentle and not the horse that fucking threw him and almost got him killed. "But maybe one of the others. Bet that uh, Maggie -" That was the horse girl's name, right? "Bet she could teach you."

Daryl feels a stab in his side, like where the arrow stuck him. The Morales kid. He'd almost forgotten.

"What about you? You sad?"

Sophia shrugs again. "I don't know. I mean - I guess I'm sad and sort of scared because - because we don't know what happened to Eliza. Or Juan and Miranda. And it just makes me think of like - scary stuff."

Whatever. It didn't happen that way, so it isn't worth thinking about. She's here, she's alive, that's all there is to think about.

"Well, if Carl's busy and you wanna come out here again, you say somethin'. I can come," Daryl says, vaguely shocked at himself as he says it. Like he wants to spend his days playing ponies with a twelve-year-old. "Y'shouldn't be goin' off by yourself. Your ma said."

Daryl's hackles raise a little. What is this - some kind of scolding? Like Daryl's not pulling his weight around camp, not bringing back enough food? He grunts a yes, slings his bow over his shoulder, checks his knife.

"Mind if I join you?"

Daryl stares at Rick. "What - huntin'?" Daryl asks, the skepticism clear in his voice. He's never seen Grimes shoot at anything that wasn't already dead.

"If that's all right," Rick says. He looks almost respectful - like if Daryl told him to fuck off, he'd do it. It makes Daryl scowl, check his bow again for lack of anything better to do.

"Better not scare off my game," Daryl spits, and he takes off for the woods without checking to see if Rick is following him.

Rick nods back. "Yeah," Rick says. "I'm going to tell them at breakfast. Dale won't - well, he's making some rounds. Trying to find some other way." Rick scrubs a hand through his hair. "If there was another way, I'd -"

"There ain't," Daryl says. Because there isn't. It's not like Daryl wants to commit murder - he remembers the feeling of the arrow puncturing Max's throat, the squelch pulling it out, the way Greg's head exploded, so different than a walker, red and still warm - but he'll make a hundred Randall's dead if it keeps all his people alive.

But what?

But Rick doesn't say anymore. Maybe he doesn't have the words to say it. Instead, he just claps Daryl on the shoulder, a rough, brisk squeeze. The kind of thing that normally makes Daryl flinch or spit or hit back. But maybe he's still surprised from the turn the conversation took, because he doesn't do any of those things. He just feels it happen and before he can react, feels it end.

"Naw," Daryl says automatically. Dinner is more than enough meal time with the group. But then he hesitates, darts a quick look at Rick. Rick, who still looks lonely and old. "Mean - well. Guess I might as well."

Rick looks surprised again, something grateful flashing over his face, making it look a little less worn.

"Mean - caught that shit, might as well eat some of it," Daryl mumbles, and Rick nods.

(If that's true, Daryl's world's been ending pretty much as long as he's been alive.)

So maybe that's why he's the only one who sees what happens at the slaughter shed.

He's expecting Shane with a gun to the Randall's face, maybe even the kid already sprawled out dead.

He's not expecting Shane busting out of the slaughter shed, left hand wrapped around Carl's scrawny arm.

He's not sure of anything other than grabbing Sophia's arm and yanking her away from Shane, so hard he wonders if he hurt her doing it, like Shane was.

"Daryl? The hell, man -"

"Big fuckin' man, huh," Daryl snarls as he shoves at Shane's chest. He'd go for Carl's arm but Shane had let that go the second Daryl got involved. "Pickin' on a little girl, what gives you -"

"Hey man I caught these two -"

"Don't matter what you fuckin' caught them doin', they ain't yours to deal with," Daryl says, shoving at Shane's chest again, so hard Shane almost falls over.

"I've known Carl since he was born, man, I'm practically -"

"You ain't his daddy," Daryl growls, "Or hers neither. You got a problem, you get Carol, or Rick or Lori, you don't got no right puttin' hands on -"

Shane lets out a growl of his own and shoves at Daryl. "How's this your problem, huh? They ain't your kids either. I want to try and stop that boy from getting himself killed -"

"Shane," Andrea is saying from near the shed, where she's struggling to pull the huge doors shut, "Shane, enough."

"Carl could've died," Shane bites out, but he takes a step away from Daryl. From the corner of his eye Daryl sees Carl flinch - like Shane's anger and disappointment is worse than whatever Shane was just doing with his hands. "Sophia could've died. These two gotta learn it's dangerous to just -"

"C'mon," Daryl says abruptly, pulling away from Shane and going over towards Sophia. "Let's find your ma." He reaches out a hand for her. It only occurs to him as he's reaching that he might have hurt her, pulling her away from Shane like that. That he probably scared her, cussing and shoving and about to deck Shane. She'd probably rather stay with Andrea.

But before he can pull his hand back, Sophia's reaching out. Her hand slips into his and she's pulling away from Andrea, readjusting the crutch under her arm.

"Well - c'mon then," Daryl mumbles, and the two of them set off. He can hear Carl and Shane talking behind him, and he almost turns back - he shouldn't leave Carl there either, probably. Shane's not safe, hasn't been safe for a long time. But Andrea is there and no matter what kinda feelings she's got about Shane, she wouldn't let him hurt a kid. She'd blast him between the eyes if he tried. She looks out for the group - no matter how she looks at Shane, she'll look out for the group first, for the groups smallest members.

"Just - thought it'd be good to uh - collect ourselves," Daryl mumbles. He's not sure he's ever said the words 'collect ourselves' in his life. He's not even sure where he's heard it before. "Then go find your ma."

Sophia nods and lowers herself down. She doesn't need help but Daryl spots her anyway. Just in case.

"I'm - it wasn't my idea. I wasn't - Carl was - I was scared he'd - so I went to try and get him to come back and - I wasn't gonna talk to him but then Carl - I mean it wasn't Carl's fault, I knew we weren't supposed to go in, I shouldn't have, I just didn't - I - I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I -"

"Girl," Daryl says, because he's got to get her to slow down somehow before she starts hyperventilating or something, "Y'ain't in trouble or nothin'. Ain't done shit to be sorry for."

"I - I knew we weren't supposed to go in the shed, my mom -"

"Yeah, well, shit happens," Daryl says. He rubs at his mouth with the back of his hand, scratches his neck. "Y'ain't done nothin' wrong. I'll explain it to your ma. Won't letcha get in trouble with nobody. Promise."

It's the wrong thing to say. It's the wrong thing to say because all of a sudden Sophia is crying. Not just the little sniffles from that first night after he found her, or the tiny whimpers that sneak out of her in sleep. She's doing real crying, hiccuping sobs and tears going down her cheeks, her whole body heaving, and Daryl doesn't know what the fuck he said to set her off but he could just about drown himself in the goddamn pond for saying it.

"No, don't - s'a'right, you - don't cry," Daryl says desperately, his hand hovering near her shoulder. You're meant to comfort people who are crying, Daryl knows that, especially little girls, but he's never done it before. He's never even had it done to him, that he can remember - the closest he got to comfort when he was crying was Merle calling him a pussy in a nice voice and circling an arm around his neck in a friendly kind of headlock. Sophia looks like if Daryl tried to give her any kinda headlock she'd break.

"I - I was - thought he was - you came," Sophia gasps out, and she takes the decision of what to do out of his hands because all of a sudden she's crying into his shirt, almost curled into his side like she does with her mama sometimes, and Daryl is frozen. He doesn't know what to say, where to put his hands. He can feel her tears or snot or something soaking into his shirt and he almost doesn't dare breathe in case he scares her more.

"Y'ain't gotta cry," Daryl just says again helplessly. "I - I'll go get your ma. She'll - "

But Sophia's hands clench in his shirt, and Daryl guesses that's clear enough. So he stays.

"I - he got my arm and I - I thought he was -"

Fuck. Daryl tries to tamp down on the anger that's filling up his chest, scalding its way up his throat. Fucking Shane. Fucking Ed. Fucking -

"Sorry," Sophia says a little later. She's stopped crying and pulled away from him, the first faint tinges of embarrassment pinking her cheeks as she sees the wet splotch on Daryl's shirt. "I didn't -"

"Y'ain't gotta be sorry," Daryl says gruffly. "Ain't like it was nice 'fore that. Should be apologizin' to you. If I knew it'd be doin' tissue duty, I'da worn somethin' cleaner."

There's a wet, snuffly breath that could be a giggle from his side as Sophia wipes at her face with one sleeve.

"What are they called again?"

Daryl looks at her, a little surprised. "Cherokee roses. Y'don't know them?"

Sophia shakes her head and Daryl squints at her. "What they teachin' you in school? It's the state flower of Georgia."

"There's a story behind 'em," Daryl says instead as the two start off. "Wanna hear it?"

He tries not to let himself get too puffed up at the look on Sophia's face when she says yes.

"Go find your ma," Daryl says, and he feels the fingers tighten.

"You sure you're all right?" Dale says, and Sophia nods, jerkily but emphatically. Dale then seems to realize he has no idea what he's talking about, because he gives Sophia a smile - something small and gentle, something that reminds Daryl suddenly that Dale had spent all those weeks at the quarry seeing Sophia, talking to her, when Daryl and Merle had never given anyone else the time of day.

Sophia looks up at Daryl like she's asking him if it's a good idea, and Daryl genuinely doesn't know what kind of conversation this is going to be. But whatever it is, she doesn't need to hear it, so Daryl nods.

"Yeah," Daryl says. "G'wan. I'll be there in a minute. Here." He holds out the flowers to her. "Go bring 'er these."

Sophia takes them and gives Daryl a small smile before heading off with her crutch.

"I din't do shit to that girl," Daryl says quickly, feeling his fists clench, his shoulders pull in, the anger he'd barely tamped down from early crackling up and down his limbs. "So fuck you for -"

"I don't think you did," Dale says. "I don't think you would. You're a good man."

Daryl squints at him. What?

"You are," Dale says again, his voice getting a little impassioned in a way that makes Daryl uncomfortable. "You, Rick - you're good people. You look out for those kids, I've seen you. You found Sophia. You care about what happens to her, to Carol. To the group. You're a decent man. So is Rick. Shane - he's different."

"What you know about it?" Daryl asks, fists unable to unclench. "Cause he scared them kids today? Cause killed Otis?"

Dale looks stunned at both these statements. "He - what'd he do to the kids? What'd he tell you about Otis?"

"He's not a good man," Dale says urgently. "He's been getting more and more -"

"Yeah, I got eyes," Daryl bites out. Because he's been watching forever. Why's it taken this long for Dale to figure it out?

Does Rick really not know? Lori, Andrea, all of them - have they really not seen it?

"But you - Rick? You're not like him. You're - "

"Man, you don't know what the hell I'm like," Daryl says roughly.

"I know you're not like Shane," Dale says, his throat tight. "That's who you think you are here?"

"Man, I beat that kid bloody when he was barely out from the anesthesia," Daryl snaps. "I killed them friends of his, back when I found Sophia. Hell, think we oughta kill him too. Jus' like Shane. Don't pretend I'm no different."

"You care about the group," Dale says again, more earnestly. "You did those things for safety. Shane - Shane does them for -" Dale doesn't even seem to know the words to use. "He doesn't do them for us. He does those things because he wants to. He wants to be in control and he knows the only way he can do it is through - violence. Through fear. You, Rick - you don't lead that way."

Daryl spits. "Man, I ain't no leader. Don't -"

"Carol would follow you to the ends of the earth," Dale says bluntly. "Sophia too. Rick trusts you. Who did he have at his side today? Who did he look to when he needed someone to listen?"

"You want to kill Randall for the right reasons," Dale says quietly. "You want to protect the group. The women, the kids. Rick too. But this - there's got to be another way. A better way. Because this?" Dale makes a gesture with his hands that somehow seems to wrap "Executing him? That's no protection. It only makes us less safe."

And with that, Dale spins on his heel and walks away, the sunlight landing on his old geezer hat almost like a halo.

"Been hurt worse," Daryl grunts. He eyes Carl, frowns. "That why you messin' in the shed before? Wanna punch that guy?"

Carl kicks one boot into the dirt, shrugs. "I don't know."

"Man, he ain't your problem," Daryl mutters, eyes going down to the bolt, to his work. "Leave that stuff to your old man."

"He's gonna kill him," Carl says swiftly, and Daryl looks over at the kid, unsure all of a sudden. Was that information secret? Daryl hadn't thought so, the way Rick'd announced it at breakfast. But Carl's saying it now like it's some big discovery. And maybe also Dale's words are marching around in his head.Executing him? That's no protection. It only makes us less safe.

"Ain't your problem," Daryl grunts. "Don't go messin' 'round there anymore. Let your pop handle it."

"And Shane," Carl pipes up, which makes Daryl look up from his work and really examine the kid. The kid seems different than the other day - edgy, almost antsy. "How come you were so mean to him before?"

Daryl squints at Carl. It's such a childish phrase - mean - and all of a sudden Carl looks about six, that hat flopping over his face, his kid-sized boots poking out of his jeans, the way he's still favoring that one side of his where he was shot.

"Shouldn't'a put hands on y'all like that," Daryl says.

"He wasn't gonna hurt us," Carl huffs out. "He was just worried. Because Randall's dangerous -"

"Lotta things're dangerous," Daryl says, and he's not sure if Carl's picking up what he isn't saying - that maybe Shane, too, is dangerous - or if Carl's just been waiting for the right time to explode, but something about that hits Carl wrong and all of a sudden he's yelling at Daryl, little fists clenched, face red under the brim of that hat.

"I can take care of myself! You guys all think I'm some stupid baby, but I'm not! I don't need everybody trying to look out for me, I can look out for myself -"

"Yeah," Daryl says, looking at how Carl's got one hand curled protectively around his wounded side, "Y'done a real good job at that." Daryl's never been good when people yell at him - no matter who it is, it always makes him want to yell back. But Carl's a kid, and when he yells Daryl can't tell if he's mad or if he's just going to burst into tears, so Daryl just scowls and snarks and tries to keep his own temper in check. He's a kid, he's a kid, he's a kid -

"I have!" Carl shrills at him. "I - I'm here, aren't I? I'm here and I didn't - didn't get bit like Jim or Amy or get blown up like Jacqui or get turned around in the woods like an idiot like Sophia -"

"Hey, watch it," Daryl growls, because the kid can yell at him all he wants but Sophia hasn't done anything but be kind to Carl. But Carl doesn't watch it. Carl isn't even listening anymore. He's just yelling.

"I got shot," Carl continues, his face still all red. "I'm not some stupid kid, people think I can't understand - that guy is bad, right? He wanted to kill us, so why is everyone acting like it's wrong to want to kill him? I get it, and people keep saying I can't like I'm -"

"Man, you don't get it," Daryl breaks in. But that just makes Carl Grimes madder.

"I do too! I do and you guys - "

"Ain't none of us want to kill him," Daryl says forcefully. Because it's true, all of a sudden. Wanting to be safe and wanting to hang a nineteen-year-old, watch him cry and twist and shit himself, having to shoot him in the head and watch his brains spatter all over, those are two different things. No one is looking forward to what's going to happen tonight.

"S'a difference between wantin' somethin' and needin' it," Daryl continues. It's a lesson he's known since he was smaller than Carl, but the mention of it just makes Carl's face screw up again and the kid honest to go stamps his foot. Which normally would piss Daryl off but he just feels that weird tug in his gut again.

"I know that! I'm not a - a - fucking baby!" Carl says the word fucking like it's some foreign language and he's not sure of the right pronunciation. The second he says it, he spins on one foot and stomps away, a move so childish it almost makes Daryl laugh, until he hears Rick Grimes come up behind him.

"Did he just swear at you?"

For a second Daryl thinks the anger in Rick's tone is at Daryl - it's not like Daryl's been careful with the cussing, and he's sure Carl and Sophia and hell, even Hershel's youngest, have learned some choice shit from him since all this went down. He's about to defend himself - he could count the times he's spoken to Carl on one hand, it's not like he was teaching him swearing on purpose - but then he realizes Rick isn't even looking at Daryl. He's looking at Carl, who has stomped over to the barnyard and is kicking spent shell casings around like he's pretending they're Daryl's head.

"I - whatever," Daryl grunts. "Ain't no thing."

"He shouldn't be disrespecting you like that," Rick says, eyes still looking at Carl, a little frown on his face.

The fuck?

"I - ain't nothin', I said," Daryl mumbles. Lori is there too, he realizes, and she looks mortified - at what? At Rick telling Daryl he should be respected?

"I'm so sorry, Daryl," Lori says. "I have no idea what's gotten into him. Rick will go talk to him, he'll -"

"Naw," Daryl says quickly. Because Carl Grimes isn't scared of Rick, that much is clear, Carl seems to think the idea of a grown-up hurting him is ridiculous, but still - "Naw, ain't - s'fine. Don' worry about it."

Rick is suddenly looking at him with the same sharp eyes - cop eyes. Daryl doesn't like it. Doesn't like any of this shit. Feels his fists clench up, cracks his knuckles. Scowls. Whatever Rick's looking for, maybe he sees it, because he just nods, once. Slowly.

"Well. If that's what you want."

"Rick!" Lori exclaims, but then Rick turns the eyes on her and she quiets down. Looks at Daryl, then back at Rick. She nods too, once, jerkily, and Rick turns back to Daryl.

"Could use your help with something, actually," Rick says. "In the barn."

And Daryl, lord help him - he goes and talks fucking knots and humanity with Rick Grimes.

"Take him away."

For a second Daryl thinks Rick means Carl, is about to object - he shouldn't send Carl off with Shane when Shane's already so - when he realizes that actually, Rick means Randall.

He wonders why Carl is there, his own shrill weeping almost louder than Dale's, and he wonders where Sophia is, if Carol kept her back or if she's there too, watching Dale writhe and whimper and scream as his life unravels in front of them.

He watches Rick level the gun and he hears Dale's words in his head - not the breathless, pained sounds coming from him now but the ones from earlier. A decent man. Like Rick. He wonders if it's because Rick is the decent man that he gets stuck with all the shit - sees, like he's watching from the window again, Rick step forward, raise his gun that same way and put a bullet in Louis Morales head - into the body of a boy no bigger than his own son. He sees Shane, urging Rick on - urging Rick on like it's something only Rick can do, like Shane doesn't have a gun of his own, like nobody has a knife.

And then Daryl has the gun.

A decent man, Dale's eyes say.

"You all right?"

Daryl grunts. Ain't like he's got something to say to that either.

"Sophia told me what you did. Earlier."

Daryl's stomach is cold and tight. Shit. Girl'd gotten spooked after seeing what he'd done to Randall and all he'd really done was slug the kid a few times. If she saw him shoot Dale, she's never going to understand, she's -

"She - I mean she told me about earlier with Shane. And the shed."

It feels like an entire lifetime ago.

"Didn't do nothin' special," Daryl grunts. He sneaks a look at her.She isn't looking at him. She's got her arms crossed over her chest. Head tilted back, looking at the stars.

"Getting in between her and somebody bigger than her is plenty special," Carol says, and there's a twist of something hard to her voice. Her fingers are gripping at her arms tight, pinching into her skin. Daryl's not sure what the tone is for. Is Carol mad? At Sophia? For being in the shed in the first place? He's preparing to defend her - sure it'd been stupid but kids were stupid, and frankly, Carl Grimes is stupider than most kids - when Carol speaks again.

"She told me she was hoping you'd come." Oh. Daryl doesn't know what to do with that statement, or the weird feeling that curls through his stomach when he hears it. "She said she - when Shane grabbed her she remembered what you said, how you wouldn't let anybody touch her, and she thought - "

Oh. Oh.

"Knows you'd come too," Daryl mumbles, picking at the skin of his thumb with his teeth. The familiar gesture when he doesn't know what to say - like a hand in front of his mouth will obscure whatever dumb words come out of it. "You're her mama, she knows you'd do -"

"She doesn't," Carol says. Her tone is simple and brutal, like what she's saying is some fact everyone knows. "I've never - I tried, with Ed, but even when I got between them that wasn't - "

Yeah. Sometimes, under the couch, he'd wondered which was worse - taking it himself or listening to Merle take it for him. (A question that even all the years alone with his dad, after Merle had left, had never really answered.)

He can see how to Sophia, hoping for Carol to come wouldn't necessarily feel like a rescue.

"Ain't 'cause she didn't want you," Daryl mutters, his fingers picking at the rough, fraying knee of his jeans. "Jus' - don't want you to get hurt, is all. She don't have to worry about me."

Carol looks at him then - a look of too much familiarity, and Daryl is reminded that she saw his back and stiffens.

"Jus' sayin' - " Daryl doesn't know what he's saying. He hasn't thought about his own childhood so much since he was a kid - had thought that those years were locked up in some box in his head. It was all in the past, now. Wasn't anything anyone could do about it. His dad was dead, Uncle Jess too - there wasn't even anybody to confront, anybody to blame. Merle had never known how bad it had gotten for Daryl when he'd left and Daryl'd planned on keeping it that way. So why now, when the problems ahead are so much wilder and weirder than any problem he'd ever had, is he stuck thinking about shit that doesn't matter anymore? That doesn't mean anything, that is just something that happened, something that is over?

"I'm her mother," Carol whispers. "It's my job to protect her."

"You are."

There's a sound next to him, some cross between a snort and a sob, and Daryl very carefully doesn't look at Carol. He couldn't figure out how to help Sophia earlier and that was just a kid. Having to try and comfort a grown-ass woman would be ten times worse. He runs instead through the constellations he can see - Cassiopeia. Ursa Minor. Maybe Orion, off to the southwest.

"If I -"

"That's your little girl," Daryl cuts her off. "You said, right? Ain't gonna let nothin' happen to her, not anymore."

"Not anymore," Carol repeats, that same bitter twist to her words.

"New start and shit. That's what you said," Daryl continues. He bites at the side of his thumb again. "Ain't like - hell. Y'think she don't know she can trust you? Fought tooth and nail to get back to you. First one she goes to for anythin' is you. Trusts the hell outta you. Knows you'd do anything for her."

"Before -"

"It ain't before," Daryl says roughly. Because it's not. It's not before Ed died, not before the quarry and the dead started walking, not before Merle cut off his hand or joined the army or before Daryl's mama burned herself up. They're living in the after and that just means they have to figure out what they need to do and just do it. Keep themselves going one day at a time.

"Y'want it to be different now? Make it different," Daryl says, pulling his thumb from his mouth and picking at the ragged skin with his fingers. "S'all you can do. Ain't no point thinkin' backward."

Yeah. Really no point.

Carol is looking at him - Daryl can feel her eyes, even in the dark, and he shifts uncomfortably, his bow jerking on his lap. But she's not saying anything and Daryl doesn't know what that means - is she mad at him, for getting up in her shit?

"Mommy?"

Daryl does jump then. Sure, Carol's been pretty quiet climbing up, but he hadn't even heard the kid step foot on the ladder. Sneaky. (Part of Daryl's head is thinking how useful that kind of light tread could be in the woods.) Sophia's got a blanket draped over her shoulders like a cape, that doll tucked into the side of her pajamas, probably so she could use both her hands to climb. The pajamas are some kind of matching pattern that Daryl can't quite see in the dark, and this feels like some kind of bizarre proof - what kind of mama makes sure her kid has matching pjs at the end of the world?

"Baby, what are you doing up? It's late," Carol says, and whatever hardness or bitterness had been in her voice is gone.

"I woke up and you weren't there and I heard this weird noise -"

For a second Daryl thinks the weird noise is Andrea, curled up miserable and mourning in the driver's seat.

"I thought it was a walker but it was just Mr. T-Dog snoring, but then I couldn't find you so I thought -"

"You shouldn't go outside by yourself. After what happened to Dale, we all have to be careful." The tone is barely scolding. Daryl wonders if Carol's going to leave, make the kid go back to bed, but instead of getting up she's just scootching over, making room, and Sophia shuffles over next to her and sits. Carol leans over, wraps the blanket more securely around the kid. It's a kind of action that Carol doesn't even seem to need to think about, a type of care that is automatic, natural.

How can Carol not get that she's doing all she can for this girl?

"Sorry," Sophia whispers sleepily. Daryl sees her head plonk against Carol's shoulder like her mom is a pillow. "What're you guys doing?"

"Your ma's helpin' me keep watch," Daryl says. Carol is looking at him over Sophia's head.

"S'cold," Sophia mumbles, her body burrowing closer to Carol.

"We should go back to bed then," Carol says softly, but Sophia just snuggles in deeper.

"Mr. T-Dog is too loud, I can't sleep. And - and Andrea sounds - really sad."

Yeah. She does.

He sees Carol's fingers, ghost pale in the night, stroke over Sophia's hair once. Twice. "We'll give them a few minutes to settle and then we'll go back down. Okay, baby?"

"Mhm," Sophia says. "There's a lot of stars."

"Yeah," Carol says softly. "Better than Fernbank, huh?"

"Yeah," Sophia says. She blinks, slowly. "Did you ever go to Fernbank?"

It takes Daryl a second to realize she's talking to him, and another second to realize he has no idea what she's talking about.

"Nuh-uh," Daryl grunts, eyes scanning the horizon again for walkers.

"We went on a field trip for school one time. Mommy was the class parent so she got to come too. They had - had a star show in the planetarium and -" Sophia yawns then, a yawn so big he's surprised her jaw doesn't crack. "And an Apollo module and fake mission control and - lots of space stuff."

Carol is just stroking her kid's head, her eyes so full of love that Daryl's surprised it doesn't light up in the dark. He's struck again - Sophia's a fucking smart kid. Space stuff, books. He feels a pang at all the shit she'll never get to learn or see, stuff Daryl'd spent his whole life not even thinking about. He'd wasted years she'll never have and it sucks.

Sophia shakes her head softly, snuggling closer to her mom. "Nuh-uh."

"See that there? Kinda a zigzag? S'Cassiopeia. Can use her to find Polaris - the north star, y'know."

"Her?"

"Named after one a them Greek queens. Pissed off a god, got her kingdom attacked by sea monsters." He darts a look at Carol - maybe monster stories aren't great right before bed. Specially when they all get attacked by monsters pretty much on the regular.

"She trusts you too."

It's later - Sophia has long since collapsed into a puddle, the blanket tucked around her, Daryl's jacket covering her feet while her head is pillowed in Carol's lap. The sky is getting lighter - the stars starting to fade. Almost morning.

They made it through one more night.

"She trusts you."

"She don't gotta," Daryl says. He looks away from Carol - to the distant trees, the wide-open land of Hershel's farm. He thinks he might be able to see, over by the pasture, a part of the fence torn down - maybe where the walker that got Dale came in from.

"She knows that. She's chosen to."

Dumb ass choice, Daryl thinks. Since he's spent most of the time dragging the kid around on a sprained ankle, freaking her out and punching shit.

As if she can hear him, Carol says, "She chose to because you've earned it. What you've done for her -"

"Ain't done nothin' the others wouldn't do," Daryl says.

"You didn't leave her."

Daryl looks at Carol, surprised. Remembers that first day Sophia was missing, coming back without her, the confrontation on the side of the road. Carol saying to Rick, How could you just leave her out there to begin with? Rick flinching as each word cut him.

"You didn't leave her, and it would have been easier. But you didn't. You didn't have to tell her stories about flowers or stars, you didn't have to get involved when Shane - "

"Wasn't gonna let him -"

"And you didn't have to do any of this with Randall," Carol continues, her voice low and soft, her hand tracing over Sophia's hair. "It'd be a lot easier to do nothing. You didn't have to do any of those things, and most people here wouldn't. Most of them haven't." Carol's eyes are blue and fixed on him. "You have. She trusts you. And so do I."

Daryl wants someone else to interrupt - to climb up the ladder, wants the driver door beneath him to swing open, or Hershel to step out on his porch with a cup of coffee, for all it's still too early for any of these things. Half wants Sophia to wake up, even - just anything to mean that Carol will stop looking at him, stop saying things that don't make sense, things he doesn't know how to refute or argue against because he's never been good with words.

But no one comes. It's just the two of them and Sophia, sleeping soundly between them.

Finally, he just spits off the side of the RV. Carol seems to take that for something. She gives him a smile, small, almost impish.

"Watch it," Daryl grumbles, squinting at her ankle. "Best not bust yourself up again right when y'get cleared."

"Kay," Sophia says, stopping hopping.

Daryl opens his mouth - settle in where? This place is a fucking madhouse and hell if he knows where they're shoving him - when Sophia's hand, small and warm, finds its way to his sleeve.

"This way!" she says, a corresponding tug to his jacket, and it's not like Daryl's got any better idea.

Sophia and Carol have been assigned the room where Daryl'd done his recuperating. Carol's arranging their bags and boxes on the floor. Daryl notices she's not fully unpacking most of them, which makes him give her a grudging nod of approval. Smart.

"Here, sweetheart, want to make up the bed?" Carol says, and suddenly Sophia's got an armload of blankets dumped on her.

"She's excited," Carol says fondly as Sophia starts spreading out blankets - most of them look like handmade quilts, and he wonders if they're Hershel's quilts or if Carol made 'em, brought them from home. "She's never been to a sleepover before. Think she thinks it's going to be all ghost stories and midnight feasts now that we're all under one roof."

"Daryl! Did you hear? Lori says -"

"Yeah, 'm comin'!" Daryl calls back, thundering down the stairs, pushing whatever the fuck it is that just happened away. They probably didn't mean it like that. Just meant he could go - read there sometimes (or listen to Sophia read) or hideout if he needed a little quiet. They didn't mean to set up in there, like some kind of family unit, like the Grimes apartment they're setting up in Hershel's room. They didn't mean it like that.

"Rick's out on the porch and he's askin' -"

"Said 'm comin'!" Daryl snaps at Hershel's skinny farmhand, and he slams the screen door behind him as he gets out.

Rick's got a map out on the porch, a little frown etched between his eyes as he squints at it, traces a route to his thumb.

"Take him out to Senoia - hour there, hour back, give or take. We may lose the light, but we'll be halfway home by then." Rick looks at him and Daryl just shrugs. Takes a step, nods.

"That thing you did last night," Rick says suddenly, and Daryl feels himself scowl, his fingers picking at the seam of his jeans. What - Rick gonna give him crap for shooting Dale? When everyone had known Dale needed shooting, when Rick had been about to do it himself?

But then he sneaks a glance at Rick's face and oh. Daryl knows that look, sort of. It's the same look Rick had when Daryl had pulled Sophia out from behind his back, a look of total gratitude, a kind of feeling beyond words. Daryl doesn't know if he's ever seen anything like it before. Certainly not aimed at him. Sees Rick take in a breath, like he's really going to say something, speak this shit into the air and Daryl doesn't know how to take it, so he finds himself talking instead.

"So are you good with all this?"

Daryl squints. Looks back towards the car, Shane, his bald and bruised head shining in the light.

"Man, this ain't gonna work," T-Dog whines, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. "We should camp down in the living room. Hershel's already in there, might as well - "

"The couch is mine!" Hershel calls from the kitchen, and Glenn cracks a grin.

"Let him have a single, it's his house. Daryl, man, come give us a hand - we're trying to -"

"Gotta take a piss," Daryl says, darting past them. He finds his way to the bathroom upstairs, double checks there's nobody in there, closes the door. Lets himself have the moment, the peace and quiet, the sounds muffled by the heavy door.

Someone bangs on the door. "Beth! Come on, you can't take so long in there anymore, I have to go!" someone whines from the other side of the door.

"Ain't Beth," Daryl snarls back, and the banging immediately ceases. He takes his time washing his hands, then slips out - Hershel's gangly farm boy is hovering awkwardly down at the other end of the hallway, avoiding Daryl's gaze as Daryl makes his way back downstairs. Glenn is tugging at the table, baseball hat askew with the effort, T-Dog slumped over one of the dining chairs.

"Carl's gone too - " Lori is right behind her, and for all he gives Lori shit for being a bad mama, she looks as if she's about to keel over right there. "They were upstairs, they were reading, and I can't find him anymore -"

He remembers Sophia's face down by the pond, pinched and stammering. It wasn't my idea. I wasn't - Carl was - I was scared he'd - so I went to try and get him to come back -

"Maybe they're hiding - " Glenn offers weakly. "Playing, maybe they're -"

"Sophia wouldn't do that!" Carol snaps, her voice suddenly turned from fear to fire. "She wouldn't - I'm not leaving without her! I'm not, never -"

"We won't," Lori says, her voice ragged. "We're not going, not without Carl, not -"

"We'll look again," someone says. It takes Daryl a moment to realize it's him. "We'll find 'em." Carol's eyes, so huge, staring at him. "We'll find 'em! Y'all take the house, I'll go down to the shed, check there - we'll find 'em," he says once more, grabbing the gun someone is hanging out, loading his pockets with ammo. "I'll take the bike, I'll - I'll find 'em," Daryl says once more, and he doesn't know what the others are doing because all he can see is Carol, Carol straight ahead of him, her and Lori clutching hands with each other like they're scared if they let go then they'll be lost too.

"Carl!" he hollers, and he waits. You gotta wait after you yell or you'll yell right over the person you're calling. But all he can hear is the almost rhythmic banging of the gunfire, engines accelerating and de-accelerating, the grind and screech of wheels on dirt and grass slick with dew, the low, ever-present groaning that feels like it's coming from all directions. "Sophia!"

Nothing. He can barely hear over the wind tearing past his ears. He slows the bike down, calls again, squints into the darkness. "Sophia!"

The barn is untouched by fire but Daryl can hear the horses freaking out inside. Maybe from the smell of the smoke, or the reek of the walkers, the gunfire. Daryl can hear kicking from inside, wood splintering, and the damn things might as well be ringing the damn dinner bell, the ruckus they're raising. Daryl parks the bike, leaves it idling.

"Sophia!" he yells and waits. He thinks he hears something - some little, human voice, some words - but it's hard to tell over the screaming of the horses. Daryl scans the outside of the building - there's a little hayloft up there, something, no outside ladder or whatever, which means he's gotta go inside.

"Daryl?"

His heart almost stops as a little head, blonde hair tangled, face smudged with dirt, peers over the top of the stable loft.

"C'mon," Daryl says, hunting for the ladder. "Git down, we gotta go, I gotcha - "

"I - I couldn't get back," Sophia says, her chin wobbling like now that Daryl's here she's safe, she can be scared. But they aren't safe yet and there's no time for fear or tears so Daryl just makes an impatient movement with his hands, holds them out.

"No no, I can run, I can - "

"Bike's out front," Daryl grunts, grabbing her arm, tugging her towards the front door. He stops, listens for a second - the walkers don't sound louder here, hopefully still distracted down by the other door. But it's hard to hear over the horses -

"M'gonna let 'em out," Daryl says. "When I say go, you slide open that main door there and tuck yourself back, a'right? Stay outta their path."

If there are walkers out there, hopefully a horse running past will be a good enough distraction to clear the door so the two of them can make it clear to the bike. And hell, Daryl hopes they run fast enough and far enough that they make it. Even if they don't, at least they'll die out there, making a run for it, instead of penned up and helpless, trapped -

"C'mon," Daryl barks out, grabbing the kid's arm again. "We gotta -"

"Where's my mom?"

Daryl doesn't know the answer. Daryl doesn't know what to do.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

"Y'a'right?" Daryl asks, eyes tracing over her. No rips or tears in her clothes at least, smears of dirt or dust but no obvious blood. "Y'ain't hurt nowhere, are you?"

"We have to go back," Sophia says, her voice choked and raw, and that's when Daryl realizes that the girl's spent the whole ride, probably at least an hour at this point, clinging to his back and crying. He hadn't noticed - he's wearing his vest and a jacket so whatever wet spot may be back there didn't make it to his skin. He feels his frown deepen - stupid. Left the kid back there suffering for all this time. Who knows what kind of state she's worked herself into?

"Can't yet," Daryl says shortly, and Sophia dissolves into a flood of tears. Shit. "We will," Daryl says, ignoring how stupid a promise it is. "Swear it, we'll go look for her. Just not yet. Ain't no good in the dark like this. Can't see shit."

"We can't leave her by herself," Sophia sobs, her face crumpled like paper. "She - she won't make it until morning, Daryl, please, she can't protect herself, please -"

"Hey," Daryl says, and he finds himself grabbing Sophia's shoulders, forcing the kid to stop, to look at him, to breathe. It's probably the wrong thing to do, get all up in her space when she's upset like this, but he doesn't know how else to make her listen. "Don't say that. Your ma's tough."

Sophia's face scrunches up more and he can feel her shoulders shaking under his hands. "She - she - isn't!" Sophia gasps. She sounds on the verge of hyperventilating, which makes Daryl's own breathing pick up. "Please, she needs us, she can't - Daryl please, please, I - I'll - I'll be good, I promise, I'll be so good, just please don't leave her -"

"Hey," Daryl says again, but the shaking of the kid's shoulders is just getting faster and faster, her breath almost heaving. He doesn't know how to stop it, how to calm her down, how to help, and shit he wants Carol. Carol would run one magic hand over Sophia's hair, press a kiss onto her forehead, make everything seem all right, make it all seem safe.

"Dunno 'bout that," Daryl shrugs. "Jury's out. But you did it. Right? And so can she. She'll do anythin' she needs to to get back t'you. She's gonna make it and that means we gotta make it too, so we can find her. Right?"

Sophia nods. Her hand wipes over her face again, scrubs at her eyes, and Daryl fishes in his pocket for his bandana. It's a little dusty but he shakes it out, hands it to her.

"Blow your nose," he says. "Not cause of - uh -" He gestures to her face, in case saying 'crying' upsets her. "But you're probably breathin' in lotta dust back there. Better get it out."

She wipes at her face, then blows obligingly. That seems to settle her a little more. She looks at him, no longer actively weeping, but still somber and scared and shaking. Well hell, that's fine. That's just smart, isn't it - it's a fucking shitty situation. But at least she doesn't seem like she's totally about to break down.

"Daryl, man - thank god you're all right, we didn't know if - oh shit, Sophia, -" Glenn is practically babbling, hands gripped around a gun that doesn't look like it's ever going to leave his side again.

"She's fine," Daryl says quietly, extra still. "Jus' sleepin'. Long night."

Glenn, a faint blush around his ears, nods. "Yeah. Yeah, cool."

"You want us to take her?" Maggie asks suddenly. She's looking at Sophia, slumped over the back of the bike - probably doesn't look too comfortable. "We - we have room, in the car -" Something painful crosses her face, like she's a survivor of a shipwreck noticing how much room there is in the lifeboat. "We can -"

"Hey," he mumbles, peeking over his shoulder. She blinks at him, disoriented, maybe still half asleep. Though she wakes up pretty quick when she notices where they are. Kid hasn't seen the highway since she got scared off it by that first herd. Her hands tighten instinctively around his belt, then loosen.

"Are - are we here?"

"Mhm," Daryl says. His hands go around to the buckle, start to undo it. "Don't get up too fast now - your legs're probably jelly after all that."

"Mommy - Mommy, I'm sorry, I -"

"Sophia - baby, shh, it's okay, I'm here, you're here, we're -"

"- scared you were -"

Notes:

Guys, you have no idea how close I came to Carol actually escaping with Andrea, meaning Daryl and Sophia didn't find her until season 3. But I couldn't do it!

I imagine one or two more chapters to finish this up.

"We should have gone back," Carol says, suddenly fierce. Now she's looking at Daryl, her eyes so blue. "Rick -"

"Rick ain't wrong," Daryl says slowly. He picks at the seam of his pants with one hand. "She ain't got no reason to stay close. We ain't - we wouldn't find her fast." If they found her at all. "We ain't got nowhere to settle up, launch a search." The words sound reasonable to his ears but he remembers Andrea on the porch again. You did good, Daryl. It feels wrong, leaving one of their own behind. "Ain't no point goin' back if it means losin' more of us."

"Right," Rick says. He puts the water down. Looks out, over the pitiful view the height of the wall gives them. He doesn't look at Daryl. "All quiet here?"

"Mhm," Daryl says. "No walkers or nothin'. Whatever we heard earlier, ran off quick." Daryl doesn't let himself think about what it might have been - a huge, fat possum, maybe a fox, a raccoon -

"Um - should - Carl can sit on my lap, if that'd be - I mean, just because you've like - already got a baby in there, so - if like, Carl would squish the baby, we can -"

"Glenn," Lori grits out, "Quit while you're ahead."

"Daddy's a man," Beth says, and Maggie gives her a withering glare that almost seems straight out of Merle's playbook - a sharp reminder that they're sisters. "What? I'm just saying - just because Daddy's old doesn't mean he's not -"

"I'm a man too," Carl pipes up, but Rick shuts that down with one look. Carl slumps back into the seat, his hat tipping low over his forehead so all you can see is his scowl.

"Don't know if it'll be enough to get us anywhere," T-Dog grumbles as they fill up another can. "Burned gas to get here, gonna burn more to get back - "

"Enough to get us to more gas, I guess," Daryl grunts. What other option is there?

"Good work," Daryl grunts, and he can see Carol over Sophia's head. Sophia is beaming at him, and even Carol looks softer. He can't tell if she's smiling at Daryl or at her fucking brainiac kid, but it doesn't matter because at least she's not biting his head off or whatever. "I take a wrong turn, you gimme a wallop, turn me the right way round."

"I will," Sophia says solemnly, and Carol's smile grows a little bit wider.

It makes Daryl almost want to fake going the wrong way, just so Sophia could correct him.

Almost.

"What're you doing?" Daryl asks back as he starts to reload the saddlebags. He likes packing, always has. Likes finding the best way for things to fit together, likes running down the list making sure he has what he needs. Like poor man's Tetris, he thinks as he tries to figure out how to fit all the cans in cushioned with socks to prevent rattling. He looks up at Sophia as he works. Her hands gripping her knees as she sits in front of him, content to watch. "Why ain't you with Carl?"

Sophia shrugs, but he can see her hands on her knees go tighter. "He's with his dad. He's -" Sophia shrugs again. "I don't know."

Sophia's face, already sad, suddenly looks miserable. She shrugs, arms winding tighter around her legs. "Um. I don't - I guess I lost her. Getting away from the farm."

Daryl can't remember if she had it when he found her in the stables. When had she lost it - when Daryl was pulling her onto the bike? When he practically dragged her off that porch? Had she had the fucking thing until he threw her over the back of the bike and fucking tore through the trees for a full night, swerving all over the place? She'd held on to the fucking thing for near a week lost in the woods.

"Catch," Daryl says roughly, and he chucks a packet of gum at her. She doesn't quite catch it, but she doesn't drop it either. She looks at it almost puzzled. It's one of the dumb kid-friendly ones that are meant to blow bubbles eight feet wide or some shit. Fruit punch flavored, which Daryl thinks sounds nasty but remembers liking as a kid.

"For if you get hungry," he says. "Pop a piece in, chew it for a long time. Tricks your body into thinkin' it's full. Or y'know. Fuller." He suddenly feels stupid. Kid lost her doll and he's given her - something to chew on? But it's the only thing he has.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

"What - how?"

"Upstairs," Daryl says. "S'kid's room, all kindsa sh - stuff. Saw it when I was lookin' around." He hears a squawk come from the living room - probably Glenn getting nailed in the face with a blanket or something. Daryl shoves the book out at Carol again. She still hasn't taken it, staring at it like she can't believe it's really there. "Prob'ly more y'all could use if you go up later, clothes or whatever, but I thought -" Here Daryl starts to doubt himself. Is it not the right book? Is it weird that he found it, that he remembered it? Does Carol think it's off, that he's paid so much attention to her kid? "It's - it's that book, right? That she likes. With the kid in the tree with the bow?"

"I'm going to start over from the beginning so I remember everything," Sophia is chattering in between spoonfuls. The food is savory and warm and doesn't taste as if it came from a can. It's maybe the best thing Daryl's ever tasted. "You should read it after me, Carl, you'd like it -"

"Maybe," Carl says doubtfully.

"Maybe if we stay here we can do a Reading Day," Sophia says, looking at her ma. But then she stiffens slightly, her eyes darting toward Rick, who doesn't seem to be paying any attention to her. "I mean - if there isn't other work to do or anything. Or -"

"I'll be surprised if you don't finish it tonight," Carol breaks in, a fondness in her tone. "Seems like I'll wake up and you'll be huddled by the fire, just trying to read one more page.

"Don't gotta," Daryl says immediately. "Ain't done nothin' to -"

"You've done enough," Carol says firmly. "You've done more than enough. If you think we'll be safer here than somewhere else - I trust you. I do."

Notes:

And that's that! I'm going to start posting part two - Tales from the Traveling Library - that chronicles their life on the road between Season 2 and Season 3, potentially with some more Carol/Sophia POV. Thanks everyone for reading and for all your comments!! Let me know if there's something in particular you're looking forward to in the next part!