How These Days Grow Long

by Never_Says_Die

Summary:

This work is COMPLETE!

Written in response to a prompt on The Walking Dead kink meme:

Rick & Co. are finding it increasingly difficult to deal with Daryl's outbursts, his racist remarks, and easily-ignitable temper. They are in fact, considering just cutting their losses and telling him he has to leave when they come across another group of survivors...one of whom is very, very special to Daryl.

AU in which Glenn and Daryl have been in a relationship for a few years before the ZA, and were separated when Atlanta was overrun. Each think the other is dead, and Glenn ended up with a different group of survivors while Daryl ended up in the quarry camp. Story also assumes Merle would've turned his back on Daryl for getting involved with Glenn, so they parted ways long ago.

Chapter 1

There was a brief moment, every morning, when he hovered between asleep and awake--

--when everything was okay. The world hadn't fucking ended, the dead weren't roaming' the streets--

--and he could pretend, just for a few moments, that the past month had been nothing but a terrible nightmare. Any moment, he would blink his eyes open and see--

--the walls of their cramped apartment, hung with that godawful yellow wallpaper. He hated that wallpaper, but the kid thought it was 'cheerful' or some shit. It didn't matter, really. The place was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter and too far away from the woods that he'd grown up in, but--

--it was perfect. Because it was theirs. Any moment, he would feel the mattress shift beneath him as Daryl reached over to smack the alarm just before it went off. Then Daryl would roll back and wrap his arms around his middle, leaning in close to--

--kiss the back of his neck. He loved the taste of Glenn's skin in the morning, sleep-warm and free of any artificial scent of soap or cologne. He'd lie like that for another few moments, just holding the kid close and reveling in the way they fit together, every--

--dip and hollow of their bodies slotting against each other like fitted puzzle pieces. He'd press back against his lover, maybe with intent, maybe just to feel the planes of whipcord-lean muscle a lifetime lived mostly outdoors had gifted Daryl with. Eventually, though, he'd wiggle out from under Daryl's arm and reluctantly leave the warm nest of blankets. He'd pad into their postage-stamp-sized bathroom while Daryl--

--headed into the only other room in the apartment, the combo kitchen/dining/living room, and stared distastefully at the plastic cereal bin full of whatever oatbran-whole wheat-extra fiber goddamn crunchy granola shit Glenn had bought that week. He'd get out two bowls and the skim milk, though, and then smirk as he put on an extra large pot of jet fuel-strength coffee. Glenn knew--

--when to pick his battles. He'd gotten Daryl to give up his customary plate of greasy bacon and fried eggs for breakfast...he knew better than to try and get between the man and his coffee. He'd shower quickly, and pull on his delivery uniform. They'd have time for a leisurely breakfast before they had to get to work and everything would still be sane.

--Safe.

--Normal.--

--There was a brief moment every morning, when he hovered between asleep and awake--

--when everything was okay. The world hadn't ended, the dead weren't roaming the streets--

--and he could pretend, just for a few moments, that the past month had been nothing but a terrible nightmare.--

--He could pretend that he'd open his eyes and find that he was back in his bed at home, with Daryl draped over his back, snoring softly. He could pretend he hadn't fought his way tooth and nail back to the street the garage Daryl worked at was on...only to find the whole place had been blocked off by National Guardsmen and Army soldiers. Hadn't seen them desperately throwing weapons and supplies into trucks, trying to fall back, deeper into the city. Hadn't been grabbed by a soldier barely older than he was--"kid, Jesus, get out of here...blockade at the hospital failed. There's no one alive that way!"--

--He could pretend he'd open his eyes and find he was back in his bed at home, Glenn curled in his arms where he belonged. He could pretend he'd had the sense to get right in his truck and go get Glenn when his boss had put the call out that the goddamn Army had barricaded the hospital up the block from the garage and everyone was to stay the hell home until whatever this was blew over. That he hadn't realized too late that something was seriously fucking wrong. That he'd tried to call Glenn before the phone lines got jammed up and all his cellphone was good for was telling him that--"all circuits are currently busy." He could pretend that he hadn't waited, waited, and waited for Glenn to come home, wearing a hole in their floor with his pacing--cause he wasn't an idiot. It was chaos out there, and he couldn't risk going out and missing Glenn.--

--He held onto that moment as long as he could, pressing his face into the blankets and wishing, God, wishing--

--that his arms weren't empty. That his heart--

--didn't break all over again every time he awoke on the narrow cot in the campground's banquet hall--

--when he woke up tangled in his sleeping bag in his old hunting tent.--

--That he wasn't--

--alone.--

Glenn groaned softly as he opened his eyes, already wincing in anticipation of the crick in his neck that sleeping on the cot in what had become the "men's dorm" side of the banquet hall always gave him. Beyond the blankets hung to act as dividers, he could hear other people stirring, as well as the clanking of pots and pans that meant breakfast would be ready soon. Mmmm, powdered eggs cooked over a propane-fired camp stove. He was pretty sure he'd sell his soul for a plate of waffles at this point.

At least he and Danny had managed to siphon nearly a full tank of diesel fuel out of the semi they'd come across on the highway the other day. Andrew, a former park ranger who'd worked at the campgrounds they'd taken over and who was therefore considered a defacto leader, had promised everyone they could turn on the generators for a whole hour that night. It wasn't much, but it would be enough to use the on-site laundry room to get honest-to-God clean clothes and blankets. Even more exciting, they'd be able to use the showers. Hot showers. Strictly timed hot showers, of course, with all the men crowded in at once and then all the women and children...but hot showers.

He tried to find things to be happy about. However small they were. He sighed softly, swinging his legs over the side of the cot to sit on the edge. He reached under it, pulling out a battered knapsack that contained everything he had left in the world. He dug out his last clean(ish) pair of underwear and his least-offensive jeans, before digging deeper, into the very bottom of the pack. He pulled out his old leather wallet, with its useless credit cards and a useless ten dollars still jammed into the pockets.

As well as the most important thing he had left.

He bit his lip as he flipped the wallet open to the little plastic sleeves in the center, the ones for photographs. Only one had a picture in it. It was bent and frayed at the edges, the quality rather poor since he'd printed it out from an email on regular paper. It was him and Daryl, at some backyard barbecue party one of his friends had thrown last year. Daryl hadn't wanted to go--Glenn had never made a big deal of it, but Daryl was several years older than the crowd Glenn ran with. It made him uncomfortable. Glenn's friends had wanted to meet his mysterious, roughneck "older man," though, and Daryl had rolled his eyes and put up with their staring.

The picture showed the two of them leaning against the railing on his friend's deck, beer bottles in their hands. One of Daryl's arms was wound around his waist, and the older man was leaning close to his ear, that crooked half-smile Glenn loved so much twisting his mouth. As Glenn recalled, Daryl had been whispering all the filthy things he was going to do to Glenn when they got home.

He smiled sadly as he brushed his finger over the image of Daryl's face. "Still here," he sighed softly. "I'm still going."

Then he got up to go see when the eggs would be ready.

* * *

Daryl woke up with the pre-dawn light, long used to rising with the sun. Even before the world had gone to shit, he'd never needed an alarm clock. Outside his tent, he could hear a few people stirring--early risers like him, or those just coming off watch. Someone was cursing softly, and he'd have bet money that someone had let their fire go cold in the night. Dumb bastards. They were forever wasting matches, apparently unable to get the concept of burying live coals overnight to have something to start with the next morning. He supposed he could've shown them...but hell. It wasn't his problem.

He rolled to his knees top of the sleeping bag and blankets he had stretched out along one side of the tent. Still listening in disgust to the few sounds outside, he pulled his crossbow (always loaded and within easy reach) into his lap and began checking the strings. Some of the people at camp had been making noises about being tired of squirrel meat--tired! As if food of any kind was something to turn your nose up at in times like this. But whatever. He could lay snares just as well as he could shoot with the bow. Wouldn't be that hard to catch some rabbits. It rankled him no end to constantly be foraging for this bunch. Stupid, useless city-folk.

He thought sometimes he could do better on his own. He hadn't quite gotten to that point, yet, though. He wasn't stupid...until he literally could sleep with one eye open, he'd have to have someone to watch his back. The group was safer, as much as he hated to admit it. And...he wasn't ready for there to be only silence around him yet. Not after learning to live with constant chatter. So, he'd hunt for these people, well aware that his ability to fortify their dwindling food supplies was probably the only thing keeping them from kicking him out.

He slid his spare bolts into the crossbow's quiver, glaring at it like he had a grudge against it. If these people would just learn to leave him the hell alone, there wouldn't be a problem!

He grabbed his canteen and shoved his feet into his boots...then silently pulled his old duffle bag closer to his bedroll. Slowly, he undid the straps on one of the front pouches and pulled out the only thing among his few possessions besides the bow that he deemed important. Gently, he flipped the cell phone open and hit the power button.

There were no cell towers operating anymore, of course. No one to call anyway. The cell phone only had about half a battery left--and he dreaded the day that the thing finally died. He only turned it on once in the mornings though...on days when the dreams got...got bad. He figured he had a good few weeks left on it if he was careful. Just--he needed it. When the screen pulled up, he clumsily scrolled through the menu until he got to his voicemail box. He highlighted the last saved message...and hit 'play'.

"Hey it's me! Listen, I'm a dumbass and forgot to go to the store last night. Can you pick up some milk on the way home? Skim! Don't think I don't know you tried to pretend not to see the label last time. Love you!"

Glenn's voice, tinny and staticky and just as full of laughter and affection as he remembered it. He sighed shakily as the message ended, immediately powering down the phone again. He squeezed the plastic casing for a moment, clutching the phone like a lifeline. It was stupid. It was useless. It did him no good, but God, sometimes he just needed to hear Glenn's voice. Needed the reminder that he'd had Glenn. He'd had someone he argued with over what goddamn kind of milk to buy, someone who teased him with laughter in their voice. He'd had someone who loved him. He managed to ignore it most days--to lock all his thoughts and memories of the man he'd shared the past three years with down tighter than Fort Knox. If he didn't think of Glenn, he didn't have to think of what he'd lost.

In the mornings, though, when it was just him, when there was no one to hide from behind harsh words and harsher attitude...he needed to hear Glenn's voice. Needed to hear him saying that he loved him.

"You too, kid," he murmured into the silence of his tent.

Chapter 2

Daryl glanced down at the bucket he’d left out beside his firepit the night before, judging the level of rainwater that had collected during the brief showers that had chased through the area throughout the night. A few leaves and bugs had drifted down onto the water’s surface, and a fine ring of grit and debris had collected at the bottom of the bucket…but it was nearly full and when he dipped his finger into it, the water was still cold. Smiling to himself, he hefted the thing up and, without preamble, tipped the water over his head. He sighed as it cascaded down over his shoulders and neck, a shock of refreshing cold in the muggy morning air, rinsing away some of the scum of sweat and grime that clung to him. He let go with one hand as the bucket got lighter and scrubbed his fingers roughly over his scalp, trying to dislodge some of the dirt and grease coating his hair.

It was over too quickly, and he tipped the bucket back up before he poured the sludge that had collected at the bottom over his head. He set the bucket aside and shook himself like a dog, before grabbing his least-grimy wifebeater and pulling it on, not bothering to try and dry off first. When he looked up he saw one of the women in the camp—one of those blonde sisters, the older one—staring at him from her lawn chair by the RV’s firepit, her lip curled up in distaste.

Whatever. The women in this camp were ridiculous, always marching all the way down to the quarry to do laundry and scrub themselves down. Always expecting someone to follow them with one of the camp’s guns and stand watch while they whined and moaned about how hot it was, and then how cold the water was. He glared at her until she dropped her eyes, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and shaking her head. Bitch.

He raked his hands back through his wet hair and stalked back over to his tent, snatching up his crossbow where it was leaning against the thick log he’d dragged over to serve as a bench/worktable. He thought he might range deeper into the woods today, maybe see if he could get a bead on a deer. If he was really lucky, he might even scout out a wild boar. He knew there had been some sightings in this area before everything went to shit.

Few pounds of fresh bacon ought to get everyone off his goddamn back for a while.

He’d just about gotten settled down into a routine at camp. The hunting was plentiful enough that they weren’t in danger of starving, but not so much that he didn’t have to work for it. He’d been able to fill his days with a near-endless cycle of stalking-killing-butchering game and the hours he wasn’t hunting, he was cleaning his weapons or walking a wide perimeter of the camp. It had gotten to the point where he just about managed to exhaust himself enough to sleep without dreaming most every night. He was away from camp enough that people had stopped bothering to try and ‘get to know’ him or whatever shit, and the only person he really had to deal with had been the ex-cop who’d declared himself king of the hill.

Then Rick fucking Grimes had shown up.

Just out of the blue, tagging along with the small group that they occasionally sent into the outskirts of Atlanta to forage for canned food and supplies. He wouldn’t have cared, beyond mild curiosity as to how the man survived on his own out there and where he’d been the whole time. New faces had stopped appearing at the camp about two weeks after the outbreak.

No, he wouldn’t have cared, except the man kept getting up in his business. Everyone’s business, really. He and king-of-the-hill were thick as thieves, drawing up night watch schedules, organizing supply raids, trying to divvy up camp chores. He actually would have approved of most of their actions if they had just left him the fuck out of it.

He didn’t need someone telling him how to dig a latrine ditch, or chop firewood. He didn’t need the man’s snot-nosed brat poking around his camp with a goddamn notebook asking if he needed more water or wanted to send any laundry down to the women to have done. He didn’t need to be assigned a partner for patrol. He didn’t need Rick fucking Grimes coming around and asking him to volunteer to go on supply runs—“Look, Dixon, everyone says you’re a damn fine shot with that bow and we need all the firepower we can get down there. We almost lost Andrea last time.”—and looking so high-and-mighty and disappointed when he point-blank refused.

If they didn’t want to lose folks, maybe they should stop sending goddamn herds of their people into the city like it was a fucking party.

The man was always there. Always demanding that he come to fucking meetings in the RV—“You’re our main source for fresh food, Dixon, we need your input.”—always trying to get him to set down closer to the main campfires at night. Always. Just. There.

Why couldn’t these people just leave him be?

He hunted for them. He contributed to the watch. He got a share of the canned food. He got to sleep when someone else was on watch. That was the only relationship with these people he needed. That was the only relationship with these people he wanted. He was sick to death of Rick fucking Grimes trying to ‘draw him into the fold’ or whatever the fuck he was doing. If they all wanted to make like it was happy families, fine. He wanted no part of it, and if Grimes didn’t stop shoving his nose into Daryl’s business, Daryl was going to fucking break it.

He just wanted the man to leave him alone. He just wanted to not have to look at the man day in and day out, with his wife and his son and his best friend surrounding him. He didn’t want to have to hear about what a miracle it was that Rick Grimes had found his way to his family, how it gave them all “hope.” He didn’t want to have it shoved in his face over and over again that Grimes had found everyone he loved, safe and sound, when Glenn was—

He clamped down on the thought, refusing to let it fully form. He was going to try for a deer today. Maybe a boar. That was all he needed to be thinking about. He headed down his customary path towards the woods, not making eye contact with anyone he passed. He heard Grimes calling his name, but he pretended not to hear, stomping his way past cars, and tents, and makeshift shacks.

The little blonde girl, the one with that worthless-ass excuse of a father who wailed on her mama damn near every night, was drawing random patterns in the dust with a sharp stick, right in his path. Grimly, he refused to even slow down, forcing the girl to scramble out of his way as he stomped through her drawings. The black woman who usually watched the camp’s children while their parents were otherwise occupied let out an indignant squawk, and he flipped her the bird without even breaking his stride.

Goddamn people.

* * *

Glenn set a bucket down by the spigot on the wall of the camp's main building, and turned on the water full-blast. Sighing, he stuck his head under the stream of ice-cold water for a moment, relishing the relief from the humid heat of a Georgia summer. He could have happily stayed under for another hour or so, but they were expecting him in the kitchen. Regretfully, he shoved the bucket under the stream of water and stood up, raking his hands back through his wet hair and shoving his baseball cap down over it again. He shivered pleasantly as a little trickle of water ran down his neck and into the collar of his shirt.

God, he missed air conditioning.

When the bucket was full, he turned the water off and hefted it up, heading back around to the front of the building to take the water into the kitchen for boiling. Andrew was pretty sure that the water from the pipes was still safe for drinking, but no one was quite willing to take the chance. Though, Glenn mused, it could be worse. They could have to carry water from a lake or something.

Truly, a lot of things could be worse.

He could be on his own, for instance. The people at the campground were decent. He'd even go so far as to say he considered some of them friends at this point. There were about seventeen of them besides Glenn. Andrew Royce, his wife Jill, and their son Danny were the ones Glenn was closest to. It had been Andrew and Jill who had gotten him out of Atlanta, in fact. What had made the older man roll down his window in the gridlocked line of people fleeing the city to ask a perfect stranger if he wanted to maybe dump his scooter and ride with them, instead, Glenn would never know, but he was grateful.

It was Andrew who had gotten them to the campground when it became obvious that there was no safety to be had in Atlanta, and Andrew who everyone tended to defer to. The man had been a park ranger for over twenty years, and had worked in the campground during the summers when Scout groups had often held events. His wife fussed over Glenn like he was her own son, matronly and affectionate in a way that reminded him painfully of his own mother. Their son, Danny, was only a couple of years younger than Glenn, a college student who had luckily been home visiting when things started to get bad. The two of them had bonded quickly, discovering a mutual love of video games and a mutual hatred of their jobs--Danny made ends meet as a bike messenger in Atlanta. They'd become fast friends in the weeks since the outbreak.

They'd picked up Jenny and Alex Casey, a single mother in her thirties and her six-year-old son, just outside of Atlanta. Jenny had been trying to get to a friend's house, but had been forced to the side of the road by a blown tire. Andrew, again displaying compassion that Glenn was, frankly, in awe of had pulled over, and he and Danny had managed to change out the tire for Jenny's spare. When they'd gotten ready to pull back out onto the highway, Jenny had tearfully asked if she could just follow them...she had no idea of her friend was even still alive, and no other family in the area.

George Barnes was a grizzled old Vietnam veteran who had been fishing at the campground when everything started going to shit. Glenn privately thought he was a little crazy, but he'd been carrying several hunting rifles with him and had been more than happy to share them out amongst the survivors in exchange for a share of their food.

There were others...a few families had trickled in and there were now five kids under the age of ten in the camp. Glenn hadn't gotten to know everyone as well as he had the Royce's, George, and Jenny, but he was on friendly terms with pretty much everyone in camp. They made it work. The KOA campgrounds were set back a fair bit from the highway, so there was little chance of stray geeks roaming in for the time being. The building that had served as a registration office and indoor picnic hall was easily defensible. The campground had been popular with with local Scout groups for weekend and summer activities, and so the office had a small supply of cots and blankets for emergencies.

He and Danny frequently ventured down into the city (much to Jill's distress, but there was no helping it) for whatever supplies they could forage. Between the two of them, they knew pretty much every alley and shortcut in the city and had so far managed to avoid any real trouble. Yes, things could definitely be worse. He counted staying with the Royce family as the second best decision he'd ever made in his life.

Taking a chance on a very good-looking, but awkward-as-hell redneck had been the first, of course.

Glenn bit his lip at the thought of Daryl, an ache that had become all too familiar racing through him. Daryl's absence was a constant pain--like the ends of a broken bone grinding together. He was never free of it. He couldn't help thinking of Daryl--sometimes he felt like everything reminded him of the man. But it didn't do him any good to dwell, and he knew Daryl would have been furious with him for letting himself get distracted. His man had been nothing if not practical...he would have wanted Glenn's entire focus to be on surviving.

He could almost hear it.

"You get yourself bit pinin' over me like a damn schoolgirl, I'll beat yer ass ta' hell an' back!"

He laughed softly to himself...though it came out a little shaky.

He pulled himself out of his thoughts as he wove his way through the area of the building that had been designated as a kind of "living room". They'd partitioned off sections of what had once been a fairly good-sized banquet hall with blankets and tarps strung up over clothesline. There were enough unattached people at the campground that there was a section for men and a section for women, with a corner of the room blocked off for the families. A couple of families opted to sleep outside in tents they had brought with them, but most people decided in favor of sacrificing privacy for the relative safety of being indoors with the group.

He made his way to the back of the building and pushed through the swinging door that led to the kitchen. Calling it a kitchen was pretty generous, actually. It was more a small, galley-style room with a (now useless) refrigerator, a sink, and a long stainless-steel counter under a breakfast bar-style window that opened up into the main area. They'd managed to set up George's propane camp stove on the counter and cooking for the communal meals was done laboriously over the small burners. Generally speaking, the food was lukewarm at best when it was served...but it was better than nothing.

He was surprised to find Jill standing over the sink when he walked in with a long knife in one hand and a look of utter confusion on her face. Her graying hair was held back in a frizzy ponytail, and she'd thrown on a pair of yellow dish gloves. "What're you doing?" he asked as he hefted the bucket up onto the counter.

Jill jumped slightly, turning to look at him. "Glenn! Warn a girl 'fore you sneak up on her, honey!" she laughed, her southern belle drawl even more prominent than usual. He grinned back at her.

"Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of sneaking up?" He walked over to the sink and glanced down in it. There were five nice, fat rabbit carcasses lying in the bottom, obviously freshly killed. "Hey, awesome!" he said excitedly...then paused and looked at them again. "And I can't believe I actually just said that," he muttered, wrinkling his nose.

"Don't worry, I said the same thing, baby. You eat enough canned beans, anything starts lookin' good. Andrew and George got them this mornin'."

"Great, so how are you gonna cook them up?"

"I'm still workin' on how I'm gonna get them skinned, to be honest."

Glenn raised an eyebrow. "George can't do it? I thought he was, like, this big time hunter."

Jill chuckled. "Apparently, he always had a neighbor butcher his kills. Nobody knows how to do it!"

The ache stabbed through him again, sharper than before. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh...I do," he said quietly.

"What, exactly, in our history together makes you think I'd ever wanna learn how to do that?"

Daryl laughed softly as he spread the carcass of what had, up until about twenty minutes ago, been a cute, fluffy rabbit out on the open tailgate of his truck. "You wanna eat, don't ya'?"

"Yes, I want to eat. And when I want to eat, I go to the grocery store and buy my meat in nice little packages like normal people do." He grabbed a couple of beers from the cooler by their campfire and walked over to the truck. He rested his hip against the tailgate, his lip curling at the smear of blood that was leaking out of the rabbit's mouth.

"C'mon..." Daryl cajoled, accepting the beer with a nod of thanks.

"I let you take me camping for our anniversary. I did not agree to dismember Thumper." He leaned in close and kissed the side of Daryl's neck to take the sting out of his words. Camping with Daryl was pretty fun, actually.

"You sure? It's easy," Daryl tried a final time, holding out the knife.

He rolled his eyes, but grinned. "Fine. But you're taking me to Comicon next year...in costume!"

Daryl smirked and scooted further back onto the tailgate, drawing him in close to sit in the vee of his legs, facing the rabbit carcass. He took the knife from Daryl, and let his boyfriend guide his hand down to the rabbit's belly.

"Oh my God...full costume. Han Solo full costume!" They made the first cut. "And you're having sex with me in costume!"

He took the knife from Jill and tested the edge the way Daryl had showed him, then grabbed the first carcass and flipped it into position on the counter. "My, uh, my boyfriend taught me," he said in answer to Jill's surprised look. "He was...he was good at this kind of stuff."

Jill smiled at him sadly and rubbed his back. She didn't ask what happened, or anything like that. Those questions had stopped being relevant within days of the first news reports. He turned his attention back to the rabbit and tried not to think about the feel of roughened, work-calloused hands over his, guiding his movements. Tried not to miss the warmth of a strong arm around his waist. Tried not to miss the woodsy tang of a particular brand of aftershave.

He didn't succeed...but at least he managed to butcher the rabbits.

Chapter 3

Notes:

Quick warning here...Daryl is pretty well a dick in this part, and will be for a while, yet. He is lashing out, playing to a stereotype to keep people away, and letting fly with some extremely offensive and racially charged language. I am aware that Glenn certainly wouldn't have been with Daryl if he was a racist-ass jerk, and his behavior will be addressed. :)

He’d held out some hope that the rest of the group would eventually get it through their heads that he didn’t want any part of their little “community.” It wasn’t like he was being subtle about his distaste for them. Evidently, though, he’d given them too much credit for being able to catch a clue.

Things came to a head the day he returned from a brief trip down to the quarry to find the Grimes boy messing with his cell phone.

The women of the camp had a laundry rotation set up. A couple of them had actually brought old-fashioned washboards with them—though he was pretty damn sure they had started life as some stupid wall decorations—and most people were perfectly happy to just hand off their bags of dirty clothes like it was a damn cleaning service. Grimes’ wife and the Mexican woman had offered to do his (several times, until he finally told them to fuck off) in return for all the hunting he did, but hell if he was going to let some strange women scrub his underwear.

Dirty clothes didn’t really bother him, much, but once a week or so they did finally get to a point where he went down to the quarry with a bar of soap and beat the worst of the stains out against a rock. Typically, he took a few extra minutes to give his body and hair a good scrub as well—cursory rinses with bucket water were good enough most days, but he had no desire to develop a case of head lice or anything.

A heavy shower the night before had saturated the camp. People were miserably wringing out their clothes and sleeping bags, and several had had to move their tents to new, drier locations, much to his amusement. Even his site—chosen specifically for its slightly inclined ground and the heavy tree branches overhead that provided shade and protection from rain—had suffered. His sleeping bag, blankets, and duffle bag were all a little damp where they had been touching the floor of the tent. He’d left his things sitting out on the log he’d dragged up to his camp to dry a bit in the sun.

When he returned to his campsite, the Grimes kid and the little blonde girl were crouched near his fire pit. And he was just going to yell at them to scram. He was. Hell, his tent was pretty much the only place in the camp that wasn’t a mud pit right at the moment, and he was pretty close to the RV where the kids seemed to hang out the most. It wasn’t so surprising that thy had taken the opportunity while he was gone to go play over in his area. It wasn’t really a big deal, but he didn’t want the kids thinking they could just invade his space whenever they pleased.

Then he saw the bag lying on the ground.

It looked like it had just slipped off the log and spilled its contents out by the fire pit. He seriously doubted they would have been bold enough to actually go through his things, especially with all the adults milling around at the RV. It had probably been an accident…but they had his cell phone out. They had it out and flipped open, and were messing with the screen—and logic flew straight out the goddamn window.

“What the hell you think you’re doin’?!” he bellowed, stalking forward and throwing his bundle of wet clothes into the dirt by the fire pit. The kids jumped, guiltily, and the girl immediately shrank back behind the Grimes kid, staring up at him fearfully.

“W-we’re sorry…it was just lying by the fire! We—we just want to see if you h-had any games. I’m sorry, Mr. Dixon,” the boy stuttered out, his eyes huge and round in his face. He leaned down and snatched the phone out of the boy’s hands, his heart twisting painfully when he saw the battery was nearly dead.

“Goddamn brats! Ain’t you got nothin’ better ta’ do? I done told you people ta’ stay the fuck away from me!” His heart was thundering in his ears, sheer rage pounding through him.

He’d stayed too damn long at their apartment, waiting for Glenn to come back…he’d been forced out when their street got swarmed by the Walkers. He’d had to run down to his truck with only what he could carry—there hadn’t been room for mementos or photos. He’d even had to sacrifice the bag of Glenn’s clothes he’d packed in favor of ammo and weapons.

He had nothing of Glenn’s. Nothing. No pictures, no belongings, not even one of those stupid, stupid ball caps. All he had was the phone, with the last voicemail Glenn had ever left him and God, he’d known he wouldn’t be able to keep it forever…but he wasn’t ready to let it go yet. He wasn’t ready to deal with never hearing Glenn’s voice again yet.

He leveled a glare on the kids that could melt paint, pacing in front of them like a caged animal. They were practically cowering, and he could hear scuffling behind him as his shouting finally attracted the attention of the people that were supposed to be fucking watching the kids in the first place.

“What’s going on here?”

He grit his teeth, nearly rolling his eyes at the sound of Grimes’ voice. He turned around to find that they had gathered an audience. Grimes and his wife were hurrying over, closely followed by the girl’s mama (sporting fresh, finger-shaped bruises on her arms, of course. Fucking bastard.) and the black woman. The old man and the two blonde sisters were hovering by the RV, staring unabashedly. At least Grimes’ cop buddy was nowhere to be seen. The kids took his momentary distraction as an opportunity to get up and scramble for their mothers.

“What’s goin’ on, is your brats need ta’ learn not ta’ mess with other people’s property,” he spat, shoving the phone into his jeans pocket. He didn’t need anyone asking questions about why he cared so much about a useless cell phone.

Grimes narrowed his eyes slightly, but turned to his son. “Carl, were you messing with Mr. Dixon’s things without permission?” he asked steadily. The boy looked down at his feet.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “His bag fell over, and we were just looking…we were gonna put everything back, honest!”

Grimes sighed, sharing a glance with his wife. “You owe Mr. Dixon an apology,” he said firmly.

The kid barely looked up at him. “Sorry,” he said softly.

“Carl,” his mother said, a warning in her tone. The kid hunched his shoulders.

“I’m sorry Mr. Dixon, sir.”

“Sophia, you too,” the girl’s mother prompted. The little girl barely peeked around her mama’s body, and Jesus Christ, he wasn’t going to stick his nose in other people’s business, but it wasn’t right for a kid to be so damn afraid all the time.

“Sorry, Mr. Dixon,” she whispered. With that, the two kids ran off, leaving their parents and the black woman still hovering around his campsite.

“What?” he demanded belligerently, feeling the need to just bolt out of the whole camp swelling in his chest and choking him. He’d kept himself in check in front of the kids—mostly—but he couldn’t deal with these idiots right now.

“They didn’t mean no harm,” Grimes began. “Can you maybe just be a little gentler around the kids? This is hard enough for them without worrying that someone’s gonna blow up at them.”

The sheer gall the man had stunned him. Gentle? The goddamn dead were walking the earth and had a taste for the living, and they thought things could still be gentle? “Tell ya’ what, keep ‘em out a’ my stuff an’ there won’t be no problem,” he growled.

“It was my fault,” the black woman piped up suddenly. “I told them to go play over beside your tent…it’s the only place that’s mostly dry. I didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

“Yeah, well, thought wrong,” he scoffed, silently willing them to just go away. He could feel his fragile calm cracking with every word, could feel the hard case of the phone pressing against his thigh and he just needed them to go away while he figured out how the hell he was going to keep going on with nothing left to connect him to Glenn. He hurt. Oh, God he hurt, and he needed them to go away, needed to find a way to stuff all the hurt back into its carefully walled off little space in his mind before he lost what little control he had left.

“All right, look…they had no right to go messing in your things, and we will be talking to Carl about that later, but you don’t have to be so hateful about it. It won’t happen again, and they didn’t hurt anything,” Grimes’ wife said, her mouth a tight, angry slash.

And just like that, he felt as though someone had poured ice water into his veins.

He stared at them, at these people who over and over again had ignored his wishes that they just leave him be. At the woman who had the nerve, the goddamn nerve to stand there and tell him nothing had been damaged—when she got to fall asleep in her husband’s arms every night, when whatever damned higher power that had decided to take a dump on the world at large had decided her family deserved a fucking miracle; when her husband and her son and her fucking lover--yeah, he knew about that, the idiots--were all alive and well…

While he spent every day trying to drive himself into exhaustion so that he could fall asleep at night before he had time to dwell on how cold he was (even in the humid Georgia heat) without Glenn’s body lying next to him. So that he could hopefully get through a night without dreaming of his boy getting swarmed by Walkers, pulled down and ripped to shreds…or worse, wandering the streets of Atlanta with his skin gone gray and rotten, and blood coating his teeth.

They judged him, they pestered him, they refused to leave him alone and God he’d never get to hear Glenn’s voice again.

The cold, icy rage bubbled through him, and he felt himself hunching forward, bristling like a dog about to attack. He couldn’t take it anymore and he knew of only one sure way to finally drive it home that they needed to leave…him…be.

“An’ I told ya’…control your brat, ya’ stupid bitch—or have her nigger-ass do it for ya’.” He jerked his chin at the black woman, who goggled at him, jaw dropping. He spit in the dirt, right at Grimes’ feet. “I don’t care. But I see anyone near my shit again, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

Grimes’ woman gaped at him, and the girl’s mama started backing away, flinching like she was afraid someone was about to get hit. He had never in his life raised his hand to a woman—he wasn’t like his pa, and he never would be—but they didn’t need to know that.

Grimes squared up to him, every inch the cop. “Now just a damn minute, there’s no cause for you—“

He let an ugly sneer, one he had seen more times than he could count on his older brother’s face, twist his features. “Oh there’s plenty a’ cause! Day in an’ day out you’re up here talkin’ like you’s the fuckin’ neighborhood watch! I’m done with it! Y’all ain’t nothin’ ta’ me! Bunch a’ niggers an’ spicks an’ dumbass pussies. Get away from my property an’ if ya’ come ‘round here again, I’m a’ shoot ya’ in the knees!” He stalked forward and snatched his crossbow up from where he’d let it drop next to his still-wet clothes.

“Don’t you think you can threaten people like that an’ still be part of this camp!” Grimes barked.

He let out a short, angry laugh. “Yeah, you go ahead an’ kick me out, officer. Let’s see who starves first. Stay outta my face, I’ll stay outta yours, got it?”

He marched back towards the trees without waiting for an answer, leaving the group sputtering and staring after him. His anger quickened his steps, and he stormed into the forest. Any game there might have been to be had was surely scattered by his crashing footsteps, but he didn’t care. He hurried away from the camp, until his legs burned with exertion, until sweat was running in rivulets down his face and trickling down his back.

He finally stopped, leaning his weight against a thick tree trunk and hunching forward to rest his hands on the tops of his thighs. Before he knew it, though, he’d sunk down to sit at the base of the tree, drawing his knees up towards his chest and pressing his forehead against his arms where they rested across his legs. He gasped for breath…and kept gasping long after the burn in his lungs had subsided. He sucked in great, heaving gulps of air that barely seemed to fit around the tight ball that seemed to have risen in his throat.

With shaking hands, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, pressing the power button. It came on, but immediately flashed a warning that he needed to charge it. A strangled sound worked its way out of his throat. It was desperate, broken…barely human-sounding, even to his own ears.

He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t ready to lose this.

He scrolled through to the voicemail menu, pulling up the last saved message, and squeezed his eyes shut as he pressed it to his ear.

“Hey it’s me! Listen, I’m a dumbass and forgot to go to the store last night. Can you pick up some milk on the way home? Skim! Don’t think I don’t know you tried to pretend not to see the label last time. Love--"

It cut off. Glenn’s voice cut off, replaced with the stupid little chime that signaled the phone was shutting down.

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, clutching the phone against his ear until he heard the casing creak. He took another deep breath…

And threw the phone as hard as he could. It hit a tree opposite him, and he watched dispassionately as the casing cracked, pieces flying off in five different directions. Useless. It was useless, and he would never hear Glenn’s voice again.

Glenn was gone, well and truly gone, and he had nothing left but his memories.

Glenn was gone.

He sat there, just staring at the remains of the phone, until well after the sun had set.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Hello,

Just a quick FYI...I forgot to mention this in the first chapter, but this story makes a couple of adjustments to canon (beyond the very obvious ones). First off, Merle is not a factor apart from Daryl's occasional referencing of him. The story assumes Merle would not have taken Daryl's relationship with Glenn well and completely turned his back on his brother. So Daryl has no idea what happened to Merle.

This also assumes Rick would not have been quite as much of a moron riding into Atlanta and would have maybe thought twice about the giant line of abandoned cars leading out of the city. So, I'm hand-waving it that Rick abandoned the horse and ran into some people from the quarry sneaking out of Atlanta, and went back with them. Thus Rick found his family, and brought his shiny bag of guns and ammo.

"Air conditioning."

"Dude, that doesn't even count! Everyone misses air conditioning."

Glenn cocked an eyebrow as he (rather clumsily) tied off a neon-green lure on the line of one of George's fishing reels. Beside him, Danny Royce cast his line into the water.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Arby's."

Danny let out a tiny groan. "Nice. Butter."

Glenn nodded in agreement, thinking back to the dry toast he'd had with breakfast that morning. "Cinabon."

"Denny's."

"ESPN."

"Facebook."

"Uh...grapes." Glenn floundered a moment, before settling on the answer. Hell, he missed any kind of fresh fruit. He never thought he'd be so sick of canned peaches.

"Hot Pockets," Danny countered quickly, flicking a sweaty clump of his carrot-red hair out of his eyes.

"Ice cream," Glenn said longingly

"Oh yeah," Danny agreed, but didn't offer up the next roun. Instead, he sighed softly. "Hey G?"

"Yeah?"

"This game is fucking depressing."

Glenn laughed quietly, though there really wasn't anything funny about it. It was depressing, sitting there listing off things they missed in alphabetical order; things they'd likely never have again. Every time they started, one or the other of them would call a halt to it before they reached 'Z'. Hell, the furthest they'd ever gotten was 'K'. They kept doing it, though. He thought, sometimes, that it was easier to dwell on missing things like cold drinks and McDonald's fries than the important things he'd lost. His parents. His friends.

Daryl.

Glenn swallowed and tried to force himself to concentrate on the little red and white bobber that marked where his line was in the water. He and Danny were seated at the end of the wooden dock that stretched into the small lake on the campgrounds, with George's fishing tackle. The lake was well-stocked with bass, and had been their main source of protein since they'd set up camp. Everyone was sick to death of fish, but at least they were eating.

Unfortunately, getting enough for everybody required a near-constant rotation of people out on the lake. He and Danny didn't draw fishing duty often, as they were the ones who did the runs back into the city for other supplies, but they got stuck with it on occasion. Not that Glenn minded...it was nice to just hang out with Danny when they weren't both strung tighter than bowstrings, watching for geeks as they slipped through alleys and abandoned stores.

"Hey, Mom told me you were the one butchered up them rabbits the other day. Since when're you a mountain man?" Danny asked at length. Glenn looked up at him briefly, frowning slightly. Danny took note of his expression and his green eyes widened slightly as he put two and two together. He hunched his shoulders, immediately looking remorseful. "Oh...the boyfriend, huh? Sorry, G."

The Royce's knew the bare bones of his life...Andrew had asked on the way out of Atlanta if there was anyone he wanted to try and go back for, or that he'd arranged to try and meet elsewhere. He'd broken down then, the words of the National Guardsman finally really hitting him as he'd buried his face in his knees and sobbed out that no, his parents didn't live in Atlanta and his boyfriend...

His boyfriend was dead. Or one of those things.

Glenn sighed. "No...no, it's okay. Yeah, Daryl was--" he broke off with a laugh that was only slightly ragged at the edges. "He was such a redneck. I'm kind of surprised he didn't take me to a shooting range for our first date." It hurt...oh God, it hurt to talk about Daryl in the past tense. But at the same time, it felt good to share some of the memories. "He took me camping for our anniversary last year! And I mean, not even camping like this--" he jerked his thumb in the direction of the big meeting hall up the path behind them, "--I mean like us and a tent in the middle of the Georgia woods. We had to register our campsite with a park ranger so they'd know where to look for the bodies if we didn't check out when we said we would!"

Danny laughed. "Sounds like fun," he said sarcastically. Glenn shrugged one shoulder.

"Yeah...it actually was." Danny watched him for a moment, before leaning over to nudge him in the shoulder.

"You guys were the real deal, weren't you?" he asked gently.

The air conditioning had gone out in Daryl's building again, and the air was uncomfortably hot and damp. What had started out as a perfectly promising evening had ended with them panting and sweaty for all the wrong reasons. They were currently stretched out together on Daryl's bed; sheets, blankets, and clothes discarded as they waited desperately--vainly--for the ceiling fan to do more than stir the hot air around in sickly eddies.

It was too hot to flop over Daryl's chest like he usually did, but he scooted as close as he could without actually touching his boyfriend's body, stretched out with his head on the pillow by Daryl's bare hip. Daryl was sitting up against the headboard, absently petting his hair, twisting the strands through his fingers. There was an oddly heavy quality to the silence between them, but he didn't pay it any real mind. Daryl would talk when he was ready and not one second before. He'd learned that within a week of knowing the man. Sure enough, Daryl eventually broke the quiet.

"Been thinkin'," he said softly.

He grinned playfully in the darkness. "Did it hurt?"

Daryl snorted, and tugged lightly on his hair in reprimand. "Don't be a dumbass. 'M serious."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry." He hitched himself up so that he was sitting against the headboard as well. "What were you thinking about?"

"Just...look, m'boss is puttin' me up for a promotion at the garage next month."

"Really? Daryl, that's great!" he enthused, grinning widely. Daryl's mouth quirked a bit, not quite a smile, and he started picking aimlessly at the thin cover sheet beneath their bodies.

"Yeah. Thing is...look, it's more money an' I was thinkin' 'bout maybe gettin' a bigger place." He gestured around his crappy (and that was being generous) hole of a studio apartment. A strange expression settled on the man's face...if he didn't know better, he'd have sworn that Daryl looked--nervous. "An' I thought, maybe...well the two of us could probably afford somethin'. Y'know. Decent. At least a 'squat' instead'f a 'shit hole'." Daryl was very carefully not looking at him, seemingly finding the sheet fascinating. His heart had started to pound halfway through the sentence and now he set his hand over one of Daryl's, squeezing his fingers gently.

"Daryl," he said softly, because he'd hoped they were getting to this point, but he hardly dared believe it had actually arrived, "are you asking me to move in with you?"

"Yeah. Guess I am...if ya' want to." The words were casual, off-handed, but he heard everything Daryl wasn't saying in the man's tone. I want you. I think we have a future. I'm committed to you.

I love you.

"Yes!" he said, not even having to think about it. Daryl glanced up at him then, a slow smile--the real one--spreading across his face.

"Yeah?"

"Hell yeah!" He leaned forward, not caring about the heat anymore. Daryl met him halfway, wrapping his arms around his back and pulling him close as they kissed.

It felt like a promise.

"Yeah. I really think we were," he said softly. They were silent for several long moments, just watching their lines floating in the water. He briefly closed his eyes against a familiar sting and shook his head. "So...I think I figured out a way to get into that pharmacy over on 8th," he said at length. Danny accepted the abrupt subject change graciously.

"You thinkin' of using that alley off of MLK?" he asked, brow furrowing in concentration.

Glenn nodded. "One end is pretty well barricaded with vehicles, and there's a whole lot of cars on the street on the other side. I figure we could set one of the car alarms off to draw any geeks that way, then duck under the barricade and we should have a pretty straight shot to the back door of the pharmacy."

Danny was nodding thoughtfully as he spoke. "Could work," he said.

"Yeah...it's a little risky, but that pharmacy doesn't look like it's been broken into at all."

"Totally worth it," Danny agreed. "All right...sounds like a plan."

* * *He and Danny woke up before dawn the next morning, and dressed quietly. Andrew and George were up as well, George having taken the last watch shift. He saw the two men conversing urgently, but neither was sounding an alarm, so he figured George hadn't spotted any geeks. Danny shrugged and headed towards his father, leaving Glenn to get their supplies together for the run into Atlanta.

They travelled light by necessity, but Jill insisted that they take at least a couple days' worth of food and water with them in case they got cut off from their escape routes and had to hole up somewhere until it was safer to make a break for it. It had happened once before, and they had spent a very tense night on the roof of a department store waiting for a swarm of geeks to lose interest and wander off. Glenn had been very grateful for the bottles of water and granola bars Jill pressed on them.

He was just putting the last of the water into his backpack when Danny raced up to the large window that overlooked the main part of the building. His friend looked pale, but there was no fear in his face. "G!" he gasped, "G, you gotta come with me, right now!"

"Huh? What's wrong?"

Danny shook his head. "Nothing...just, dude, trust me. You gotta see this." With that, Danny turned and dashed back towards the front of the building, leaving Glenn no choice but to follow.

He dumped their backpacks on his cot as he passed it. More people were starting to stir, and several had already gotten up. There was a small crowd gathering around the door. Glenn frowned in confusion at the buzzing whispers slowly growing in intensity.

"--can't believe it--"

"I thought for sure there was no one else--"

"How'd the guy even find this place?"

Another survivor? Glenn perked up a bit. That certainly explained the thrum of excitement in the air. He wove through the crowd, just as curious as everyone else...though he didn't see what Danny was that excited about. Maybe the new person had brought a really great cache of weapons with them?

He slipped to the front of the knot of people, finding Jill and Danny standing there. Danny was almost beside himself, grinning broadly at him. Jill's arm was linked through her son's...and she, too, was grinning at him, tears standing out in the bright green eyes she'd passed on to Danny.

"What's going on?" he asked, a touch warily. Jill shook her head.

"Baby...just look." She and Danny stepped to one side, so Glenn could get a good look at whoever had shown up at the camp. He looked.

And froze.

A battered, dirty pickup truck was parked directly in front of the building, the bed piled with a few boxes, a duffle bag, and a rolled up, collapsible tent. He could point out every rust stain and dent on the body of that truck blindfolded. He would have recognized it anywhere.

His knees suddenly felt weak, and his heart was suddenly pounding so fast he thought it might batter its way out of his chest. It was impossible. He took a trembling step forward. This was just impossible.

But there he was.

Leaning tiredly against the truck's tailgate, filthy and sunburt and gulping down a bottle of water George had evidently handed him. In one of his tattered old work shirts with the sleeves ripped off, with the heavy-duty crossbow that Glenn had (only somewhat jokingly) always referred to as his boyfriend's Mistress strapped to his back. Glenn could feel tears gathering, a lump rising in his throat as he took another shaky step forward.

"D-Daryl?" His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, choked and gutteral. Daryl stiffened though, snapping out of his exhausted slouch like he had been struck by lightning. His head whipped around, blue eyes Glenn had thought he'd never see again fastening onto him. The water bottle slipped from his hand, crashing to the ground and spilling over his boots. He took his own faltering step away from the truck.

"Glenn," he breathed. "Holy shit...oh holy shit..."

Glenn wasn't sure who moved first, but suddenly they were racing for each other. He couldn't believe it, couldn't believe it. It was impossible, but Daryl was here, he was alive. So perfectly alive and--

"G? Glenn...hey Glenn!"

Glenn's eyes snapped open at the whisper, at someone shaking his shoulder. He startled, his gaze darting wildly around the room, searching for his boyfriend. Danny's face swam into focus above him, his features twisted in confusion.

Danny sat back on his heels next to Glenn's cot. "C'mon, we've gotta get going if we're gonna make it to Atlanta before noon."

A dream, Glenn realized dully.

Just a dream.

He sagged back against his cot, the bitter realization literally stealing his breath for a moment. It was just a dream.

"You okay, G?" Danny asked softly. Glenn forced himself to nod, wiping one hand over his face.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Just give me a minute." Danny's concerned frown didn't disappear, but he rose from his crouch.

"All right--but you tell me if you're not feelin' up to this. Need your head in the game."

Glenn nodded tiredly. "I'm okay, I promise. Why don't you go grab our supplies and I'll be ready in ten, okay?" Danny still looked doubtful, but turned and headed for the kitchen, leaving Glenn alone in the pre-dawn light. He let loose a shuddering sigh as his friend left, throwing himself back onto his cot.

Just a dream.

He covered his face with his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes hard enough that he could almost believe it when he told himself that was why they were watering.

Notes:

Yeah, I'm a terrible person ;). But I promise, it's gonna get fixed! I'm thinking the quarry camp is going to fall next chapter, in much the way it did on the show. However, as Rick, T-Dog, and Daryl will be there (as well as the guns), I'm considering altering events so that Amy lives.

Or altering events so that the camp gets even MORE pissed off at Daryl. Thoughts?

Chapter 5

It took a few days, but eventually the camp seemed to finally decide it wasn't worth it to bother him. After the confrontation with Grimes and the women, he'd gone out of his way to prove he was being deadly serious when he warned them to stay out of his face. He broke out every slur he'd ever heard Merle or his pa sling at someone, the ones that had tripped so easily off of his own tongue until he'd met...until he'd had a reason not to say them anymore.

Oh, he wasn't stupid about it. He didn't go looking for fights the way his brother would have...but he squared up to anyone who came within five feet of him, spitting out curses like it was going out of style and twisting his mouth into the ugliest sneer he could manage.

It was easy, really. The sour burn of anger and grief had been boiling through his veins for days, more intense than it had been since he'd finally been forced to admit that Glenn wasn't...that he needed to get the hell out of Atlanta. It gave him some measure of relief to let it spill out of him in waves of sheer ugliness. Gave him some bit of grim satisfaction to watch these soft, useless people flinch back from him. It never lasted very long, but it was something.

They all watched him, now, with the wary, careful attention you paid to a dog you weren't sure of. They gave him wide berth, keeping the kids as far away from his campsite as possible. Grimes and Walsh were the only ones who talked to him anymore, and those conversations rarely lasted more than thirty seconds. Walsh stood behind Grimes the whole time, glaring at him with the hot, angry disdain he'd been seeing in people's eyes since he was a boy, clearly just itching for an excuse to have a go at him.

The rest of the camp avoided him like the plague, averting their eyes every time he walked past or stopped at the RV to drop off his day's catch. There had been a few days where he really thought they might throw him out...but in the end, the rapidly dwindling food supplies had stacked the deck in his favor. Their little scavenging parties had apparently picked through every place that could be easily gotten to on the outskirts of the city, and they couldn't find any safe(ish) route further into Atlanta.

Things had settled into a sort of truce. The tension between him and the rest of the camp was thick enough to cut with a knife, but things had settled. He spent most all of his days roaming the woods around the quarry, hunting. He brought in at least a few rabbits or squirrels every night, and last week he'd managed to bring down a feral pig. He'd been right in assuming a few pounds of fresh bacon would go a long way towards distracting the group...even if he had had to butcher the damn thing himself. The women who'd appointed themselves camp cooks had gotten fairly proficient at dealing with smaller carcasses (as long as he field dressed them beforehand), but none them had any idea what to do with a whole hog.

Idiots.

He rolled over on his side, searching in vain for a relatively comfortable position on his bedroll. Outside his tent, he could hear the sounds of what had turned into a goddamn party still going strong. He snorted, punching his pillow with more force than was strictly necessary. The day had been frustrating as hell. He'd spent almost two days tracking a nice, big doe...the whole damn camp would've been able to eat off that deer for at least a couple days. She'd been his, too...all that was left was to track her until she finally went down and then haul her back to camp.

Until a goddamn Walker had lumbered in and swiped his kill right out from under him.

He'd die before he admitted it, but the sight of a Walker so far up the mountain had rattled him. It wouldn't have been so bad if it had been someone who clearly belonged in the woods...but judging by the poor bastard's clothes, he'd apparently turned in the middle of a corporate power lunch. They hadn't seen a single Walker near the quarry in weeks--to have one appear now was downright unsettling.

To add insult to injury, the two blonde sisters had disappeared down to the quarry with the old man's canoe and come strolling back with a line of fish that even he had to admit was impressive. He'd been less impressed when they'd been greeted like conquering heroes. Not that he particularly needed a bunch of city-folk cheering him on, but they'd fawned over the sisters like he hadn't been keeping their asses fed for the better part of two months.

And if the blondes were so damn amazing with a hook and line, why the hell hadn't they been doing that from the start?

No one but him appeared to be asking that question, though. The camp had done up like it was a Fourth of July fish fry, gathering around their fires, talking and laughing like they didn't have a care in the world. It had been maddening. He'd taken his own plate--credit where credit was due, no one was denying him his fair share of the food and supplies--back up to his tent almost as soon as it was in his hands.

He rolled over yet again, finally giving up on sleep as a lost cause. It was hot and damp inside his tent, and the group was making too damn much noise anyway. Reluctantly, he got to his feet and began dressing again. After he'd shoved his boots on, he grabbed his old hunting rifle from where it was lying beside his bedroll. Generally, he preferred his crossbow...he was actually a better shot with it (though he could still bullseye damn near anything he set his sights on with no problem) and it was silent. The bow was lying on the tent floor in several pieces, though. He'd opted to re-string it and give it a thorough cleaning that afternoon, but lost the light before he finished. He wasn't about to try recalibrating it by firelight, and he saw no reason to waste the batteries on his one lantern. Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he unzipped his tent and stepped out into the night.

The air felt at least ten degrees cooler outside of his tent, and he sighed in relief. He shot a look at the bunch grouped around the fire closest to his tent. They were listening as the old man waxed poetic about something or other. His mouth tightened, and he turned away from the scene, heading towards the RV with the intention of walking a quick perimeter around the camp. Automatically, his eyes flicked to the top of the RV, checking to see who was on watch so that he knew how paranoid he should be while he was out in the woods.

Some of the group were a hell of a lot more vigilant than others, in his personal opinion.

He froze, though, as he realized there was no one on top of the RV. No one on watch...on the day a Walker had appeared less than fifty yards from the fucking camp?! Instantly, he tensed, eyes darting around the darkness deepened by the campfires. There was no reason to assume that this night would be any different than all the other nights they had passed without seeing any danger...but there had never been a Walker at the quarry before. His instincts were screaming at him, instincts that had never let him down before.

"We're out of toilet paper?" He snapped his eyes to the side of the RV at the question, laced with annoyance, and saw the younger of the two sisters hanging out the door.

And it was only because he was staring right at her that he caught the jerky, shambling movement just beyond the light of the fires that he only associated with one thing.

"Walkers!" he bellowed.

There was no way to get his gun up in time to save the girl.

He could see that in the space of a heartbeat, knew it even as the disgusting, rotted figure lurched fully into the light. The girl froze as it latched onto her arm, not even trying to get away, and there was no time to get his gun up.

But guns weren't the only way to put a Walker down.

Everything seemed to slow down as he watched the thing's teeth lower to the girl's arm. He was dimly aware of terrified screams filling the night, of wild commotion as the group by the campfire began mobilizing at his shout. He paid them no mind. His buck knife cleared the sheath at his belt as the Walker lunged. The knife wasn't really balanced for throwing--but it was the only chance the girl had, and he. Never. Missed.

He had a split-second to aim, and then the blade was flying through the air, tumbling end over end. He knew one, brief moment of relief as the knife hit true, burying itself in the Walker's temple just before its putrid, gore-coated teeth closed on the girl's arm. The thing slumped forward, over top of the girl, who was shrieking like a banshee. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her sister scrambling towards the RV, practically falling over herself and screaming the girl's name.

Then there was no more time to think.

The Walkers were everywhere. They just appeared, swarming from all sides. The group panicked, screaming their heads off and running in all directions. He couldn't help them...there was nothing he could do but put his back against the RV and concentrate on taking as many of the Walkers down as possible. A few of the people tried to band together, led by Grimes and Walsh.

"C'mon, y'all! Work your way up here! Get to the RV!" Walsh was bellowing. Grimes' woman and her son were clutching at Grimes' back as he and Walsh struggled to clear a path. The little blonde girl and her mama were stumbling along behind Grimes and his group, and he hissed softly.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, and shifted his focus to laying down cover fire for them.

The Walkers were coming in waves, lurching after stragglers as the people scattered. His ears were filled with screams--pleas for help, shrieks of terror, wails of pain that he knew meant death. He ignored it all as best he could, his whole world narrowing to the sight on the end of his gun.

Screams. Aim. Fire.

Groans. Aim. Fire.

Blood. Aim. Fire.

Panic. Aim. Fire.

Death.

Aim.

Fire.

Gradually, gradually, he became aware that the Walkers were thinning out. He glanced to his side, startled to realize that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with Grimes and Walsh, the three of them laying down a wall of bullets that the Walkers hadn't managed to break through. He took a couple more shots, and broke off with a gasp. He darted a look around the area, now littered with bodies--of both Walkers and people from the camp.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Fuck!" He ran his hand over his face, listening intently for any sounds of footsteps, of the chilling groans of Walkers.

There was nothing, though, only the sounds of their harsh breathing and the broken sobs of the children. He turned around, looking to see how many of the people had made it up to the relative safety of the RV. Grimes was clutching his family to him, while Walsh paced behind them agitatedly. The quiet woman with the bastard husband was trying to hush her daughter, stroking her back as she stared out at the carnage with shocked eyes.

He saw the old man. The Mexican family and those two blacks. The weird mechanic that had been out damn near killing himself digging random holes earlier that day.

The blonde sisters were huddled on the ground in front of the RV, wrapped around each other as the older one stroked her sobbing sister's hair.

They were the only ones left.

They passed the rest of the night huddled by the RV, tense and silent and with fingers on triggers at all times. The women and children had all been hustled inside the RV at some point, leaving seven of them to stand uneasy watch outside. He didn't see what good it did to cram all the women and kids into the vehicle like sardines, but even he only left the RV to go and retrieve his crossbow and bolts from his (thankfully untouched) tent.

He sat on the steps leading up into the RV and efficiently reassembled the weapon by the RV's interior lights, listening uncomfortably to the weeping and sniffles that filled the vehicle. He bit his tongue to keep from snapping at them that crying wouldn't do a damn thing to help the situation and they were just going to make themselves sick.

Even he wasn't going to stoop to yelling at a bunch of kids right after...after this.

He just loaded the crossbow's quiver and reloaded the rifle, before strapping the bow to his back. He paced around the RV, adrenaline sparking through him at the slightest noise. Grimes and Walsh crawled up on top of the RV--like someone should've been in the first place, he reflected angrily--while the other men ranged themselves out in a loose semi-circle around the RV. No one said anything, but he knew the others were hoping to hear other survivng members of the camp making their way up to the RV.

He wasn't holding his breath. If no one had shown up by now, the best that could be hoped for was that none of the freshly dead got back up again before sunrise.

They waited the hours out, none of them speaking beyond whispered confirmations that all was still quiet every now and then. When the sun finally started creeping over the treetops, there was an almost palpable sense of relief...as if the rest of them actually thought things would look better in the daylight, or some shit. He knew better. Light only showed you how badly things were fucked up in greater detail.

He wasn't wrong.

The camp was almost completely destroyed. Tents had been overturned and torn into, firepits scattered, dishes and food trampled into the dirt. What had been an organized, neat site had been thrown into chaos. He focused on that, on the trash and debris that had been chucked around like a whirlwind had torn through camp. It was easier to focus on that than the bodies.

Walkers. Members of the camp. They were strewn about on the ground like broken dolls. Already, the smell of blood and rot was thick in the air, and it would only get more nauseating as the day began to heat up. He curled his lip in disgust, eyes tracking over the bodies of the group members who had been set upon before they'd managed to put the Walkers down. They were torn to shreds, chunks of flesh literally ripped off their bodies. There were pieces of people lying in the dirt and every last one of those people were going to rise again...soon.

"We need to go around and make sure none of our people...come back." Grimes' voice sounded behind him, echoing his thoughts precisely. He turned around as he heard the rest of the men gathering in. All of them, except for Walsh, looked faintly ill. Grimes was swallowing convulsively, his eyes fixed on the body of a girl he remembered seeing around camp a few times, no more than twenty years old. There were hunks ripped out of her neck and arms, blood coating her body and starting to attract flies.

"How you wanna handle this, man? Gotta say, I ain't too keen on firing off a whole bunch more rounds," the black man piped up suddenly. Grimes sighed heavily, then looked up at him.

"Dixon...I hate to ask this of you, but T-Dog's right. We need to save bullets and we can't be making too much noise. Will you..." he trailed off, jerking his chin at the crossbow. It took him a moment to realize what Grimes was asking, and his eyes narrowed immediately. Typical.

"Hell, no," he spat. Behind Grimes, he saw Walsh immediately bristle, anger stealing over his features. Grimes' jaw worked for a moment, and he could almost see the man counting to ten in his head. "Jesus, don't get your shorts in a knot...I'll do it. But I ain't bluntin' any a' my arrows when we got plenty a' shovels. Old man's even got a pick axe, ain't he?"

They all stared at him as if he'd lost his mind, varying degrees of disgust on their faces. Grimes pressed his lips together, looking for all the world like he wanted to argue, but couldn't come up with a valid reason to. The old man looked aghast, and finally laid a hand on Grimes' shoulder.

"We can't just...bash our people's heads in. These are human beings, not rabid dogs."

He rolled his eyes heavenward. Fuck this shit. He wasn't going to stand around and argue while a fresh batch of Walkers got up with a mind to take a bite of him. "Wrong! They ain't nothin' but meat, now, and soon they'll be Walkers. You wanna start the weepin' an' wailin', you go for it Grandpa, but I ain't standin' around waitin' for a repeat a' last night!"

The old man rounded on him, eyes wide, and God he wanted to laugh. What in the hell was this man playing at, clinging to his moral outrage? "Son, for pity's sake--" the old man started, but he was having none of it.

"For fuck's..." he strode over to the body of the girl and kicked her over onto her back. In the next instant, he whipped the crossbow into position and fired. The bolt sailed neatly between the girl's dead, filmed-over eyes, and he turned back to glare at the group. "There. Ya' happy? She any less dead?" He planted his foot on her shoulder and grasped the shaft of the arrow, jerking it out with a sickening, wet squelch. "No? How many folks ya' think were up at this place? By my count, we got at least twenty bodies we gotta hunt down."

The others were glaring back at him now, anger and disgust clear on their faces. "Jesus, man, have some respect," the Mexican muttered. He responded with a harsh bark of laughter.

"Respect? Y'all didn't even have anyone on fuckin' watch last night! The hell kinda respect was that, huh? Y'all had this comin'!"

"That's enough, Dixon!" Grimes shouted suddenly. "Enough. Morales, go see what shovels you can round up. Dale...we'll need that pick axe. No, I know," Grimes continued when the others immediately started voicing protest. "I don't like it either, but he's right. We can't waste bullets and we can't just demand he risk damaging his arrows. We're going to need all the ammo we can get. We'll start...we'll start dragging the bodies up here. Say four of us gathering the dead up, three of us--taking care of them. Dale, you're on watch. We'll burn the bodies tomorrow."

No one looked happy...but no one argued. The Mexican and the black man hurried off to find the asked-for shovels. Grimes, Walsh, and the old man fell into a whispered conversation. Every last one of them shot him an angry, bitter look as they passed him and separated off to their assigned jobs, leaving him to wait by the RV for the bodies to start being dragged up. Alone. With the everyone else too pissed off to even talk to him. Just like he'd wanted.

His eyes fell on the body of the girl again as he waited.

Merle would've been so proud of him.

Glenn would have been so ashamed.

Notes:

And scene :). I had originally planned on having Amy die as she did in the show, and then have Daryl take it upon himself to shoot her before she reanimated (over everyone's objections), but I don't want him to be so much of an asshat that the group would be unable to forgive him once he and Glenn are reunited. Hence, his instinctive actions to save Amy, laying down cover fire for Carol and Sophia, etc. I'm kind of trying to lay groundwork so that Rick has enough doubts about whether or not Daryl is just a bad guy to justify letting him come with them when they hit the CDC. Next up...Glenn and Danny do not have a very good time in Atlanta...and the two groups are meeting up!

Too bad Glenn's in the city. And unlike in his dream, Jill and Andrew don't actually know what Daryl looks like. That might've saved some trouble.

*evil laugh*

Chapter 6

Notes:

Hi! If anyone is curious, I will be posting snippets and thought processes from all my stories on my tumblr account. User name is neversaysdie :)

No matter how many times he saw it, a chill always went up Glenn's spine when they started passing the long line of abandoned cars leading out of Atlanta. They were just sitting there, hundreds and thousands of them, silent as any graveyard. There were doors hanging open on some of them, busted out windshields in others, and furniture and luggage scattered about more. He shuddered to think about the people that had been in them--what horrors they saw coming that had finally prompted them to abandon their vehicles and make a run for it. 

Though the streaks of blood and gore coating many of the cars told a very definite story. 

Not for the first time, it struck him how very lucky he had been to get out of the city when he did...before the highways got so clogged that people were running out of gas just sitting in traffic, before there was literally nowhere left to run. He stared out the passenger window of Jenny Casey's car--an old Subaru Outback that got decent gas mileage and had a little bit of cargo space--as Danny wended his way into the outskirts of the city. Conversation always dried up when they hit this part of the journey. 

Danny guided the car down into Atlanta, circling into an old industrial park about a mile away from the city's commercial district. They parked behind an decrepit maintenance shed that looked like it hadn't seen human trespassers since long before the apocalypse went and started. They got out of the car quietly and moved around to the trunk, pulling out their backpacks, a pair of aluminum baseball bats, and the large army duffle George let them use for supply runs. 

"All right, you wanna try for that CVS right off the bat, or hit a couple other places first?" Danny asked. Glenn gnawed on his lower lip, considering. 

"It's not gonna be a huge disaster if we have to go back empty-handed. That convenience store we went to last time was pretty picked over--I say we go for the pharmacy. If it doesn't work, we can come back in a few days and hit the west side."

Danny nodded his agreement, before pulling out the last of their supplies: one handgun and one rifle, with one precious clip of spare ammo for each. Grimly, he handed the rifle over to Glenn, tucking the handgun into his own belt. Knowing how to shoot was a matter of survival, these days, and Danny wasn't bad...but Glenn was a far better shot, and so carried the distance weapon. Glenn checked that the safety was on through force of habit--Don't care if ya'd swear ta' God'n your mama that you was the last one who handled it, you always assume the safety's off!--and slung the rifle up onto his shoulder. 

"Ready, G?" 

"As I'll ever be," he replied. They bumped fists and started making their way over the familiar route that would take them to the heart of the city's shopping district, Glenn in the lead. 

Between the two of them, Glenn suspected they knew Atlanta's alleys and side streets better than any map. He'd perfected a network of shortcuts on his delivery route and Danny's job as a bike messenger had necessitated a similar knowledge. Glenn was better at thinking on his feet, though, finding alternate routes and bolt-holes in the blink of an eye should they run across Walkers. As a rule, their default plan when their intended path was cut off was 'run the fuck away'. It served them well, but Danny couldn't improvise on the fly the way Glenn could. Thus, he tended to take charge when they went into the city. 

They stuck to the alleys mostly, only going out into the main streets when it was absolutely necessary. Glenn hated this part. Well, he hated the entire situation, but he most especially hated this part. Stealing into the city like thieves. Darting in and out of alleyways with his heart in his throat and every sense straining for the slightest hint of Walkers. He never felt closer to death than when he was doing this--the knowledge of what could be waiting for him around every corner hanging over his head like a dark cloud. 

They darted down the streets, hugging buildings and debris for cover wherever they could. If anything, the city was even more eerie than the highway.  The city was utterly silent, crowded with abandoned cars and military blockades. The smell of death and rot--sharp and sickly sweet at the same time--hung heavy in the air, a choking cloud that they had grown disturbingly used to. The city was littered with the evidence of desperate last stands. 

They didn't start seeing significant numbers of the geeks until they were nearly halfway to their destination, and Glenn sincerely hoped it was a sign that luck was with them today. The Walkers they did see were easily avoided with only a few changes in their route. In less than two hours, they had worked their way to their destination: an old pawn shop right on the corner of Martin Luther King Blvd. 

The place had been out of business for years before the outbreak, and billboards out on the walls announced that a trendy clothing chain had bought the building and would be opening a boutique soon. He and Danny were interested in it for two reasons: one, there was an old-fashioned fire escape up the side of the building that granted access to the roof; and two, the heavy-duty security bars installed by the pawn shop's owner were still intact, guaranteeing the building was geek-free. The CVS pharmacy that was their real target was on the next street over. 

Unfortunately, that street had been absolutely crawling with geeks the last few times they had scouted the pharmacy. The block had been the site of one of the failed military blockades...there had been a lot of bodies there to turn into a veritable nest of Walkers. Glenn thought they had a pretty solid plan, though, and the fact that there were so many geeks hanging around virtually guaranteed that the CVS hadn't been looted already. Silently, they crouched down by the very corner of the once-pawn shop, in the shadow of a large dumpster. The street they were on was less packed with Walkers. From his vantage point, Glenn could see a knot of about fifteen milling around the entrance of a Starbucks, about half a block up from where they were. 

Halfway between them and the knot of geeks was the mouth of an alley that would let them out right across the street from the CVS. The alleyway was barricaded by an ambulance and a large pickup truck on their side. A lot of the alleys in the city had been blocked up in such a fashion, as though someone (or, more likely, several someones) had been trying to keep geeks contained, or guarantee themselves relatively clear escape routes. Whoever had done it, Glenn wished the poor bastards all the luck in the world--it had saved his life and Danny's on more than one occasion. 

"All right," he said, "see that black Lincoln and the green SUV up there?" He pointed to a couple of cars that were parked on the street, still waiting for owners that would never return. Beside him, Danny nodded.

"Cars that fancy gotta have alarms," he agreed. 

"We set them off, duck under the ambulance. If there's too many geeks in the alley, we roll right back out and back here to the roof. Otherwise, we wait for the street to clear out and run like hell for the next alley." If they could get across the street, they were pretty much golden. Glenn knew the alley the CVS backed out onto had a chain link fence across the entrance and dead-ended into a brick wall. The danger was in actually getting across the street and over said fence.

"Where you wanna head if things go south and we can't make it back here?" Danny whispered, eyes fixed on the group of geeks up the street. Glenn gnawed on his thumbnail, considering their options.

"Straight back out onto Eighth and hang a left onto Tremaine," he decided after a few moments.

"Right, right, that thrift store?" 

Glenn nodded. Like the pawn shop, the store he was thinking of had roof access from the street. He and Danny had passed the night on top of it once, when a supply run went pear shaped. Plan decided, they quickly and efficiently checked each other's backpacks, making sure they each had a couple of power bars and bottles of water in case there was another night spent in hiding in their future. Satisfied, Glenn dropped the duffle onto the ground and dug a few more items out. 

He exchanged Danny's baseball bat for a crowbar to pop the lock on the pharmacy's back door with. Lastly, he pulled out a lone set of walkie-talkies they had picked up on one of their first supply runs. They'd never yet gotten separated, but it paid to be cautious. 

"Ready?" he asked, zipping the duffle closed again. Danny clipped his walkie to his belt loop and nodded. 

"Let's hit it."

Glenn took a deep breath, and then they scrambled out from the relative shelter of the building. They kept low to the ground, hurrying up the sidewalk, eyes peeled for any stray geeks. His heart was pounding in his ears by the time they passed the barricaded alley, adrenaline spiking through him. 

They made it to the cars they'd picked without incident, and Glenn swallowed nervously as Danny slipped past him to take up position next to the SUV. Glenn raised his own bat as Danny got the crowbar into position. As one, they slammed their weapons through the passenger side windows of both cars. Instantly, the quiet of the city was shattered by the piercing wails of two car alarms, the sound echoing strangely off the tall buildings that surrounded them. 

He didn't wait to see the group up the street start to take interest. He and Danny were already racing back to the blockaded alley. He threw himself to the pavement as soon as he was close enough, scrabbling under the ambulance on his belly, Danny close behind. He paused a bare instant before scooting out on the other side, searching for any geeks wandering around the alley. Immeasurable relief coursed through him when he spotted no rotting, gore-spattered legs shambling around, and then he and Danny were out from under the barricade. He held the bat up, tense and ready, but the alleyway was miraculously clear of anything but debris--trash and and dumpsters, old plastic milk crates and rotting cardboard boxes. He spotted a couple bodies on the ground about fifty feet away from them...but even at a distance, he could see someone else had already bashed the heads in. 

He exchanged a hopeful look with Danny. So far, so good. Quietly, still sticking as close to the wall as possible, they darted down the alley, eyes already fixed on the familiar red and white sign they could see at the end of it. They slowed as they neared the mouth of the alleyway, sliding to a halt near a stack of plastic crates. As silently as possible, Glenn sidled around it, pressing himself against the rough brick as he eased up to the corner of the building that formed the alley wall. He looked out onto the street, barely poking his head out from the dubious cover of the alley. 

The street was still crawling with geeks.

At least fifty of the things, many of them in military and first responder uniforms. About twenty yards up the street he could see the remains of a blockade--sandbags topped with barbed wire and surrounded by Army trucks. He watched as the milling crowd of geeks slowly began to turn towards the noise of the car alarms in the next street. Without the ambient noise of civilization, the alarms were piercingly loud. He held his breath as the main knot of shambling, putrid figures began drifting farther up the street, searching out a route towards the noise. Away from them. Away from the pharmacy. 

He licked his lips, heart starting to pound in his chest for an entirely different reason. He waited for a tense few moments, as the geeks drifted farther and farther up the street. He slanted a look over at the CVS, noting the still-intact fence across the alley beside it. There were still about twelve geeks wandering around, but none of them was close enough to be a real threat, and none were currently looking their way. 

"Now!" he hissed. 

Danny did not have to be told twice. Together, they sprinted out of the alley, racing across the street. Somewhere to his left, he heard a terrible, hissing snarl...knew it meant one or more of the geeks had spotted them. He didn't dare look, though, focusing solely on the fence. He threw the duffle bag over it as soon as he was within reach, followed by his baseball bat. Without missing a beat, Danny skidded to a halt in front of the fence and laced his fingers together, crouching slightly. Glenn stepped into his cupped hands, reaching for the top of the fence and pulling as Danny boosted him up. 

The snarling was growing louder, shuffling footsteps getting closer and closer. 

He spared one glance over his shoulder, gritting his teeth when he saw three of the things heading straight for them. What had been a man and two women. The women literally had strips of flesh hanging off their faces and necks, and the man's left arm appeared to be attached only by a few tendons, but they were all three moving at a fast clip. 

He swung one leg up over the fence and straddled it awkwardly, reaching down for Danny's hand as his friend tossed the crowbar over the fence to land on the duffle bag. Then Danny scrabbled for a toe hold in the chain link, reaching up to grab Glenn's arm. He pulled with all his might, not letting go until Danny had a grip on top of the fence as well. He swung his other leg over and dropped down into the alley as Danny simply hauled himself over the fence in an ungainly forward flip. The younger man landed on his ass on the concrete with a solid thud, but was instantly rolling to his feet. 

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" Danny said urgently, snatching up the crowbar. If they could get inside the building before the geeks made it to the fence, there was a good chance they would lose interest and wander off towards the car alarms. If not...their frenzy might attract other much unwanted attention. Glenn grabbed his bat and the duffle, and he and Danny ran for the pharmacy's security door. 

It was sheer, unadulterated luck that saved Danny's life. 

They had been sure the fence would have kept the alley clear of any geeks roaming in from the street. They hadn't considered the possibility of any geeks wandering out from the store. 

Danny was searching for the best place to wedge the crowbar (and thank God the CVS hadn't upgraded to a security door that only opened from the inside) when a single geek lurched out from behind the rusty, metal dumpster shoved up against the wall by the door. It had been a girl, once, probably barely in her twenties, with long, dark hair and too much jewelry. She was still wearing the bright red smock that marked her as a store employee, and a bandage Glenn would have bet anything covered a bite wound stood out starkly on her forearm. She shuffled towards Danny, who was too intent on the door to notice, and if Glenn had been a fraction of a second slower, or if she hadn't been on the opposite side of the dumpster from them, she would have been on Danny before he had time to get the crowbar up. 

"Watch out!" he shouted, lunging past his friend and swinging the bat with all his might. He connected solidly, the metal bat caving in her skull like rotten fruit. He heard a sickening squelch and the crunch of bone as she dropped, viscous, blackened fluid pouring out of the ruin of her head. He raised the bat high and brought it down on her skull again anyway, just to be sure. He swallowed heavily, nausea roiling in his gut at the smell of putrefaction that suddenly enveloped him like a thick cloud. Behind him, he heard Danny gagging softly, but when he turned back to his friend, Danny was already jamming the end of the crowbar into the seam of the door right above the handle.

Glenn stood back as Danny started throwing his weight against the crowbar, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. They had about thirty seconds, less even, before the other three geeks would be at the fence. Danny, though, had five inches and forty pounds on him, and had played football all through high school. The door gave way after the third heave, and Glenn sucked in a breath of relief as Danny flung it open. 

They dived through and slammed it shut behind them, leaning against it, sweat pouring down their faces and chests heaving. Glenn leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs, the rifle's carrying strap slipping down his shoulder a bit. "Well," he gasped, "that was exciting."

"Dude," Danny whispered back, a wealth of agreement laced through the word. "Thanks for the save, there." He held up his fist again, and Glenn bumped knuckles with him lightly. 

"Nice work on the door. We'll call it even."

"Think there's any more in here?"

Glenn made a conscious effort to quiet his breathing, ears straining for the slightest sound that would indicate the presence of anymore Walkers. They were currently standing in what had been an employee lounge or something. 

There was a small counter with a sink and a coffee machine, a refrigerator, and a bank of bright red lockers the sort of which you might see in a bus station. A couple of tables and folding chairs were scattered around the room, and Glenn could see the shattered remains of a coffee pot around the machine and on the counter, where the contents had boiled away and the glass finally exploded from the heat of the hot plate underneath. 

There was only one door leading out. He nodded towards it, hefting the bat again. "Only one way to find out," he mumbled. Danny sighed and slid the suffers carry-strap over the shoulder. 

"If it's clear, are we goin' for food or just medicine?"

"I say just med stuff...we've got other places for food. I'll hit the shelves, you go behind the counter," he replied. One of the women back at the camp had actually been going to school to be a pharmacy tech. She'd spent several nights drilling the names of various antibiotics and painkillers into them when they started doing supply runs, but Danny had proved to have a better head for it. 

Silently, they slipped out of the lounge and into the store proper. Whoever had been there last had evidently locked the place down...the security screens had been rolled down across the windows and doors.  The early afternoon sunlight was filtering in through the tinted windows, making the place bright enough to see in. 

They shuffled into the store proper cautiously, back to back with the bat and crowbar held high. A few displays had been knocked over, their contents scattered across the floor, but no other Walkers swarmed out of the aisles to attack them. Glenn chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, listening intently. 

There was no noise in the darkened store but their breathing. He glanced over his shoulder at Danny, shrugging. They appeared to be the only people--living or dead--in the whole store. 

"Hell, yeah!" Danny whispered, finally daring to grin widely. He slid his backpack off his shoulders and passed it to Glenn, securing a better grip on the duffle. "What you say, twenty minutes?"

"Yeah...the car alarm won't distract the geeks forever. We need to be long gone before they start heading back over here." 

Danny nodded his agreement and split off from him, heading to the back of the store and the pharmacy counter. He watched his friend boost himself over the counter, heading directly for the shelves of prescription drugs. Once he was satisfied Danny wouldn't need his help, he headed for the over-the-counter aisles, opening Danny's backpack as he went. 

God, it was like Christmas come early. 

He couldn't help his own grin as he moved down the aisle, throwing tylenol, aspirin, and cold medication into the bag as fast as he could. He snatched boxes of gauze and bandages up and jammed them in tightly, followed by a couple of ACE bandages. Bottles of multi-vitamins followed...then he went back for more pain relievers and cold medicine. Who knew when they'd have a shot at a bounty like this again. He stuffed Danny's backpack full to bursting, then snapped it shut and traded it for the nearly empty one on his back.

This time he went for bars of soap, sunscreen, and tubes of toothpaste, things that people at the camp were running low on, but weren't life-or-death necessities. He upended several boxes of tampons into his bag, blushing as he did so. A fistful of travel-sized shampoo bottles and several tubes of burn cream followed. 

Finally, he headed over to the toy aisles. These were nowhere near necessities...but Jenny had mentioned that her son's birthday was sometime in the next couple of weeks, and he knew the kids at the camp needed some kind of normalcy. The remaining room in his bag he filled with boxes of crayons, a few coloring books, and three family-sized bags of M&M's. 

He was turning to head back to Danny, when he spotted a particular display at the end of an aisle. He literally froze, eyes locked on the display. It was like a sucker punch straight to the gut, and he inhaled shakily. Slowly, almost of their own volition, his feet carried him forward, until he was standing right in front of it. 

It was stupid. He should just turn around and go find his friend, get the hell out of here. Even before he completed the thought, though, he was reaching for the display. His hand closed around smooth plastic and he shoved the little bottle into his pocket before he could talk himself out of it, before his logical side could prevail and tell him how much he was just going to hurt himself. 

"G! Bro, we hit the motherload, here! You ready?" Danny's gleeful voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he turned to find the other boy hurrying towards him, the bulging duffle bag slung over his back. His friend was grinning ear-to-ear, and he forced a smile onto his own face. 

"Yeah...yeah I'm good," he answered.

They made their way back towards the break room, stopping at the front counter so Danny could fill the pockets of his cargo pants with candy, gum, and a few packs of cigarettes. Evidently he was not the only one thinking of the others back at camp, as he knew Danny didn't smoke. 

The plan had gone off as close to perfectly as could be hoped, even with the unexpected geek encounters. They were loaded down with medical supplies they had badly needed, enough to keep the camp going for weeks...months, if they were careful. It was as if Lady Luck herself had smiled on them. 

So of course, as they opened the door to the alley and slipped back out into the sunlight, Glenn immediately realized they had a big fucking problem. 

"Shit," Danny hissed, as they stepped out of the pharmacy. 

"Guess we didn't get inside in time," he said grimly, fingers tightening around the handle of his bat. 

The three Walkers that had chased them to the fence were still there...and had been joined by two more. The five of them were clawing frantically at the fence, rocking the chain link on its posts. Their frenzy only increased as the two of them stepped out of the store, rotted, clawing fingers reaching for them through the links. One of the new ones, a female, had clearly had its spine broken at some point. She had pulled herself a quarter of the way up the fence, the lower half of her body dragging uselessly on the ground. The other looked like he had been a pro-wrestler when he was alive...he was a huge, beefy slab of walking muscle. 

Most of which was exposed as the right side of his body had pretty well been gnawed away. His entrails were hanging out of his stomach in glistening, blackened ropes.

"Think we can wait them out inside?" he asked Danny. The front door of the store was out...there was no way they could get through the security gate. The only way out of the alley was over the fence. Danny shook his head. 

"By the time they clear off, the street might be full again." There were no other geeks behind the five, that he could see. Hopefully, that meant their distraction was still working. It wouldn't work forever, though...they needed to get out of here. 

"Crap, I was afraid you'd say that."

"You ready to run like hell?" Danny asked, pulling the handgun out of his pocket. There was only one way out of this. Glenn clutched the bat a little tighter, shifting the straps of the backpack he was carrying onto the crook of his elbow. 

"Always. Can you carry that bag or do we need to leave it?"

"I'll drop it if I have to," Danny said grimly, flicking the safety off and taking careful aim at the biggest Walker. Glenn tensed beside him. The gunshots going off would draw every geek in the area...they'd have minutes, at best, to get the hell out of here. Danny took a deep breath, and fired. 

Five shots, in quick succession. At this distance, there was no chance of him missing. The geeks dropped, fingers slowly unhooking from the chain links as they sank to the ground. 

"Let's go!" Danny shouted. He shoved the gun back into his pocket as he slung the duffle off his back, heaving it over the fence. Glenn quickly tossed the backpacks and his bat, keeping the rifle secure on his shoulder. As they had before, Danny boosted him up to straddle the top of the fence. He was reaching down for Danny's hand when he saw his friend's eyes suddenly focus on something on the other side of the fence. 

"Glenn!" he screamed. 

He kicked straight out without even looking, twisting as his foot connected with something soft and yielding. Horror shot through him as he realized as sixth Walker had been near the fence, hidden from view around the corner of the alley. He screamed as the thing--a man in a tattered, bloodstained business suit--merely staggered a little from the force of his kick, putrid, rotting hands already grasping his leg, teeth lunging for his calf. He desperately tried to jerk his leg out of the thing's grip, swaying precariously on top of the fence. He managed to kick the thing in the teeth before it could bite him, hard enough that it let go of him and stumbled back a few steps...but in the process, he overbalanced. 

He heard Danny shout his name again as he tumbled off the fence. He tried to roll with the fall, but he was at too awkward an angle. His right leg crumpled beneath him as he hit the ground, red-hot pain flaring in his ankle. He ignored it, immediately trying to scrabble away from the Walker that was still lunging at him, still snapping and snarling like a rabid animal. It was almost on him when a sixth gunshot went off, the sound like thunder on the deserted street. The Walker collapsed, landing mere inches from him as he scrambled  into a sitting position, staring at the thing in sheer horror. 

"Glenn! G! Fuck...fuck, are you okay? Jesus--" The chain link fence rattled as Danny swarmed up and over it in record time. His friend skidded to his knees beside him, frantically gripping his shoulders. "Did it get you? Tell me you ain't bit!" Danny demanded, his voice nearly hysterical. 

"Fine...I'm fine. It's okay, he didn't get me," he gasped out finally, still staring at the geek. So close...damn that had been close. Danny practically wilted against him. 

"Fuck...oh thank Christ. Jesus fuck, you scared me!" 

He swallowed heavily, finally pushing Danny's hands off his shoulders. "C'mon, we gotta get out of here!"

His words seemed to jolt Danny out of his worry, and his friend nodded, leaping to his feet and grabbing up the duffle bag again. Glenn hitched himself to his feet...or tried to. As soon as he tried to put any weight on his right leg, agony flared up the limb, radiating from his ankle. "Shit," he gasped, sinking down again. New terror stabbed through him as he gripped his ankle, probing it gently despite the throbbing pain. 

"What's wrong?" Danny demanded instantly, whipping around again.

"Ankle," he gasped. "I landed on it wrong when I fell." Danny's eyes went wide. 

"Broken?"

He shook his head. He'd had broken bones before...this just felt like a bad sprain.

But here...even a sprain was as good as a death sentence. Danny raked his hands back through his red hair, fear twisting his features. 

"Can you make it back to the pawn shop?" he asked, already leaning down to yank one of Glenn's arms over his shoulders. Glenn bit his lip as the other boy hauled him into a standing position without preamble. 

"Gonna have to," he gritted out. "Gimme the bat and the other bag." 

"G--" Danny started to argue, but he shook his head firmly. 

"I'll drop them if I have to," he said. Danny pressed his lips into a thin line, but didn't protest. He let go of Glenn long enough to scoop up the bag and bat, handing them over before settling Glenn's arm across his shoulders again. 

"I got ya', bro. We're gonna get out of this," Danny said, as confidently as he could manage. Glenn nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. 

He grit his teeth as they started across the street, Danny taking most of his weight as he moved along in an awkward, hopping limp. Even that little bit of movement sent pain rocketing up and down his leg, and he prayed to anything that might be listening that he hadn't torn something. Miracle of miracles, they actually made it across the street and into the alley they had first come out of without incident. 

They still had to get back under the barricade and make it half a block to the pawn shop, though...and all the geeks they weren't running into now would be waiting for them on the other side of the barricade. They were both gasping for breath before they were halfway down the alley, though neither would drop the supplies they were carrying until it was absolutely a matter of life or death.

As it well might become. 

Glenn clenched his fist around the strap of the backpack he was carrying, the practical, strategic side of him coldly informing him of what he had to do. 

"Danny," he said quietly. "Listen...when we get to the pawn shop I want you to leave me there."

"Swear to God, G, you best be saying that 'cause you hit your head when you busted your ankle. 'Cause I know you don't actually think I'm gonna leave you behind," Danny snapped without missing a beat.

"Damn it, listen to me. You can't carry me all the way back to the car."

"Fine, I'll stay too."

"Danny!" he burst out. "You can't do that to your parents, man. Jill would flip. It might be days before I can put weight on my ankle." A particularly sharp stab of pain told him there was no 'might be' about it. "My best chance is for you to get back to camp...maybe you and your dad can figure out a way to get a vehicle down here. Or worst case scenario, you can bring me a tent and some food and I'll just hole up on the roof until I'm healed enough to get out under my own power. There's enough food and water in the backpacks to last me a couple days--you need to go for help."

Unspoken, but very much present between them, was the fact that Glenn would never be able to forgive himself if his friend got hurt (or worse) trying to protect him. Danny was grimly silent as they hobbled the remaining few feet to the barricade. Then he huffed out a noisy breath. 

"Goddamn it, G. We will come back for you. Dad'll figure something out...or if you have to stay up there, I'll stay with you," Danny promised fervently. They stopped just in front of the vehicles that blocked the alley. One of the car alarms had fallen silent, but the other was still going. Glenn just prayed it would be enough to distract the geeks for a few more minutes. 

Danny helped him lean up against the wall for a moment, and pulled the handgun and extra ammo clip out of his pocket. "Here," he said, passing it over, "you're a better shot with moving targets." Glenn took the gun without arguing. It was going to be speed over stealth, now...anything got close to them, he would blow it away. He tried to hand the rifle over, but Danny waved him off. "Dude, Mom'll kill me if I leave you here with just one gun. I mean, she's gonna kill me anyway...but if I take one of the guns, she'll make it painful. She's known you a month, man, how the hell are you her favorite?"

Glenn grinned shakily. "I'm cuter and I have better manners."

Danny returned the smile, though it came out a little strained, and punched him affectionately in the shoulder. "I'll  be fine with the bat. You sure about this?" His friend's green eyes were pleading. 

He nodded grimly. "It's the best way for both of us to get out of this," he said. 

Danny's shoulders slumped, but he offered no further arguments. There was no time to be going back and forth anyway. Glenn checked the clip and the safety on the handgun, and then he and Danny dropped to the ground and began wiggling under the ambulance again. Luck was being a fickle bitch today...but it appeared she was smiling on them again--for the moment--when Danny's quick check before crawling out from under the vehicle revealed the Walkers all congregating around the car with the still wailing alarm. There was not much of a window of time--they both knew the ones on the outer edges of the herd would be quick to spot any movement--but it might be enough to get them to the pawn shop. 

They took one last moment to steel themselves, and then shimmied out from under the barricade. Danny immediately leapt to his feet and hauled him up again. Crouching as low as they could, they began an awkward three-legged run as Glenn tried to hold his injured leg off the ground and just hop along with Danny's steps. They made it about halfway to the pawn shop before they heard the first hissing groan. Glenn risked a glance over his shoulder, eyes widening as he saw several geeks starting to turn towards them, to shuffle after them. 

"Faster is better," he said softly, thumbing the safety off on the handgun. Silently Danny obliged as more and more of the swarm of Walkers started breaking off from the car and following them. 

Glenn nearly felt like crying as they reached the pawn shop, whipping around the corner and heading straight for the rusty old fire escape ladder that would get him up to the roof. Danny let go of him reluctantly as he shoved the gun into the back of his jeans and slid the straps of the backpack he was carrying onto his elbow again. It would be awkward as hell climbing the ladder with only one foot and carrying two backpacks and the rifle...but the horde of hungry corpses behind him was a powerfully motivating force. 

"I got this, go!" he ordered, grabbing the rungs of the ladder and hopping onto it. He had to support most of his weight with his arms, but he was able to hop up a couple rungs on one foot, pulling himself up with his hands. He only had to climb like that for about ten feet, and then a set of safety rails started caging the ladder in like a tube. He'd be able to rest his weight against those as he climbed. 

"G...Jesus, stay safe," Danny gasped finally. 

"You too. Now go!" Danny shot him one last pained look...then turned on his heel and ran. Glenn didn't watch him go. All of his focus was on getting up the ladder. 

He was only about twelve feet off the ground by the time the first geeks came shambling around the corner...but it was enough. He ignored their gruesome, gasping moans, ignored the way they clawed at the walls of the building, reaching up for him. He set his sights on the lip of the roof, and kept climbing. 

Going the way he was, what should have taken him two minutes, tops, took almost half an hour. He didn't rest, though, didn't relax one iota until he had hauled himself over the edge of the roof, collapsing in a sweaty, gasping heap on the boiling hot concrete the roof was topped with. He forced himself to his knees after a few moments, though, leaning out over the edge to look down. What he saw sent a chill straight through him. 

The geeks were swarming around the building...at least forty or fifty of them. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw a few of them clawing at the bottom of the ladder and he frantically scrambled for the lever that operated the fire-escape's old pulley system. The contraption fought him for a few moments, before giving in with a creaking groan. Only when he saw the bottom of the ladder retract, sliding upwards until the bottom run was a good six feet above the geeks did he relax a little. 

He sank back down onto the concrete, pulling the brim of his baseball cap low over his eyes. There was no shade available on the roof, and already the sun was pounding down on him unmercifully. Slowly, he pulled one of the backpacks into his lap and opened it. He rooted around inside the stuffed back until his fingers closed on the sides of one of the water bottles. Jill always sent them with enough supplies for two days. With his and Danny's emergency rations, he should be fine. He'd be hot and uncomfortable...but he'd be alive. 

And hey, he'd even grabbed a couple bottles of sunscreen. He'd meant it for the kids at camp, so they could maybe go swimming in the lake...but avoiding sun poisoning was a hell of a lot more important. 

He had food, he had water, and he even had painkillers and ACE bandages. The geeks couldn't get to him and Danny would come back way before he ran out of water. Sure, he couldn't walk properly, let alone run...but Andrew would figure out a way to get him out of here. He'd be fine. 

He would. 

He stared hard at his hands, telling himself that they were only shaking because of adrenaline overload. 

He swallowed hard, breathing in and out in deliberately calm rhythm. After a few moments, one shaking hand slid into his pocket, drawing out the little plastic bottle he'd swiped from the display at the pharmacy. Slowly, carefully, he unscrewed the cap, staring at the green label that had been a permanent fixture in his bathroom. He raised the bottle to his nose and instantly the sickly, rotten-sweet odor of Atlanta was swept away by a familiar, cool, woodsy tang. 

Daryl had always worn this brand of aftershave. 

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He tried to pretend, just for a moment--he just needed a moment to calm down, get his head on straight--that Daryl was here with him. Beside him. He let Daryl's familiar scent wash over him, tried to pretend he could hear his lover's graveled voice in his ear instead of the geeks' horrific moans. 

"You're gonna be fine, y'hear? Ya' got this far, ya' ain't gonna go down now."

Familiar pain clenched in his chest and he leaned back against the waist-high wall that circled the roof's edge. If he concentrated hard enough, he could imagine it was the warm weight of Daryl's arm over the back of his neck, instead of the hot Georgia sun beating down on him. 

He kept his eyes closed, and just kept breathing in the scent he'd come to associate with the man who had been his world.

He would be fine. He would. 

He kept breathing. 

Notes:

Whew! Long-ass chapter...but this will be the last one entirely from Glenn's POV for a while. I'll be checking in with him in bits...mostly so we can see more flashbacks of his and Daryl's life pre-ZA, but the next few chapters will all be in Daryl's POV. We are drawing ever closer to the big reunion :)

If anyone has the time and inclination...I would love thoughts on Danny and the other OC's. Obviously, the prompt necessitated the creation of another group of survivors, but I worry about detouring into Mary-Sue'ism. At the same time, I want them to be dynamic, three-dimensional characters--any road, please call me on it if they're too much. :)

Chapter 7

He thought he had gotten used to the stench.
 
It wasn’t so bad out at the quarry.  They were far enough into the woods that the air was still clean and fresh most days.  Hell, he’d grown up in a perpetual cloud of cigarette smoke and cheap alcohol fumes…stink didn’t bother him much.  Sometimes, though, sometimes the wind would blow a certain way and it would carry the scent of death on it.  The sickly, too-sharp-too-sweet odor of rot that reminded them all that there were literally hundreds and thousands of decomposing corpses around them.  He thought he’d gotten used to it. 
 
As he and the Mexican—Morales, he’d heard Grimes call him--heaved yet another body onto the already-smoldering bonfire they had started in one of the cleared areas, Daryl realized he was wrong.
 
The smell of burning flesh--human flesh—hung over the camp like a shroud.  Black, oily smoke was billowing off the fire, carrying the smell.  Like cooking meat, but wrong…so, so wrong and it clung to them.  It soaked into their clothes, their hair, their skin.  Daryl could taste it in the back of his throat with every breath.  As they swung the body (the remains of a woman he had seen Morales’s wife talking to on occasion) onto the pile of other corpses, the other man turned away suddenly and took a few, rushed steps away from the bonfire.  Daryl swiped the back of his hand over his brow as Morales crouched down and started retching into the dirt.  A smartass remark danced on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back. 
 
He’d snuck off and puked in the bushes himself a little while ago. 
 
While the other man was collecting himself, Daryl made his way over to the RV, intent on snagging one of the bottles of water laid out on the steps leading up into the vehicle.  He averted his eyes from the pile of ravaged and mutilated bodies that the crazy mechanic and the black man (T-Dog…they called him T-Dog, and what the hell kind of name was that?) were methodically taking shovels and pickaxes to.  They were rotating in pairs through three “stations”: two of them going through the camp and hauling bodies back to the RV in Walsh’s Jeep, two of them making sure no one was coming back, and two of them disposing of the bodies in the fire. 
 
It didn’t seem right, somehow, tossing the people of the camp in the same piles with the Walkers—and Lord didn’t he know exactly what to attribute that impulse to. 
 
Or rather, who. 
 
He’d been tempted to float the idea of burying them—after all, the mechanic had dug all those holes anyway.  Grimes would probably have gone for it.  In the end, though, it just wasn’t practical.  They didn’t have the time and they couldn’t waste the energy, and the people of the camp would still be dead no matter what.  There was no point to it. 
 
He and Morales had taken their turns driving through the remains of the camp and were due to relieve T-Dog (and seriously? How was he supposed to look a man calling himself ‘T-Dog’ in the eye and take him serious?) and the wack-job mechanic of the task of putting down people permanently in another hour or so.  He wasn’t looking forward to that.  Oh, he’d do it, no problem, and he wasn’t going to bitch about it like some of the others no doubt would.  It needed doing, and that was that…but just because he was being practical didn’t mean he was eager. 
 
He reached the RV and scooped up a bottle of water, drinking thirstily and sinking down to sit on the steps that led up into the vehicle.  Behind him, he heard the kids immediately get up from the little ‘kitchen’ table and scamper further back into the RV, but he paid them no mind.  He pulled the tail of his wifebeater up to his face and scrubbed uselessly at the sweat that was pouring off of him, probably just smearing the dirt, blood, and ash around. 
 
He stared out over the remains of the camp, trying to mentally tally up how many more bodies they’d likely have to burn.  He had a rough idea of many people there had been in camp, but there was no telling how many Walkers had swarmed in.  It had seemed like thousands.  He forcibly repressed a shudder at the memory of all those creatures lurching into the firelight.  God, it had been so close. 
 
He gulped down most of the rest of the water, and then dumped the last few swigs out over his head and neck.  He sighed softly, even the warm liquid feeling like heaven on his overheated skin.  He didn’t care what he had to do, sometime today he was finding the time to go down to the quarry and just dive headfirst into the water.  He was shaken out of his thoughts when someone cleared their throat softly to his left. 
 
Startled, his head whipped to one side to find the older of the blonde sisters—Andrea, his mind supplied; everyone had called her Andrea—standing a few feet away from him.  A few of the women (both the sisters, the black woman, and, surprisingly, the timid woman with the little girl) had volunteered to start sorting through the cleared areas of the camp, gathering up supplies and food that could be salvaged.  Assuming she wanted her own bottle of water, he heaved himself to his feet and started back towards where Morales seemed to have finally gotten himself together. 
 
“Hey, wait up a minute,” the woman called suddenly, and when he turned around again she was holding the handle of his buck knife out to him, the blade gingerly gripped in her fingers. 
 
The knife he’d thrown at the Walker that had been about to take a bite out of the woman’s sister.  He’d honestly forgotten about it.  He reached for it, noting with surprise that it had been cleaned.  The handle was free of any blood or gore, and the blade gleamed like new under the sunlight.  He narrowed his eyes slightly as he flipped the knife neatly in his hand, brushing his thumb over the edge.  This was the best knife he’d ever owned--if she’d nicked the blade or something trying to clean it…
 
“I asked Shane to clean it up and sharpen it this morning,” she said suddenly, as if reading his mind.  “I used to help my dad with his, but it’s been years…” she trailed off uncomfortably, and he offered her a small nod of acknowledgement after he remembered who ‘Shane’ was.  He and Walsh got along about as well as oil and water, but he had to admit that the man knew what he was doing when it came to weapons. 
 
He shoved the knife back into the sheath still clipped to his belt loop, and reached up to rub at the back of his neck, a nervous habit he’d never quite been able to break himself of.  “Thanks,” he muttered awkwardly, and turned to leave again. 
 
“No, wait.”  The woman—Andrea—took a step forward; reaching out one hand as though she meant to grab his elbow.  He sighed gustily. 
 
“What ya’ want?” he snapped.  “Got work t’do.” 
 
“I—I just...thank you,” she stammered out finally.  Then she took a deep breath and seemed to steel herself.  “Thank you,” she repeated more firmly.  “Last night…you saved my sister’s life.”  She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly gone glassy, and he took a small, shuffling step backward.  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you…if you hadn’t been there…”
 
“Jesus, forget it,” he said, more intensely uncomfortable than he’d been in a long time.  He hadn’t thought about saving the girl—he’d just done it.  There was no need for anyone to start blubbering over it.  “Damn thing’d probably a’ gone for me next.” 
 
Andrea shook her head.  “You had your gun,” she protested.  “You could’ve just let it---let it bite her and gotten your gun up.  You didn’t have to save her, and I just…thank you.  Thank you so much.”  She reached up to wipe the back of her hand across her eyes. “Amy’s all I have left…you can’t possibly understand what she means to me.”
 
And he was down to the dregs of his reserves—beaten down and exhausted by the events of the night before, and the backbreaking work that clearing up the camp involved.  He’d spent the better part of the morning hefting bodies into a raging fire, and even if he hadn’t given two shits about the people in the camp, he wasn’t such a bastard that he was completely unaffected by the sight of so many people dead in such horrific ways.  He was tired to the bone, absolutely soul-weary, and he couldn’t help himself. 
 
He thought of Glenn. 
 
He thought of Glenn the way he usually forbade himself from doing, unwilling to open himself to the pain that thinking of his boy always brought.  He remembered the feel of Glenn in his arms, the way he would wake up in their bed with the younger man tangled around him like a human blanket.  He remembered the sound of Glenn’s laugh, his smile, the way he always seemed to fit so well against his side.  Glenn had been the center of his goddamn universe, and he understood perfectly well what this woman’s sister meant to her.  Especially in this world.    
 
He understood, and something of that must have shown on his face.  He saw Andrea’s eyes suddenly sharpen, then widen, too perceptive and suddenly too knowing for his comfort.  “Oh,” she whispered.  “Oh…I didn’t think…I’m sorry, we all just assumed—“
 
“Whatever,” he spat.  Yeah, he knew what they had assumed, never mind that he’d done absolutely nothing to disabuse them of the notion that he was an unfeeling bastard…that there was no way in hell he had anyone to mourn.  It was the same thing that everyone had assumed about him his entire life. 
 
Everyone but Glenn.
 
The thought hit him like a punch to the chest, and he struggled to push it aside, to push the thoughts and images and memories away like he always did.  He turned away from her and stalked back towards the pile of bodies that were still waiting to be burned, clenching his jaw so hard it was painful.  He heard the woman call out after him, but he ignored her easily.  He didn’t need her apologies.  Or her sympathy.  Or her fucking thanks. 
 
He was almost back to Morales when a high, panicked voice suddenly rang out. 
 
“A Walker got him!  A Walker bit Jim!”  
 
His head snapped up, focusing on the figures of the black woman and the nutjob mechanic, who was backing away from the rapidly gathering members of the group, a smear of fresh blood standing out on his shirt. 
 
Oh.  Oh hell. 
 
He was moving before he consciously realized it, snatching up one of the discarded pickaxes, and then…
 
Well, then things went a little crazy. 
 

******He left as soon as the last body was burned, slinging the crossbow onto his back and calling a halfhearted warning to the old man standing watch on the RV that he was going to do a perimeter check.  He didn’t bother to see if the old man heard him or not…he doubted very much if anyone gave a shit what he did at this point.  He tramped through the remains of the camp, ignoring the way his boots squished and slid in some places.  He didn’t slow down until the woods swallowed him, until he could no longer hear the sounds of the others, until the bitter tang of burning flesh faded somewhat from the air. 
 
Almost of their own accord, his feet found the path that would take him down to the quarry.  Every sense was on high alert as he moved through the woods, but there was no hint of a threat.  No shambling, dragging steps in the underbrush, no hideous moans.  It was as if the Walkers had never been there.  Nonetheless, he kept the bow loaded and ready as he made his way down to the water, eyes tracking restlessly over the trees and bushes. 
 
The sun was starting its descent by the time he reached the rocky shore of the quarry, casting golden-orange light over the water.  He’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it back to camp before full dark.  Jumpy as everyone was, they’d probably shoot first and ask questions later if he came tramping out of the woods after nightfall.  He certainly would.
 
For a moment, instincts ingrained in him since childhood quailed at the idea of possibly contaminating their water source...but he shoved the notion aside. He'd already rinsed the Walker gore away up at the camp, in buckets they'd brought up for just that purpose. It wasn't like they hadn't all been doing their laundry and bathing in the quarry for weeks, anyway. Besides, he needed this. Needed to feel all the blood and shit of this godawful day sluiced off his skin, completely gone in ways that a scrub-down with a bucket wasn't going to provide. He kicked his boots off just at the waterline, and, not bothering to strip any of his other clothes off, waded out into the water up to his thighs.  He stopped by a large boulder jutting up out of the water and gently set the crossbow and his knife on top of it, in easy reach.  Something told him that what Walkers had been in the woods had all grouped together in the herd that had attacked the camp, but he wasn’t going to bet his life on it. 
 
The water lapped gently at his legs as he braced himself against the sun-warm roughness of the boulder for a moment, just breathing, eyes shut tightly.  For a moment, he imagined that he could still feel the cold steel of Grimes’ gun pressed up against the back of his head, and he let out a shuddering little sound that might have been a laugh.  God, what a fucked up situation.
 
He looked down into the water, at the rippling, distorted image of his own reflection staring back up at him.  The light wasn’t the best, but he could see the layers of filth clinging to him.  There was blood and dirt and ash coating his body like war paint, and his hair hung in his face in greasy, sweaty clumps; longer than he’d worn it in years.  He swallowed heavily, tilting his head slightly.

He’d lost it a little back in the camp.  He could admit that, here, away from any of the others.  He’d seen that bite mark on the mechanic’s chest (a goddamn death sentence and was he the only one that remembered that?) and everything just seemed to boil up inside of him.  There was the man—bitten and already sickening and they were all just standing, talking about it like the guy wasn’t a goddamn grenade with the pin pulled out now.  Bitten and turning into one of them, a Walker, one of the things that had destroyed the entire fucking world, one of the things that had destroyed his entire fucking world, and it was too close, too much.
 
It had all hit him.  The Walkers’ attack.  The fucking looks the others kept shooting him out of the corners of their eyes.  The smell of death and smoke in the boiling heat.  The greasy film of ash that used to be people settling on his skin.  That Andrea woman’s suddenly too-knowing, too-sympathetic gaze.
 
And Glenn.  Always, always, Glenn, and that horrible, empty space next to him where Glenn was supposed to be.
 
He stared at the image in the water, wondering what Glenn would say if he could see him, now.  Glenn had loved him.  In a life largely made up of uncertainties, that was one truth Daryl knew down to his bones.  Glenn had loved him.  His boy had told him once that being with Daryl had taught him about being strong.  He’d never found a way to tell Glenn that being with him had taught Daryl about being better.  That everything gentle and kind and good about him, the things that his worthless Pa and his brother had tried to stamp out, had flourished when he was with Glenn.    
 
He narrowed his eyes, staring hard at the wavering reflection of his own face in the water.  Glenn had loved him.  They’d gone camping together and grocery shopping together and bickered over what to make for dinner.  They’d sat on the floor in front of their couch, Glenn lounging in the vee of his legs, back pressed against Daryl’s chest and picked at Chinese takeout, or shouted at calls made during a Braves game, or ruthlessly tried to destroy each other in one of Glenn’s video games that they both knew Daryl enjoyed just as much, even if he never said it.  They’d moved in together…and he wasn’t one for rings and ceremonies (particularly ones that weren’t legal anyway), but he’d considered that permanent. 
 
Was there even anything left of the man he’d been when he had Glenn?
 
Abruptly, he dashed his fist into the water, breaking up the image.  He yanked his stained, grimy shirt over his head and plunged it into the quarry water, scrubbing furiously—uselessly—at the fabric with just his hands.  The water began to cloud with dirt and blood anyway, and he sank down onto his knees so that it lapped at his chest, wonderfully cold, distractingly cold.  He didn’t bother scrubbing at the pants…those were a lost cause weeks ago.  The best he could do was soak away the fresh dirt. 
 
He scrubbed and scrubbed at the shirt, before flinging it up onto the boulder with his crossbow and knife, and then he reached down and scooped up a handful of wet sand from the quarry bottom.  He attacked his arms with it, using it to break up the ash and grime that had ingrained itself onto his skin throughout the day. 
 
More sand.  More scrubbing.  He raked his hands over his chest and neck, rubbed the sand into his shoulders and against his ribs.  Harder, and harder, until there was a cloud of black-red-dirt-blood-grit floating around him…and then he did it again.  He scoured every inch of his skin that he could reach, rubbing until it hurt, until scabbed over cuts and scrapes broke open again, until new ones appeared. 
 
Until he could concentrate on the welcome, stinging pain instead of the thoughts chasing themselves in circles in his head. 
 
Finally, he took a deep breath and ducked under the water entirely, swimming forward a bit to let fresher water rinse away the sand.  A dozen little cuts and wounds burned as the biting cold of the water hit them, and he relished it, focused as hard as he could on it.  He stayed under as long as he could, letting his lungs start to burn and strain for air before he planted his feet under him again and stood up.  He’d made his way about eight feet from the boulder, out into waist-deep water, and he cursed as he waded back to where he’d left his weapon. 
 
His skin stung anew as the air hit it, and he ruthlessly kept his mind on the sensation as he slipped his soaking wet shirt back over his head; gathered up the crossbow and the knife.  He made his way back to the shore, pausing to yank his wet socks off before shoving his bare feet back into his boots.  Uncomfortable as hell to walk in, but it would be worse to let the insides get completely soaked.  He jogged back up towards the path that would lead him back to the camp, the crossbow banging against his back with every step…but he concentrated on that, as well. 
 
Anything to keep from thinking about what had happened.  About what Andrea might have figured out.  About what he was going to do when it came time to decide whether or not to strike out on his own or follow Grimes and his pipe dream of the CDC.  Anything to keep from thinking about the ticking time bomb in their midst, and how easy it was to picture Glenn in that position. 
 
Bitten.
 
Dying, scared and alone. 
 
He hustled back to camp, ignoring everything but the sting of the cuts, the thump of the crossbow.  Ignoring the thoughts that wanted to swamp him and drag him under into memories. 

Ignoring bitter, endlessly looping knowledge that he'd lost the only thing in his life that had ever been worth having.
 

Notes:

Sorry I've been MIA for so long. Work went a little hectic and my laptop had a stroke :(. I promise, though, none of my fills have been abandoned and I hope to start updating more frequently again.

This will be the last chapter at the quarry...next bits will AT LAST have the two groups meeting. And a rescue mission will be mounted for poor Glenn. But will Daryl be a part of it? When will our two heroes be reunited? Alas, the course of true love never did run smooth...

A reminder (because I'm feeling like some self-pimpage), I'm posting update notices on all my stories, as well as snippets and previews (mostly from this story) of upcoming parts on my tumblr now. Neversaysdie.tumblr.com

Occasionally, I even take reader requests for certain events in the fills :)

Chapter 8

Notes:

So...I'm not usually quite THIS fast, but Kir was calling me names on tumblr and saying I made her sad with that last chapter. So I wrote a new chapter to make it up to her :)

And you may all blame her for the flashback at the end. Enjoy!

 
He slowed as he approached the camp, the habit of a lifetime quieting his steps on the forest floor.  He didn’t need anyone taking potshots at his head from the top of the RV, and crashing through the underbrush like a bull in a china shop was a surefire way to rile everyone up.  The sun was making its final descent in the sky, deep shadows starting to cast out from the trees.  The air was still hot and close, and the acrid smell of smoke was growing stronger by the moment.  His still-wet clothes clung uncomfortably to his body, and sweat had started trickling down his face and back again…but at least he was free of the grime that had collected over a day of manning what were essentially a bunch of huge funeral pyres. 
 
Just as he was about to break out of the tree line, he heard the murmur of voices coming from one of the small clearings just at the edge of the camp.  Some instinct prodded him to muffle his steps still further, and he crouched slightly, becoming just another silent shadow in the forest. 
 
“I think it’s worth a shot…it’s closer than the fort, and if the way’s blocked, we can always turn back.  Amy and I already talked about it.  We’re sticking with you.” The blonde woman, Andrea, was talking quietly.  He crept up to the wide trunk of a tree and eased himself down beside it, peering out into the clearing silently. 
 
Most of the members of the camp were standing in a loose group in the clearing.  Grimes and his wife, Walsh, Andrea and her sister, the old man, Morales and T-Dog…they were all there, evidently still arguing about what route to take when they abandoned the camp.  There was no sign of the black woman (what had they called her today…Jerry?  Joanie?  No, Jacqui.  That was it.) or the blonde girl’s mama and Morales’s wife.  Likely they were in the RV, trying to care for the mechanic, or riding herd on the children. He ruthlessly ignored the little twist in his gut at the thought of just women and children being around the man when he’d been bitten—particularly as he’d never seen any evidence that any of those women had ever picked up a gun, much less knew how to shoot one.  Grimes and Walsh weren’t stupid, though—however much he didn’t like them, he had to give credit where credit was due.  They wouldn’t have left if the mechanic had been close to actually turning.
 
He knew he should announce his presence, but it never hurt to get the lay of the land before barging in.  He shifted into a more comfortable position, curious as to what everyone else thought of Grimes’ plan.  Personally, he thought both destinations (the CDC and the fort) were a waste of time…if there was anything left at either place, they would have heard something about it by now.  He didn’t have any better ideas, though, and so he’d kept his mouth shut. 
 
“I appreciate that, Andrea, we’re glad to have you,” Grimes said quietly.  He rubbed one hand over his haggard-looking face, just rubbing the ash and dirt further into his pale skin.  They all looked exhausted and filthy, just as beaten down and bone-weary as he felt.
 
The old man nodded slowly, pulling his stupid bucket hat off his head and wiping his cheeks with it.  “I’m in, too.  I don’t know if the RV can handle the trip to Fort Bennett…I’d rather we try something local first.  But you haven’t steered us wrong yet, Rick,” he said warmly.  Grimes chuckled a bit and reached over to clap the man on his shoulder.
 
“Yeah, that’s all well an’ good, but from where I’m sitting we ain’t got the fuel to waste running around from place to place,” Walsh grunted.
 
God, he hated it when he agreed with Walsh.
 
“We can siphon fuel from abandoned cars along the way,” Grimes replied calmly.  “Lord knows there’s plenty of ‘em.  They can’t all have been drained.”
 
“What about Walkers?  I mean, hell, we haven’t been able to get more than a couple miles into the city.  If we get to the CDC and it’s overrun, and we have to fight out way out, that’s one thing.  But man, if we have to fight our way in…” T-Dog trailed off, crossing his arms over his chest. 
 
“It won’t come to that,” Grimes said.  “Look, if there’s no way to get there without passin’ through a bunch of Walkers, we’ll turn back.  I’m not asking you to take any stupid risks.  But if there’s any chance, any chance at all that there’s something left…I just think we oughta’ take it before we strike out over a hundred miles.” 
 
He let his head thump softly against the rough bark of the tree. He hated it even more when he agreed with Grimes. 
 
Walsh let out a beleaguered, huffing sigh, his eyes flicking over to Grimes’ wife.  “Look, I’m with you…you know I’m with you.  We just gotta be smart about this.”  His eyes never left the Grimes woman’s face, and Lord God, he couldn’t be the only one who saw that situation for what it was, could he?  Grimes, though, just smiled at Walsh before turning his eyes to T-Dog and Morales. 
 
“What about you, gentlemen?” he asked quietly. 
 
“Hell, ain’t like I got anywhere else to go,” T-Dog replied immediately.  “I’m in, long as you got room.  I know Jacqui will be, too.” 
 
“Carol and Sophia are coming with us.  I talked to Carol this afternoon,” Grimes’ wife added. 
 
“Morales?” Grimes asked. 
 
“I--I have to talk to Miranda.  We’re still thinking.  Don’t get me wrong, we’re grateful for everything you and Shane have done here, Rick…but the CDC is a huge risk,” Morales said quietly, shoving his hands in his pockets. 
 
“That’s fine,” Grimes said immediately.  “You gotta do what you think is best.  Just know we’d all be glad to have you.”  Morales nodded gratefully, but didn’t offer anything else. 
 
After a few moments, the old man sighed and wrung his hat in his hands a little.  “Have you given any thought to Daryl Dixon?  I mean, is he planning on coming with us when we leave?” 
 
He froze in the action of getting back to his feet, eyes narrowing.  The other members of the little group shifted uncomfortably, and T-Dog made a rude noise in the back of his throat. 
 
“I don’t know about you, but I’d be happy t’see the back of that racist-ass cracker,” he muttered darkly. 
 
“Yeah, never mind if he wants to come or not…Rick, we gotta start thinkin’ about whether or not we let him,” Walsh said immediately. 
 
He sank back down into an easy crouch, balling one fist up against the bark of the tree.  It took everything he had not to go storming out into the group and demand that they say whatever it was they had to say to his face.  There wouldn’t have been a problem, not a goddamn single problem, if they had just listened to him in the first place when he said he wanted them to leave him alone.  He felt a slow burn of anger start to unfurl in his gut…but beneath it was a thread of uneasiness. 
 
“I hate to say it, but I think I agree.  After what he tried to do to Jim, today?  Rick, that man’s dangerous,” Grimes’ wife piped up, wrapping her arms around her middle as though warding off a chill. 
 
“He’s also the only reason our food stores aren’t completely depleted, and one of the best damn marksmen I’ve ever seen,” Grimes protested.  “I don’t like him, but—“
 
“But nothing, man!” Walsh butted in.  “Guy wouldn’t cross the street to spit on you if you was on fire!  You seriously wanna keep him on after what happened today?”
 
And that was it.  He growled, low in his throat, and stood up swiftly.  Let them think what they wanted about him, but he wasn’t going to stand here and let them talk about him behind his back.  He’d done his level best to make them steer clear of him, to assume he was just an asshole to be dealt with only if there was no other choice.  He owned that.  If they wanted to have it out with him, so be it, but he wasn’t going to sit here and just let them run their---
 
“He backed off.”  Andrea’s voice was quiet, but nonetheless cut through the gathering twilight clearly, carrying over to where he stood.  She was regarding Walsh with a calm, steady gaze, her arms wound tightly around her sister, resting her cheek against the girl’s hair.  Despite himself, he froze again.
 
“What?” Walsh barked incredulously.  Andrea straightened slightly, squaring her shoulders, though she didn’t let go of her sister. 
 
“He backed off.  Earlier, with Jim,” she reiterated.  Walsh snorted derisively. 
 
“Yeah, after Rick pulled a gun on him.”  Walsh batted one hand in the air dismissively. 
 
“Look, I’m not saying he’s not volatile…but we were all on a hair trigger this afternoon.  You gonna tell me I didn’t see your hand twitch for your gun when you saw that bite mark?” Andrea shot back, her voice going hard.  Daryl saw her hand tighten on her sister’s shoulder, but there was not a trace of a waver in her next words.  “Amy would have died last night if he hadn’t been there.  Do you understand that?  He saved her life, and he didn’t have to.  I can’t…I’m not okay with just turning him out on his own.” 
 
Grimes, his wife, and the others were just watching the back-and-forth between Walsh and Andrea.  Grimes’ mouth had gone tight and hard at the edges, his eyes narrowed in consideration.  Walsh shook his head agitatedly. 
 
“Hell, I ain’t saying he’s not useful…but the guy’s live dynamite.  Is it really worth it?  Andrea, I get what you’re saying.  I understand you’re grateful, but Jesus.”
 
Andrea shook her head.  “I’m telling you, I think there’s something more going on with him.  I…I said something to him today when I gave him his knife back.  And guys, his face--I don’t think we’ve got his whole story.” 
 
He sucked in a sharp breath, a tight, uncomfortable feeling coalescing in his chest.  He knew she’d seen something in his expression, but he was unused to people cutting so concisely through the masks and walls he threw up.  He didn’t need this…didn’t want her wondering and speculating about him.  He most especially didn’t need her turning the others’ attention to him. 
 
“Hey, look, we all got stories.  Stories don’t matter when you’re goin’ out of your way to make everyone’s life hell,” T-Dog interjected tiredly.  Grimes finally opened his mouth to speak…but was interrupted by the other of the two sisters.
 
“But he doesn’t.”  The girl—Amy, her sister had called her—raised her head from Andrea’s shoulder.  She bit her lip, looking around the group of people.  All of them, save her sister, were staring at her as if she had just sprouted another head.  “I mean, yeah, Dixon’s pretty good at giving people hell, but he doesn’t go out of his way to do it.”   
 
A few eyebrows started climbing towards hairlines. 
 
Amy huffed impatiently.  “Seriously, you’re telling me I’m the only one who’s noticed?  He only starts being a dick when someone gets up in his face and tries to make him do something he doesn’t wanna do.  You leave him alone, he doesn’t bother you.”
 
There had to be something cosmically funny, he reflected dully, in the fact that a prissy, self-involved teenager was the only one in this whole, goddamn group who fucking got it.  Slowly, he swiped one hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. 
 
Amy looked around the group again, licking her lips.  “He…he saved me,” she said softly, her voice trembling a little.  Andrea’s arms tightened around her.  “He helped the rest of you take down all those…all those Walkers.  I mean…he scares the shit out of me.  I don’t want to, like, go try to hang out with him or anything—but I’m not okay with making him leave, either.”
 
“You force the man out on his own now, it might as well be a death sentence,” the old man added gravely, speaking up for the first time.  “We can’t just drive people out like rabid animals just because we don’t like them.” 
 
“Aw, hell, you’re all nuts!” Walsh growled, throwing his hands up.  Grimes made a placating gesture, resting his other hand on his holster. 
 
“All right, all right…look, we offer him the same choice everyone else has.  If he wants to come with, he’s welcome.  If he wants to take his chances on his own…well I’m not gonna fight him on it. Dixon saved lives last night…I think that buys him a little grace.  And sending a man out there to fend for himself—even someone like Dixon—that don’t sit right with me, either.”  He turned his gaze to Andrea and Amy.  “But if he even starts to go off like he did on Jim again, he’s gone.”  There was a thread of steel in the man’s words, the same strength that had drawn the members of the camp around his leadership like moths to a flame. 
 
In the deepest recesses of his mind, Daryl had to admit that even he wasn’t immune to it.  Grimes annoyed the piss out of him (and God, there was an irrational part of him that hated, absolutely hated the man for finding his way back to his loved ones when he knew he would never be able to find a way back to Glenn), but the man was a born leader.  He watched as the others nodded their acquiescence, accepting Grimes’ pronouncement without argument…though Walsh obviously didn’t like it one bit. 
 
The group started to break up, people wandering back towards the RV and the single fire pit they had put together.  He crouched down lower against the cover of the tree.  There was no sense letting them know he’d overheard now.  He raked one hand back through his still-damp hair, breathing in short, sharp little bursts. 
 
So if he got the same choice as everyone else…what did he want to do?  His hand slid down to brush the sweat out of his eyes again, and he started plucking at his clinging, wet shirt in a nervous gesture that just served to agitate him further.  He knew what he wanted to do.  He wanted to get as far away from these people as he could…away from Grimes and his family, away from the blonde sisters and their unsettling insights, away from the old man and his stubborn adherence to rules and morals that had no place in this world. 
 
But…the thing about Grimes and the old man was: they were often right. 
 
He knew the woodcraft like he knew his own name.  He was confident in his own survival skills; there was no question of that.  He could keep himself fed, armed, and sheltered no problem.  However—those same ruthless survival skills were screaming at him that going out into this world with no one to watch his back was tantamount to suicide.  It had taken him almost a week to stumble onto the quarry camp after he’d gotten out of Atlanta; and those had been the most harrowing days of his life.  He wasn’t eager to put himself in that situation again. 
 
He glanced out at the clearing again, judging how far ahead of him he should let them get before he broke cover.  They were all walking towards the RV, the two sisters bringing up the rear.  As he watched them leave, though, the older one turned and glanced over her shoulder.
 
And looked right at his hiding spot.
 
 

*   *   *  
 
In the end, he didn’t have to talk to Grimes or Walsh about what he wanted to do.  The next morning, almost as soon as the sun came up, everyone was packing.  He just joined in, collapsing his tent and stowing his few belongings in the bed of his old truck.  The extent of any conversation about him following the group to the CDC was Grimes coming over to him once he was done securing his things and tensely asking if they could stow some empty plastic fuel tanks and some of the tarps in his truck.  He just grunted his assent, and that was the end of it. 
 
He was surprised when Morales and his wife opted to head out on their own.  He might have thought the CDC was mostly a pipe dream…but at least there was a little logic behind it.  Just blindly hoping that their relatives had somehow survived in the middle of Birmingham?  That was insanity.  It was ultimately no skin off his back, though, and so he just went back to making sure all of the things in his truck were tied securely down while the rest of the group said their goodbyes to the Morales family. 
 
Besides, under the part of him that thought they were fucking nuts was the part of him that understood perfectly well why they might risk everything on the slim hope that someone they loved was still alive. 
 
Their little caravan started out right around mid-morning, peeling down the highways down towards Atlanta.  According to the groups that had been going into the city outskirts for supplies, there were several tangles of abandoned vehicles that would slow them up some, but Grimes expected to make the CDC by early afternoon at the latest. 
 
He rolled the windows down as he drove, rather than waste the gas on running the AC—though Lord God, he was tempted.  He kept his eyes on the van in front of him as they drove, determinedly not thinking about what they might or might not find when they reached the CDC, or what they would do after, or what he might or might not do about Andrea and what she thought she’d figured out about him.
 
What she had figured out.
 
The woman hadn’t spoken to him the entire time they were breaking down what was left of the camp, but he’d seen her and her sister whispering quietly, throwing the occasional glance in his direction…and that right there was why he’d wanted everyone to stay out of his business in the first place.  He didn’t need people poking and prodding at him, trying to get him to talk and trying to understand him.  He didn’t need someone constantly reopening hurts that had only just barely started to scab over (and he ignored the little voice in his head that had always sounded disturbingly like Merle that laughed cruelly and told him he was deluding himself if he thought the gaping wound of losing Glenn would ever scab over).
 
They had only been on the road for a couple of hours when the van’s emergency blinkers flashed twice in the pre-arranged signal to alert everyone that the RV was going to be pulling over.  His brow furrowed as the caravan started to slow, and he pulled the crossbow a little closer to his leg.  The mechanic was traveling in the RV…had he gotten worse?
 
The clouds of steam billowing out from under the hood of the RV as the lumbering vehicle pulled over to the side of the road answered his question, though.  He’d been wondering how long that radiator hose was going to last…he’d only gotten a couple of glimpses of it, but even from a distance he’d been able to tell that the thing was basically being held together by duct tape and habit.  The old man was hovering at the front of the RV when he made it over, hefting the crossbow against his shoulder.
 
“Can you jerry-rig it?” Grimes asked as he came within hearing distance.  The old man shook his head glumly. 
 
“That’s all it’s been so far.  It’s more duct tape than hose…and I’m out of duct tape.” 
 
He licked his lips, gnawing on the inside of his cheek a moment as everyone’s faces fell.  He’d stayed away from the old man and the crazy guy when they worked on the RV…hell, they seemed to enjoy it, and it wasn’t like it was his vehicle.  Now though…they couldn’t afford to lose the largest vehicle, or its storage space. 
 
“I see somethin’ up ahead.  Gas station if we’re—“ Walsh began.
 
“I got some radiator tape,” he heard himself say, interrupting Walsh.  He darted a look down to the ground as everyone whirled on him, before stiffening his spine and raising his chin.  “’Bout half a roll.  Should be enough to hold ya’ together.”  He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, before stopping himself with a mental snarl. 
 
“Well, that’ll certainly help…but to be honest, Jim’s the one who’s been doing the miracle repairs,” the old man said after a moment.  “I’ll do my best, but I’m not a mechanic.” 
 
And once again, he found his mouth opening seemingly without his permission.  “I am.  S’what I did…before.”   The old man blinked owlishly at him, and at the corner of his vision he could see the others staring at him incredulously.  He grit his teeth.  “What?” he snarled. 
 
Immediately the old man held his hands up in a surrendering gesture.  “Nothing, nothing…be glad of the help, son,” he said. 
 
“You didn’t think that might a’ been pertinent information a little earlier?” Walsh asked belligerently. 
 
He narrowed his eyes, as the women gathered around the group, except the sisters, took a step backwards…as if he might attack Walsh right there.  He mentally rolled his eyes and twisted his face into the nastiest smirk he could manage.  “Y’all never asked,” he drawled, and spit in the dirt in front of Walsh’s feet. 
 
For an instant, hard anger flashed in Walsh’s eyes, and Grimes may have (albeit unknowingly) put him on notice as far as starting shit…but damned if he wouldn’t finish it. 
 
Then the black woman, Jacqui, burst out of the RV, yelling something about the mechanic worsening, and everyone suddenly had more important things to worry about. 
 *   *   *  
The radiator hose was, indeed, more duct tape than hose…but he’d picked up a few tricks over the years.  He and the old man worked together efficiently and silently, for which he was grateful, though he was getting annoyed with the sidelong glances the old man kept throwing him.  As if he was something particularly interesting on the slide of a microscope that the old man was trying to figure out.  He ignored it, though, choosing to focus entirely on what he was doing in the guts of the vehicle. 
 
It was better than focusing on what was going on behind them. 
 
He wound the last of the radiator tape around his patch job, securing it as tightly as he could.  There was no changing the fact that the hose needed to be replaced (had probably needed replacing a good thousand miles ago)…but with any luck, they’d bought themselves a few days.  He slammed the cover back over the RV’s engine, waving off the old man’s thanks with an irritated huff. 
 
He’d offered to help because he had the skills and it was necessary.  That was all. 
 
He wiped his hands on an already-dirty rag that the old man—Dale, wasn’t it?  He’d heard Andrea call him Dale—had provided and watched grimly as Grimes and Walsh slowly helped the mechanic out of the RV.  He wanted them to just leave him there…without anything to defend himself with.  Wanted them to just leave him to die and come back a Walker so that they could conserve what ammo they had. 
 
He could respect that. 
 
He picked up his crossbow from where he’d rested it against one of the RV’s front wheels and followed the group at a slight distance as they practically carried the sick man up a small incline off the side of the road, and rested him up against a tree.  Grimes tried to push one of their pistols into the man’s hands again, but was weakly refused.  He turned his gaze to the trees around them as one by one, the group said goodbye. 
 
It hurt to look at them.  It hurt too damn much, and he could admit it to himself if no one else.  He couldn’t bring himself to look—and wonder if anyone had been there for Glenn at the end.  If he’d endured this…had been bitten and somehow managed to get away only to have to know what was coming.  Had his boy suffered like Jim was suffering?  Had he been in this much pain?  Had he or someone else, someone merciful, put an end to that suffering, and made sure he wouldn’t come back?
 
Or had he been brought down by a pack of frenzied Walkers…torn to shreds in some street or alley?
 
God, which was worse?
 
He shook his head violently, trying to clear it of such thoughts.  He couldn’t do that to himself.  He’d drive himself crazy. 
 
In the end, he didn’t go up to Jim, didn’t try to talk to him.  He’d never bothered before, and there was nothing he could say to the man now.  He just offered his own respectful nod after the others had started back to their vehicles, before turning and making his way back to his own truck.  What else could he do?
 
The caravan started off again, much more slowly than before…partially to avoid putting strain on the newly repaired RV, but mostly not.  He kept his eyes resolutely on the road in front of him, resisting the urge to watch the figure lying underneath the tree fade from sight in the rearview mirror. 
 
They had been on the road for a little over an hour when he suddenly heard a screech of tires from up ahead.  He slammed on his own brakes even as the van in front of him did the same, and the caravan was brought to a shuddering, screaming halt.  He jumped out of the truck as soon as he’d thrown it into park, snatching the crossbow off the seat beside him and racing up towards the RV as T-Dog and Andrea bolted out of the van, armed with their handguns. 
 
“The fuck’s goin’ on?” he called as soon as he saw Walsh leap out of his jeep.  Up ahead, Grimes and Dale had piled out of their respective vehicles, and were staring at something in the road ahead of Grimes’ car.  Neither of them had their guns up, though, and so he didn’t stop to load a bolt as he, Walsh, T-Dog, and Andrea drew even with Grimes and Dale. 
 
To his surprise, there was a car, an old Subaru Outback, stopped on the road in front of them, coming up the wrong side of the highway (although really, who the hell cared anymore?  They’d crisscrossed both sides of the highway several times to avoid traffic snarls today).  It had clearly just been coming around a slight bend in the road just as Grimes’ car had been hitting the same bend.  Judging by the black streaks of rubber laid down by the vehicle, it had been traveling at a pretty fast clip.   
 
He cocked his head as the driver’s side door of the Subaru opened and the driver slowly got out.  He’d honestly given up on seeing any other survivors.  Logically, he knew there had to be others, but it had been going on a month since they’d seen any new faces. 
 
The figure that exited the Subaru was built like a linebacker—tall and broad, dressed in jeans and a faded t-shirt advertising a band that Daryl had never heard of.  He had a shock of bright red hair that flopped over into his eyes, and an aluminum baseball bat was clutched in one hand, hanging listlessly by his side.  Upon closer inspection, Daryl realized that it was just a kid…maybe nineteen or twenty years old. 
 
The kid took a few faltering steps forward, and Daryl’s grip automatically tightened on the crossbow.  Beside him, Grimes’ hand dropped to his holster, though he didn’t draw his pistol.  Seeing the motion, the kid let the baseball bat drop with a jarring clatter onto the asphalt, and he raised his hands in a non-threatening manner. 
 
“Hey, hey, don’t shoot.  I’m not…I don’t want any trouble,” the kid said shakily.  “Holy shit, are you real?” 
 
Grimes stepped forward a little.  “Real as you are, son.  Are you alone?” 
 
“Yeah,” the kid said immediately, clearly having no idea that some information should be kept need-to-know in times like these.  He was in no danger from them, of course, but he had no way of knowing that.  “I mean, no, not really…I’m on my way back to camp.  I—Jesus, mister, I gotta get back to camp.  G—he’s still down there, and I gotta get my dad.  I promised him I’d be back, but I got caught on the way out of the city…there were too many of ‘em and I had to hide in a fucking Starbucks.  G’s been there since yesterday, I gotta get my dad!”  The kid started babbling, wild-eyed and clearly freaked out.  He raked his hands back through his hair, and Grimes and Walsh exchanged a ‘cop look’. 
 
“Easy son, no one’s gonna stop you from getting back to your dad.  Do you need any help?” Grimes said calmly. 
 
“Rick,” Walsh hissed warningly.  Grimes shot him a quelling look.
 
“He’s just a kid,” Grimes hissed back. 
 
“Yeah, I mean no, I mean…” The kid trailed off, taking a few deep breaths and visibly trying to pull himself together.  “I’m sorry, I just…look, I need to get back to my camp.  I don’t want any trouble, I got nothing worth stealing.”  The aborted, twitchy look he shot back at his car suggested otherwise to Daryl…this kid’s poker face was absolute shit. 
 
“Hey, hey, no one’s going to steal anything,” Grimes said, still in that calm, gentle voice.  “I just want to make sure you’re okay.  We haven’t seen anyone else in weeks…you sure you got people to go back to?” 
 
The kid nodded jerkily.  “I just gotta get back.”  He swallowed roughly, glancing back behind them at their vehicles.  His voice was steadying, but there was still a nervous, scared energy about him.  Whoever this ‘G’ was, the kid was clearly terrified for them. 
 
“All right…let us just back out of your way, and you can get back on the road,” Grimes said.  “Anything heading into the city that we should know about?”
 
“Huh?  Oh…no, no the roads are pretty clear.”  The kid shook his head, crouching down to pick his bat up off of the ground.  He looked Grimes up and down as he rose, taking in the uniform.  “You a real sheriff?” he asked quietly.  Grimes nodded.
 
“Yes, I am.  My name’s Rick Grimes.” 
 
“I’m Danny.  Danny Royce.”    * * * * *Glenn removed his cap and used the collar of his t-shirt to wipe away the sweat that was pouring down his face.  Carefully, he unscrewed the cap on one of his precious bottles of water and took a measured gulp, grimacing a little at the overly warm liquid.  God, what he wouldn't give for a cold drink right now. Ice was definitely in the top-ten on his list of things he missed.  He recapped the water and stowed it back in one of the backpacks, then leaned back tiredly against the wall that encircled the roof of the pawnshop. 

He'd been stuck there since the previous afternoon. 

He had no way of telling exactly how long Danny had been gone--he'd lost his watch a couple weeks ago and hadn't bothered to replace it--but he was pretty sure it had been at least twenty four hours. If everything had gone exactly right for Danny and he'd made it out of the city with no problems, Glenn figured he had at least another twelve hours before he could even start to look for a rescue.  Or at least more supplies, if a rescue wasn't feasible. 

And that was assuming Danny hadn't run into any problems on his way out of Atlanta. 

The thought that Danny had run into trouble without a gun didn't bear consideration. 

"You're gonna be fine, y'hear?" Daryl's imagined voice whispered in his ear, a pretend mantra he would have given anything to hear for real. 

He tried to believe it.

He'd sat huddled on the roof for a good hour after Danny had left him yesterday, just breathing in the scent of Daryl's aftershave and trying to ignore the gruesome moans below him.  Eventually, though, sense had reasserted itself and he'd set about assessing his situation. 

"What would Daryl do?" he'd asked himself nonsensically, and couldn't help a ragged little chuckle. The thought had helped to clear his head, though, and he'd set about trying to look at his surroundings the way his ruthlessly practical, redneck survivalist boyfriend would have. 

Which was why he'd noticed the patch on the roof where someone had been laying fresh tarpaper down sometime before the apocalypse...and the sheet of loose plywood they had left covering the area they hadn't gotten to yet. 

It had been a bitch getting across the roof...the plywood was on the opposite side from him and he'd had to more or less crawl. It had been worth it, though, when he was able to wrestle the plywood out from under the half-done tarpaper and awkwardly drag it back to his little spot by the fire-escape ladder.  He'd managed to lean the sheet against the ledge that encircled the roof at an angle, creating a lean-to that was just barely big enough for him to sit cross-legged under. 

The wood blocked most of whatever breeze he was getting on the roof...but it also blocked the deadly sun. With the water rations Jill had sent and the sunscreen he'd scavenged, he wasn't in immediate danger of dehydrating.  His next order of business had been to wrap his ankle properly and break out a brand new bottle of Tylenol for the swelling and pain. 

It wasn't an ideal encampment by any means...but it would do until Danny came back for him. 

And Danny was coming back.  Danny was coming back and everything would be fine. 

One of the Walkers below let out a particularly loud, hissing moan and he repressed a shudder by sheer force of will.  It looked like some of the Walkers had wandered off in the night, but when he'd peeked down into the street this morning, there had still been a huge mob of them milling around the pawn shop. The security bars on the shop's doors and windows seemed to be holding, though...it didn't look like any of them were getting into the building. 

A distant peal of thunder suddenly sounded, and he leaned out from under his makeshift shelter to glance up at the sky. Some summer storms had been chasing through the area the past week or so, but the sky above him was irritatingly cloudless.  He hoped it didrain...not only would it cool things down a little bit, but he'd be able to set his water bottles out and top them off a little. 

He could almost see Daryl's approving, little smirk. 

He scooted back under the shelter of the plywood, smiling a little at the thought.  He'd always had a soft spot for thunderstorms. 

"Son of a bitch!" 

Glenn glanced up from where he was pouring a couple of cans of Coke into  two plastic cups already filled with ice.  "What?" he asked mildly, used to Daryl's random outbursts of profanity by now.

He'd honestly gotten to the point where he worried if Daryl wasn't cursing. 

In answer, Daryl scowled and pointed straight up. Glenn looked up, and was startled to see a bank of nasty looking thunderclouds rolling in fast. His eyes widened a bit as the wind suddenly started to pick up, whipping the branches of the trees that ringed their campsite into a frenzy.

"Damn," he muttered. "I thought the forecast said we were supposed to have clear skies all week."

Daryl snorted derisively and pulled the lid of the campsite's communal grill closed over the fire he'd just started. "Yeah, 'cause those ain't never wrong," he called over his shoulder, sarcasm thick in his voice. 

"Should we...should we go back up to the picnic hall?" Glenn asked, a touch nervously. The clouds were gathering thick and fast, now, their color a grey so deep it was almost black. An ominous roll of thunder sounded, seeming to shake the air. 

Daryl glanced up at the sky again and shook his head. "Nah. Storm's come in this fast never last long.  Best get anything you wanna keep dry in the tent or th'truck, though."

As if agreeing with him, a few icy cold, spattering drops of rain hit the ground.  

Glenn didn't waste time. He abandoned their drinks on the picnic table and raced around their small campsite, tossing his backpack and the book he'd been reading while Daryl set up the tent into said tent. Daryl, meanwhile, shoved the hotdogs and buns back into the cooler, before hefting the cooler itself into the bed of his truck.  He and Glenn had just managed to stow their two folding lawn chairs next to the cooler and secure a plastic tarp over the truck bed when the skies literally opened. 

Glenn gasped as a torrent of rain suddenly appeared...the kind of downpour that turned the whole world around him a kind of misty gray and literally soaked him to the bone in a matter of seconds. The rain was gloriously, shockingly cold, and he yelped as it found its way through every piece of clothing he was wearing. 

"Oh my God!" he shouted, half in shock, half in delight.  He whooped and threw his head back, letting the rain hit him full in the face. 
He was struck with the crazy urge to throw his arms wide and start spinning under the torrent like a little kid. 

"You nuts?" Daryl shouted over another roll of thunder, but there was laughter in his voice and when Glenn looked over at him, he was grinning like a loon.

Or a particularly happy drowned rat. 

The wind was going wild now, whipping the rain into sheets that went this way and that.  Another crack of thunder split the air, followed almost instantly by a flash of lightning. Glenn jumped a little at how loud the thunder was, his heart suddenly pounding.  The rain started coming down harder, if such a thing was possible. 

"All right, play time's over," Daryl said suddenly, from right behind him. He jumped again as his boyfriend's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him back against Daryl's chest. "Let's wait this out in the truck."

Glenn nodded his acceptance, and Daryl squeezed him tightly, before stepping back and heading for the driver's side of the truck. They were both breathing hard as they settled in the cab, exhilarated and still laughing softly. 

Ignoring the water that was coming off of them in rivulets, Glenn slid across the bench seat as soon as his door was closed, humming contentedly as Daryl immediately lifted one arm and pulled him close against his side. Glenn leaned his head on Daryl's soaked shoulder, smiling when Daryl brushed his lips over his forehead. 

"Okay," he said at length. "I guess camping isn't so bad.  I mean, I might change my mind after my jeans start chaffing...but this is nice."

Underneath his head, Daryl's shoulder shook with silent laughter. "Glad ta' hear it.  'Course ya' know, this ain't campin'."

"What are you talking about?  We're sleeping in a tent tonight!"

Daryl chuckled softly. "In a campsite with a concrete firepit and its own grill, that's two hundred yards from an ice machine an' indoor plumbin'."

Glenn reached over and smacked his hand playfully against Daryl's stomach. "Well why'd we do it this way if it's not 'real camping' then?" 

Daryl ducked his head slightly. "Wanted ya' t'have a good time," he said, his voice soft in the way it only got when he was being deadly serious.  

He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. He craned his neck around so that he could kiss Daryl properly.  Once turned into twice turned into three times, and suddenly he was turning in Daryl's arms, straddling his lap with his back against the steering wheel as they necked like a couple of teenagers. 

He pulled back for a second, smiling down at Daryl as the rain pounded down on the roof of the truck and the thunder roared outside. "We can do real camping next time," he said, and it struck him that they'd been saying things like that more and more often of late. Talking about things in future tense, like it was a given that they'd still be together when the time to carry out those plans rolled around. 

He really, really liked the feeling that evoked in him. 

Daryl's mouth curled into the warm, lazy smile Glenn was starting to suspect was reserved just for him.  "All right. Next time," Daryl replied, and it felt like they were both talking about more than camping.

Glenn was broken out of his thoughts by another long, loud groan. He blinked, shaking his head softly. He shifted on the hard surface of the roof, trying in vain to find a more comfortable position that would still let him huddle under the shelter of the plywood. In the distance, he heard another rumble of thunder...but it sounded even fainter this time. He sighed. 

"You're gonna be fine, ya' hear me?"

He leaned back against the ledge, and concentrated on believing that. 

Chapter 9

Notes:

Arrrrrgh! God's Wounds, I'm so sorry to anyone who got their inbox spammed with alerts for this. I've been trying to post this chapter since last night...I hadn't realized all of them were going through!

Any road, whilst AO3 is getting its head on straight, you can also find updates on this at my fanfiction.net account, author name DrPepperDiva.

Many thanks to sukume42 on tumblr for the wonderful beta work!

“I’m Danny.  Danny Royce,” the kid said, his eyes still darting nervously over their group.  He tossed the bat into the passenger side of the Outback and raked one hand back through his hair.  “Listen…where you heading?  It’s not safe to be out on the roads this close to dark.  Geeks’ll see your headlights if you go much farther.”
 
“Geeks?  I’m sorry, what?” Grimes questioned, confused.  Royce shook his head. 
 
“Sorry…the Walkers.  We call ‘em geeks.  Doesn’t scare the kids as much.” 
 
Daryl snorted quietly, though everyone ignored him.  He didn’t get why people were so hell-bent on shielding kids from the reality of the world.  It wasn’t doing them any favors to be pretending that things hadn’t gone straight to shit.  His pa may have been a worthless bastard, but he’d always made sure he and Merle knew exactly what was what, and how to handle themselves. 
 
“Ah.  We’re heading down into the city,” Grimes hedged, obviously not willing to trust the kid as much as he was trusting them.  The kid’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. 
 
“At night?  Dude, you’re crazy!  I don’t care what kind of bolt hole you think you’ve got set up, sun’ll be down before you hit the outskirts.” 
 
Grimes sighed heavily.  The delay with the RV and…and the mechanic had put them far behind schedule.  The kid was right; there was no way they’d make the CDC before nightfall.  He doffed his hat and wiped at his brow with the back of his hand. 
 
“Dad?  What’s going on?” Almost as one, the group turned to find the Grimes kid and the blonde girl had exited the car they were riding in, and approached the knot of adults.  He rolled his eyes heavenward…one would think that their mothers might want to keep a closer eye on them in the goddamn apocalypse. 
 
“Nothing, Carl—you and Sophia get back in the car.  We’re gonna be leaving here in a minute,” Grimes said.  Walsh immediately stepped forward and started shepherding the kids back towards the RV. 
 
“You got kids with you?”  Royce called suddenly.  He seemed to have gotten a handle on some of the nervousness and fear, though he was still practically vibrating with the need to get moving again. 
 
Grimes nodded.  “To be honest, we’d appreciate a safe place to stop for the night.  We’ve had a hard few days…lost a lot of people.  We don’t have much to offer in trade, but we can be extra eyes and weapons on lookout.” 
 
The kid stared hard at them for a few moments, his gaze mostly focused on Grimes.  After a few heartbeats, though, he seemed to come to a decision.  “We’re holed up at a KOA campground about five miles back up the highway.  Anyone’s welcome—but you gotta prove no one’s bit.” 
 
It wasn’t a terribly surprising offer…however much Daryl didn’t care for Grimes, he had to admit the man kind of exuded trustworthiness.  Grimes glanced around the rest of them, getting nods of assent from Andrea, T-Dog, and Dale.  He just shrugged.  It didn’t particularly matter to him where they spent the night, though a campground with actual people sounded like a better deal than just circling their vehicles at a rest stop. 
 
“That’s fair,” Grimes said.  “We’ll be on our way tomorrow.”
 
Royce nodded.  “All right…all right, just follow me.  But please, we gotta hurry, okay?”  With that, the kid ducked back into his vehicle, firing up the engine and backing it up a few yards to give the RV room to turn around in the road. 
 
Andrea and T-Dog started jogging back to the van they were traveling in, as Dale turned and made his way back to the RV.  He turned to head back to his truck, when Grimes’ voice stopped him. 
 
“Dixon,” he said softly.  He stopped, raising a questioning eyebrow.  “How good a mechanic are you?”  
 
He narrowed his eyes slightly, but there was no note of condescension in Grimes’ voice.  He seemed honestly curious.  Daryl tilted his head slightly, considering.  “Been workin’ on engines since I was big enough ta’ see over the hood.  Ain’t a whole lot I can’t do with one,” he said finally, opting for honesty instead of a belligerent comment.  He had an idea where Grimes was going with this line of questioning. 
 
Grimes huffed out a sigh to himself.  “Look, we’re running low on just about everything.  Depending on how well supplied this kid’s camp is, we might be able to trade for some things we need.  I don’t want to give up any of the guns or ammo…would you be willing to offer up some maintenance on any vehicles they’ve got?  Maybe do some hunting?” 
 
Daryl could tell by the tense set of Grimes’ shoulders, the way he was looking at him, that the other man was expecting him to tell him to go fuck himself.  It was his first instinct, to be honest—but something held him back.  He’d seen the pitifully few boxes of canned food they’d loaded up into the RV, and their medicine stores hadn’t even taken up a whole box.  If they were going to try and trade for supplies, there really wasn’t anything they had to offer besides their weapons cache…and nobody was fool enough to give up guns and ammo these days unless there was no other choice. 
 
Besides…Grimes was asking.  Not just striding in, announcing his plan, and expecting Daryl to just fall in line with it.  And it was a good idea. 
 
“Fine,” he muttered, not giving himself time to second-guess himself.  A flash of surprise chased itself across Grimes’ features before he schooled his expression. 
 
“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and his hand twitched as though he wanted to clap Daryl on the shoulder.  He aborted the move, though, much to Daryl’s relief. 
 
“But you best check with me ‘fore ya’ start promisin’ anything,” he added gruffly.  Truthfully, he didn’t trust that Grimes would know what would be a fair trade for any mechanical work…he’d seen how helplessly Grimes had been staring at the RV’s radiator hose when he and the old man had been working on it. 
 
Grimes just nodded his assent, something that might have been an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  He let out and irritated little huff of breath and turned away from Grimes, shouldering the crossbow as he headed back towards the truck.  The RV was about halfway through what looked like about a fifty point turn to get it facing in the right direction, and he shook his head in disgust. 
 
Damn people. 

 

 

* * *

 
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting Royce’s camp to look like, but he was surprised at how well-organized it seemed. 
 
The kid had indeed led them about five miles back the way they had been going, before taking a turn-off onto a stretch of graveled road.  He could recall seeing a few signs for the KOA grounds as they’d driven towards Atlanta, now that he thought about it, but he hadn’t considered it as a viable stop.  One thing everyone had learned very quickly was that places where people had congregated before the outbreak were to be avoided at all costs. 
 
The grounds Royce led them to, though, obviously hadn’t been hit that hard.  The gravel road went on for a little under a mile, before dead-ending in a small courtyard under a wooden arch painted with the familiar red and yellow KOA logo.  A cluster of buildings ringed the courtyard—a fairly large meeting hall, a set of public restrooms, a snack bar, and a building made of cinderblocks with a sign on the side that advertised communal showers and a laundry room.  Not a bad set-up, particularly if they still had running water. 
 
There were three family-size tents set up on the ground right in front of the meeting hall…but judging by the number of vehicles that were lined up along one side of the meeting hall’s wide, wraparound porch, there were considerably more than three families camping out here.  He counted ten trucks, cars, and SUV’s, in addition to the kid’s Outback.  His suspicions were confirmed when multiple people started pouring out of the meeting hall as soon as the crunch of gravel under tires became audible. 
 
Somehow, the caravan had worked out this time so that he and Walsh were in the lead right behind the Royce kid.  The RV was following them, while Grimes’ car and the van T-Dog, Andrea, and her sister were riding in brought up the rear.  There hadn’t really been time to talk about it, but he rather suspected that if he and Walsh (or just Walsh…probably not just him) had seen something suspicious as they came upon the camp and had swerved around to gun it back onto the highway, the other vehicles would have followed immediately. 
 
He let his eyes rake over the gathering crowd as he pulled the truck to a stop right behind Walsh’s Jeep.  It was a good-sized knot of people—only a little smaller than the group at the quarry had been.  Probably around twenty.  He spotted several kids, though as it became obvious that Royce had returned to the camp with a line of other vehicles, a couple of women started herding the kids back up into the meeting hall.  A couple of men armed with hunting rifles stepped to the front of the crowd—one a grizzled old relic in a battered Army jacket that had to be at least Dale’s age, the other a middle-aged man with ash blond hair that was just starting to go gray.  The younger of the two was still tall and imposing, despite the small beer gut that was starting to show over his belt, and something about the way he carried himself put Daryl in mind of Grimes.  He’d lay odds that this was the man in charge of this group.
 
All in all, they seemed cautious…but not dangerous.  The presence of women and children didn’t necessarily preclude anyone from being an asshole, but Daryl’s initial instincts told him that this was a group much like the quarry camp—just banding together for survival.  And his instincts had never steered him wrong, yet. 
 
Nonetheless, he left the crossbow on the passenger seat as he exited the truck, instead grabbing his own rifle off the gun rack mounted behind the seats.  He kept the muzzle pointing toward the ground as he walked up to where Grimes, Walsh, Andrea, and T-Dog had clustered by Walsh’s Jeep, but he kept it ready. 
 
The Royce kid spilled out of the Outback almost as soon as he’d thrown it into park, dragging a bulging Army duffle out with him.  Yeah, nothing worth stealing, his ass…Daryl had totally called that one.  The blond man with the gun almost wilted in obvious relief as the kid exited the car, walking forward and ignoring the rest of them.  He moved with a fairly pronounced limp, Daryl noted.    
 
A cry of relief from near the back of the crowd drew Daryl’s attention then, and a few people shuffled out of the way to let a plump, matronly-looking woman with a head of frizzy, gray-streaked red hair the same shade as the kid’s run forward.  She raced over to Royce and threw her arms around him without preamble, burying her face in his shoulder as the blond man wrapped one arm around them both.  The kid’s parents, then. 
 
The kid hugged them back for a moment, before suddenly pushing himself away, eyes wide.  “Wait, wait, Mom listen…” he began. 
 
The woman raised her head from his shoulder, glancing towards the clearly-empty passenger side of the Outback.  Even from several feet away, Daryl saw her face go absolutely white. 
 
“Oh God…no, oh no!” she wailed instantly, clutching her son’s arms as her knees seemed to go weak.  Despite himself, Daryl averted his eyes.  Well…that answered the question of who this mysterious ‘G’ was that the kid had been so terrified for.  He’d never had cause to experience it himself, but he knew a parent’s grief when he saw it.  A quick glance at the others showed equally uncomfortable expressions on their faces.  Grimes was staring at the little family with laser-like intensity, his jaw working soundlessly. 
 
“Mom!  Mom, wait, no…he’s alive.  He’s alive, I promise!” the kid protested, reaching up to wrap his hands around his mother’s.  “He’s all right,” the kid said again, his voice cracking slightly.  “He…he told me to leave him.  I didn’t want to!  But he’s hurt pretty bad---not bit!  He busted his ankle up, but he’s not bit.  He got up on one of the roofs and told me to go for help.  He’s fine Mom, he’s fine.” 
 
The kid’s father was just as pale as his wife, but he drew himself together as his son started babbling again.  “All right…all right, everyone just calm down,” he said authoritatively.  He glanced over at their little group, eyes immediately zeroing in on Grimes’ uniform.  With visible effort, he forced his own panic back.  “Jill, George, take Danny inside…find out what happened.” 
 
The guy in the Army jacket immediately stepped over to the woman and the kid, gently gripping the woman’s elbow.  He started to pull her back through the crowd, who parted silently, stepping away as though the pair’s obvious fear and grief were something catching.  It was impossible to miss how much the man wanted to follow his wife and son, find out what had happened to his other kid—but he made his way over to them determinedly. 
 
“Who are you?” he asked bluntly.  There wasn’t any anger or belligerence in the words, though, and Daryl supposed the man could be forgiven for skipping over niceties.  Judging by the conversation they’d just overheard, the man had enough to worry about without possibly dangerous strangers showing up at his camp. 
 
Grimes stepped up straight away, extending his hand.  “My name’s Rick Grimes,” he said calmly.  “We ran into your son on the highway a few miles back…he was kind enough to offer us a place to stay for the night.” 
 
The man looked Grimes up and down, before flicking his gaze over the rest of them and their vehicles.  After a tense moment, though, he offered his own hand.  “Andrew Royce.  Sorry…it’s been a while since we had any new folks show up.  Was starting to think there weren’t any more to be honest.”  He sighed heavily and rubbed one hand over the back of his neck.  “Anyone’s welcome here for as long as they want, as long as they pull their own weight and don’t make trouble.” 
 
“We ‘preciate that,” Grimes said.  “Though I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer. We…our own camp got swarmed the night before last.  We lost a lot of people, and most of our supplies.  We plan on movin’ on soon as we can.” 
 
Andrew was nodding as Grimes talked, and his face showed neither surprise nor disappointment at the fact that they wouldn’t be able to provide much in the way of trade for a space in the camp.  As Grimes fell silent, Andrew reached up and laid a hand on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry about your people. You’re welcome to share what we have, though I’ll ask for some help with the watch and some general camp chores tonight.  And I’m sorry…but we’ll want proof none of your people have been bitten.  Price of admission, everyone pays it.” 
 
Grimes inclined his head.  “We understand.  One of our group was bit…but he’s…he’s not with us anymore.” 
 
“I’ll send a couple of our people over…just park your vehicles so they’re not blocking the way out.  You can either set up tents outside, or there’s cots in the meeting hall.  That’s where most of us are.  The showers are still working, but there’s no hot water, obviously.  Now, I’m sorry…but my wife, my boy…”  The man’s composure started to crack, and he darted a look over his shoulder at the meeting hall. 
 
“Go, go,” Grimes said immediately, waving him off.  “Take care of your family.  If you don’t mind, a few of us will come up later—we can talk then.”     
 
Andrew nodded distractedly and turned on his heel, limping back towards the meeting hall.  He slowed down briefly to talk to two people—a blonde woman with a small boy clinging to her side, and a short, bespectacled man—then headed up the steps and to the front door of the hall.  As he vanished inside, the woman shooed the little boy up the same path, and then she and the man started heading for the group. 
 
“Oh yay, strip-search,” Andrea muttered sarcastically. 
 
“Hell, they let me at a working shower, they can do a full cavity search,” T-Dog shot back. 
 
And there was a mental image that Daryl could have happily lived the rest of his life without. 

 

 

* * * 
As it turned out, his instincts about the members of this camp were proven correct.  The blonde woman—who had introduced herself as Jenny Casey—and the man with the glasses—who had just muttered that his name was Eric—had quickly and efficiently herded their entire group to the building with the showers.  There, they had one group at a time (the women first with the Casey woman, and then the men with Eric) had to strip down to their skivvies to prove they weren’t bitten anywhere.  Apparently, that was all that was required for the other group to decide that it was all right to be friendly. 
 
They’d been left alone to avail themselves of the showers—ice cold, with crap water pressure, but no one was complaining—and change into clean(er) clothes.  As soon as they had gotten the vehicles situated, a small group of women led by Jenny Casey had descended on them, bundling the women and kids up to the meeting hall with promises of food.  The men were left to follow in their wake, shaking their heads ruefully. 
 
Grimes and Walsh stopped by the RV to pull out a few of their last cans of soup, evidently deciding they needed to make at least a token offering of something to ‘earn their keep’ with.  Daryl drifted along behind them, listening with half an ear to their thousandth or so whispered argument over whether it was really a good idea to make for the CDC.  To his surprise, Walsh, while still not in favor of the CDC, also didn’t think it was a good idea to stay in the camp for more than a day or two. 
 
Personally, he didn’t think it was a good idea either, though probably for different reasons than Walsh.  He’d been plotting their route in his head as they drove, a habit that had long ago been ingrained in him by numerous hunting trips.  He always had at least a general idea of where he was in relation to certain landmarks.  He couldn’t be positive without looking at a map…but he was pretty sure this campground was about the same distance from the outskirts of Atlanta that the quarry had been.  They were on different sides of the city.  The KOA grounds were a great deal further East than the quarry—but unless he was missing his mark, there was about an equal distance from the actual center of the city. 
 
And if the Walkers were starting to run out of food down in Atlanta and were leaving the city…it wasn’t too far-fetched to think that this campground could be in danger of being overrun by a herd like the one that had swarmed the quarry. 
 
It was just a theory on his part…but something about it felt right to his hunter’s instincts.  Right enough that he was considering mentioning it to Grimes at some point tonight.  Even when he was deliberately antagonizing the man, Grimes had seemed to respect his skills. 
 
His thoughts on the matter were interrupted as they entered the meeting hall.  He cocked an eyebrow at the way the place had been cordoned off: clothesline strung through sections, from which blankets and sheets dangled as partitions.  People obviously were living in the cordoned-off areas.  He could see cots and personal belongings strews about through gaps in the sheets and blankets.  The hall was full of people, though there was a surprising lack of noise.  The entire atmosphere seemed rather somber, in fact.  Most of them were congregating around a window in one wall that opened up onto a rudimentary kitchen area.  There were a couple of big pots set up on the counter in the window, and people were making their way by them in an orderly line, bowls and mugs held in their hands.  Evidently soup was being served for dinner that night.  
 
Beside him, Grimes waved at his wife and son, standing in line with the Casey woman.  Behind them was most of the rest of the group.  He could see Dale talking with the old man in the Army coat, the one Andrew had called George.  T-Dog and Jacqui were engaged in a quiet conversation with a couple of young women, and Amy was chatting with the little blonde girl and her mama.  Carol and Sophia.  He supposed there was no point now in pretending he hadn’t heard everyone’s names enough for them to stick. 
 
“Hey,” Andrea’s voice sounded from their left, and she stepped out from behind one of the blanket partitions to come stand beside him.  “We went ahead and got everyone’s sleeping arrangements made.  There’s enough cots for everyone…unless any of you want to set up your tents or sleep in the RV.” 
 
Grimes and Walsh immediate shook their heads, and he shrugged.  He’d probably end up setting his tent up—there were too many people in this building for him to feel comfortable.  Andrea gnawed on her lip for a moment, before lowering her voice and ducking her head towards Grimes. 
 
“I found out what’s going on with the Royce’s,” she said softly, jerking her chin towards a corner of the hall opposite from the hustle of the ‘living quarters’ and the kitchen.  The Royce family were clustered on a beat up couch that had been dragged against the wall.  Danny was seated between his parents, looking grim and shell-shocked, and even from a distance, Daryl could see that his mother, Jill, was crying.  Now that they had been brought to his attention, he could see the way the rest of their people were throwing worried, frightened glances at them every few moments.   
 
“What happened?” Grimes asked, sounding concerned.  Andrea shook her head sadly. 
 
“Apparently Danny and his brother do supply runs for the camp.  I was talking to Jenny; she said they’ve managed to find clear paths all the way down into the shopping district.”  A note of admiration entered her voice, and he couldn’t help being impressed himself.  The people at the quarry camp who had tried to do the same had never made it more than a mile or two inside the city limits before they were forced to turn back.  “They made a major run yesterday, but they got caught by a group of Walkers.  I guess the brother hurt his ankle getting away.  Danny had to leave him behind.” 
 
“Guy left his own brother for Walker bait?” Walsh asked archly, something dark entering his voice.  It sounded like disgust, but there was a thread of something beneath it that set Daryl’s teeth on edge. 
 
“No, that’s the thing.  He swears his brother’s still alive.  Apparently they have a bunch of bolt-holes plotted out whenever they go into the city.  They got to one of them and his brother got up on the roof of one of the buildings.” 
 
Grimes whistled, half in admiration, half in surprise.  Walsh just shook his head.  “Even that only buys him a couple days in this heat.” 
 
“Damn it, I don’t care!”  The shout suddenly rang out through the meeting hall.  As if they had rehearsed the move, everyone’s head whipped towards the Royce family in time to see Danny shoot to his feet and start pacing agitatedly.  “I have to go back for him!” 
 
The kid whirled around to face the rest of the camp, two blotches of color standing out high on his cheeks.  “I can’t believe none of you will help us!  G’s risked his life for you!  All of you!”  he screamed.  Behind him, his mother rose too and took a hesitant step forward, laying her hand on his back.  Daryl glanced around the room, watching as eyes suddenly started dropping to the floor. 
 
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked before he could think about it.  Andrea shook her head again.
 
“They started talking about a rescue while we were getting the cots squared away.  Danny and his dad want to go down into the city to go get the brother, but no one else is volunteering to help them.”
 
“They’re just gonna leave him?” Grimes asked.  A new note had entered his voice, and Daryl shot the man a sidelong glance.  Walsh apparently heard it, too. 
 
“Aw, Rick, no man…this ain’t our problem!” he hissed sharply. 
 
“These people are sharing their food and shelter with us, without asking for anything in return,” Grimes shot back. 
 
“Man, you ain’t serious!” 
 
“A lot of the people here just wouldn’t be any use on a run to the city…they’re not fast enough, or good enough shots.  The ones who could help…they’ve got families,” Andrea interrupted evenly.  “So far the only volunteer they can find is the old guy.”  She jerked a thumb at the man who had been talking to Dale.  Daryl snorted derisively.  Sure, he looked fit enough for an old man…but he was an old man. 
 
“Fine!  Screw it!  I’ll go back myself,” Danny shouted again, shrugging off his mother’s hands.  Jill Royce seemed to crumple in on herself, reaching up to press her hands to her mouth as she visibly tried not to start crying again.  Daryl glanced over at Grimes, and he already knew what the man was going to do even before he stepped forward. 
 
“How many people do you need?” Grimes called out.  Behind him, Walsh laced his fingers together at the back of his head and glared at the ceiling, sighing heavily. 
 
The Royce’s though, were staring at Grimes with something like hope blooming on their faces.  Danny scrubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as he thought.  Finally, he opened his eyes to look at Grimes again, brow furrowing.  “Four of us could do it,” he said decisively. 
 
“All right,” Grimes replied.  “So we got you and me.  Anyone else?”  A low murmur started going through the crowd.  Daryl shook his head slightly.  Grimes the perpetual Boy Scout.  He didn’t even have to look to know the man’s wife was glaring daggers at him, though she was enough of a Southern woman that she likely wouldn’t go against her husband in public. 
 
“I’ll do it.”  Andrea’s voice rang out just as clearly as Grimes’ had, and she stepped forward to stand next to him.  Despite himself, he felt his jaw drop a little.  He’d known the woman had a backbone on her…but he wouldn’t have figured her the type to risk her life for a perfect stranger.
 
Grimes was looking around the gathered people, one eyebrow raised in a slightly challenging manner.  The Royce’s, too, were looking at their group, the hope in their expressions nearly painful to look at. 
 
“Please,” Jill said suddenly, softly.  “Please, Glenn’s done so much for us.  For all of us.” 
 
And Daryl felt as though the world had dropped right out from under him. 
 
Glenn.
 
The kid’s name was Glenn.
 
He sucked in a sharp breath, a strange, sick feeling suddenly churning in his stomach.  He saw a sharp movement out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t focus on it.  All he could see was the family in front of him.  The woman’s eyes were glassy with tears that were threatening to fall at any moment, while her husband was searching the faces of the crowd desperately, pleadingly.  They weren’t his problem, they weren’t any different from any of the other people who had lost someone in this world, they were nothing to him, and their son’s name was Glenn. 
 
His feet were carrying him forward before he was even aware of it.  This was a fool’s errand, and incredibly dangerous, and their grief shouldn’t matter to him…but the kid’s name was Glenn. 
 
“I’ll go,” he said.

Chapter 10

 
It was a stupid idea.    
 
He wanted to tell himself that he had no idea what had made him speak up.  He should have wanted to call the words back the instant they had crossed his lips.  He’d survived this long by not sticking his neck out, by avoiding unnecessary risks.  Common sense demanded that he apply the same thinking to this situation.  It was too bad about the Royce’s kid…they seemed like decent folk, but their son’s predicament was not his problem.  He couldn’t make himself listen to common sense, though.  Not this time.  
 
He felt like his heart had seized in his chest, and the sick, lurching feeling still shivered unpleasantly in his gut.  His breath had lodged somewhere in his throat and it was like the entire room was closing in on him.  The need to move, to shove his way through the crowd and keep going until there was nothing around him but the night air and the quiet of the forest was rising in him with the clawing frenzy of a cornered animal, but he held himself steady.  He fixed his gaze as unflinchingly as he could on the small family in front of him. 
 
They were nothing to him.  Decent folk who had offered them shelter…but ultimately nothing to him. 
 
It wasn’t…it wasn’t his boy, wasn’t the man he’d loved trapped down in the city.  Glenn was gone.  Glenn was gone, and nothing Daryl did would ever bring him back.  His boy had died in the hellhole that used to be Atlanta, and Daryl might hope with every fiber of his being, might pray to a God he wasn’t sure he’d ever believed in that it had been quick…but he knew better.  In his worst moments, his mind taunted him with the knowledge that likely, his boy had died horribly.  Had died scared and alone.  Had died in pain.
 
These people were nothing to him…but their son’s name was Glenn.
 
He knew exactly why he had spoken up. 
 
Stupid as it was, pointless as it was, hurtful as it was, he couldn’t refuse to help them any more than he’d been able to let Andrea’s sister die. 
 
The hush that had fallen over the meeting hall as soon as Grimes had started talking only deepened as he and Andrea spoke up, and he could feel Walsh’s incredulous stare boring into the back of his neck as he shuffled forward a bit—though he didn’t go so far as to move up to stand next to Grimes and Andrea.  Grimes himself threw a surprised glance over his shoulder at the sound of Daryl’s voice. 
 
The Royce’s though, were looking at Grimes the way a drowning man might look at a lifeline.  The kid, Danny, took a few halting steps forward.  “You mean it?” he demanded.  “You’ll help me get him out of there?”  
 
“That’s what we said,” Grimes replied, his voice carrying the same calm, confident tone that had had all of them falling in line behind him at the quarry. 
 
A soft, choking sound came from Jill Royce as she sank back down onto the couch, her hands pressed tightly over her face.  It might have been a gasp of relief, might have been a stifled sob at the thought of Danny going back into Atlanta again.  Likely, it was a mixture of both.  Her husband immediately settled beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and pressing his face into her hair for a moment as he whispered something against her temple.  When he looked back up again, there was pure gratefulness on his face.  The tightness in Daryl’s chest constricted still further. 
 
Danny nodded once, shortly, to himself, before leveling a glare at the surrounding members of his own camp.  Very few of them would meet his eyes.  “All right,” Danny said, taking a deep breath, “all right…I need to see what supplies we’ll need and figure out the best route to take.  Can we...can we talk in your RV after dinner?” 
 
Grimes turned a questioning glance at Dale, who merely waved his permission, watching the proceedings with avid interest.  “Sounds like a plan,” Grimes agreed.  The words seemed to break the spell of quiet that had settled over the meeting hall.  Gradually, the murmur of voices started up again.  Grimes turned to face them, his eyes settling on Walsh, who was shaking his head in consternation. 
 
“Andrea, Dixon…why don’t you two go grab something to eat while there’s still time?  I got a feeling that’s gonna be a long meeting.” 
 
“Rick, you can’t seriously be thinkin’ of doing this,” Walsh said harshly.  Daryl and Andrea exchanged a sidelong look.  A quick look over at Grimes’ wife showed that she had abandoned the dinner line and was striding towards them, a thunderous look on her face.  Almost as one, the two of them stepped away from Grimes, heading vaguely towards the end of the dinner line. 
 
Daryl glanced over at where the Royce family was still huddled together, talking quietly.  He could imagine what was being said, the reassurances they were whispering to each other.  The hope they now had that the lost member of their family would be returned to them.  He swallowed harshly and turned away.  In the space of a heartbeat, the idea of food lost all its appeal. 
 
He glanced around the meeting hall, suddenly feeling as though the place was crowding in on him.  With the addition of their own group, there were nearly thirty people in the meeting hall.  His eyes fell on a fire exit in the back of the hall and he changed course immediately, shouldering his way through a couple of hanging blanket ‘walls’.  He didn’t slow down until he hit the push bar handle with the now-useless sticker on it warning him that an alarm would sound, and burst out into the humid air of the Georgia twilight. 
 
The very last shreds of deep orange sunlight were quickly fading from the sky, and he cursed to himself under his breath.  It wouldn’t be smart to plunge off into unfamiliar woods in the darkness, and he wasn’t desperate enough for solitude that he was going to risk swinging a flashlight around and hanging a goddamn target over his head for any Walker that might be lurking in the woods.  The weird guy Andrew had sent to make sure they weren’t hiding any bites had said that they hadn’t had any problems with Walkers on the grounds…but that didn’t mean much to Daryl.
 
They hadn’t had any problems at the quarry, either. 
 
With another muttered curse, he set off across the small courtyard towards a wide, well-kept path that took off between the snack bar and the laundry room.  A bright yellow, metal sign indicated the path led down to the camp’s lake.  Good enough.  He walked quickly, the crossbow held in easy readiness in front of him, chin tucked low against his chest.  The tight, breathless feeling hadn’t left him, and he gnawed on his bottom lip agitatedly as he walked. 
 
He just needed a few minutes.  A few minutes of quiet to get his head on straight, to get a handle on the boiling, raw emotions churning through him.  Time to wrap his mind around what he had just volunteered to do, to think of a plausible reason for his sudden altruism…because he knew Grimes would ask.  And what could he tell the man?  That the Royce kid happened to share a name with the one person on Earth Daryl would have happily laid down his life for a hundred times over, and because of that something in him had refused, absolutely refused to stand by when he might be able to help?
 
Yeah, like that would ever happen. 
 
He hadn’t gone very far before he realized there was someone following him—light, quick footfalls that were too steady to be a Walker.  Even so, as soon as he heard them, he whirled around, bringing the bow to bear in one quick motion. 
 
A few yards behind him, barely visible in the deepening gloom, Andrea startled violently, immediately raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.  “Whoa, hey!  It’s just me!” she called. 
 
He lowered the crossbow, mouth twisting in irritation.  “Goddamn it, woman, you tryin’ ta’ get shot?” he demanded harshly.  Without waiting for an answer, he turned away and resumed his trek towards the lake at a faster pace. 
 
He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised when he heard her speed up behind him, as well. 
 
He made his way down to the shore of the small, man-made lake, not stopping until he had reached the very edge of the wooden dock that stretched out into the water.  The last of the sun had faded out of sight, but the sky was still lit with the murky purple-gray of twilight.  The moon would not be up for a while yet.  He took a deep breath as he looked out over the water, rolling his shoulders in an effort to relieve some of the tension.  He narrowed his eyes as the hollow sound of Andrea’s footsteps on the dock reached his ears, sinking down to sit on the dock’s edge, with his feet dangling over the water. 
 
A moment later, Andrea came up beside him, dropping down to mirror his position on the other side, far enough away that she wasn’t touching him, but still closer than he was used to any of the group getting.  He wondered silently just what in the hell he had done to make her think he wanted her hanging around him, and if it was too late to take it back. 
 
She didn’t try to talk, though, just sat in silence and joined him in his contemplation of the water.  After a few minutes, when Andrea didn’t make any effort at conversation, he felt himself relaxing.  The tightness in his chest eased, leaving only the familiar, phantom ache that he knew he’d carry until the day he died.  The rhythmic slop of water against the dock’s pylons was soothing, in its way.  He’d never been much of a fisherman, but he could see the appeal. 
 
“So, how much of Rick do you think Lori is going to leave on the floor up there?” Andrea asked at length.   
 
Unwillingly, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch in the beginnings of an amused smile. He glanced over at the woman sitting beside him, but she was still looking out over the water, seemingly uncaring of whether or not he answered.   “Woman looked fit ta’ be tied,” he allowed, finally.  Andrea chuckled softly, before shaking her head. 
 
“I can’t believe none of those people were going to help go back for that kid,” she said, disgust coloring her words.  He shot her a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow.  She looked over at him, and her chin went up challengingly.  “You’re telling me you’d do something like that?  If it was Amy, or Carl, or Sophia, you’d really refuse to help us go after them?” 
 
He licked his lips, turning his attention back out onto the water.  Truthfully…he could see where the members of the Royce’s camp were coming from.  Most of them looked like the most physical activity they were used to was a slow jog around a manicured park track, and there were at least three families on the grounds with young kids.  He could understand why they’d be hesitant to go down into the death trap that was Atlanta. 
 
But…
 
From what Andrea had said, the Royce kid and his brother had been risking their necks in the city on a regular basis to get supplies for the camp.  The idea that no one outside of the kids’ parents and some old coot left over from Vietnam would be willing to even try to return the favor didn’t sit right with him. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind, he knew Andrea had him pegged.  He’d never volunteered to go down into the city on their own supply runs; had done his absolute best to make the rest of the group understand that he didn’t give one good goddamn about any of them. 
 
That hadn’t stopped him from saving Andrea’s sister, though.  It hadn’t stopped him from standing beside Grimes and Walsh to lay down defensive fire during the Walker attack at the quarry, when he could have easily slipped away to greater safety in the woods.  And…all right, no.  If it was Amy, or the Grimes kid, or the little blonde girl, no he wouldn’t have refused to help rescue them.  He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself.  Whatever he thought of the people in this group he’d fallen in with, there was no way in hell he’d just sit back and do nothing if any of the kids were in danger.  Even at his worst, he wouldn’t have been able to do that.  He didn’t give voice to any of his thoughts, but Andrea let out a small, satisfied hum anyway. 
 
“Can I ask you something?” she said.  He shrugged one shoulder, neither denying nor granting her permission.  People could ask him whatever they wanted…whether or not he answered had always been up to him.  “I know you’d help us if it was someone in our group.  You’d probably be an asshole about it, but you’d help…” she trailed off suddenly, and when he glanced over at her there was a slightly sheepish, apologetic expression on her face.  He snorted lightly, rolling his eyes.
 
He’d never had a problem with people calling it like it was.
 
“Why did you volunteer to come with us?”
 
The words, when they came, were said quietly.  So quietly they were almost lost under the gentle slap of the water on the wood of the dock.  He heard them, though, and hunched his shoulders against the honest curiosity in Andrea’s voice.  Her judgment, her distaste for him, her high-and-mighty certainty that she was better than him…those he could deal with.  Had been dealing with.  Had taken and returned with interest, actually. 
 
He wasn’t sure what to do with it when she talked to him like this, though. 
 
“Why’d you do it?” he countered, and wondered why he was continuing the conversation at all.  “Ain’t ya’ worried ‘bout what your sister’ll say?”
 
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrea turn to face him.  He kept his own face stoically forward, staring at the rippling, night-blackened surface of the lake as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. 
 
“My whole adult life, I’ve been in charge.  I’ve never let anyone tell me I couldn’t do something.  Never let anything make me back down,” she said, still in the same soft tone.  “The Walkers…I…I can’t fight them.  None of us can.  We’re all living on borrowed time now, Dixon.  I know that.  But I can’t just sit around and hide, waiting for my time to run out.  Otherwise, what was the point of even surviving in the first place?  Rick’s doing it because he thinks it’s the right thing to do…that’s what he holds onto; he needs it.  Me, well, I’ve never been a victim…not in my whole life.  Hell if I’m gonna start now.  Amy understands that.”  Andrea’s voice never lost its steady, even tone.  She spoke matter-of-factly, and Daryl could hear the honesty ringing in every word. 
 
He felt his respect for the woman go up a notch…and for the first time, he didn’t try to fight or deny it. 
 
“So what about you?” she asked again.  He darted a look at her, ducking his head slightly.  One hand crept up to his mouth and he chewed on his thumbnail absently, a habit he’d had since he was a child. 
 
Honesty deserved honesty.  But he couldn’t bring himself to tell her all of it. 
 
“Cause I would have, before,” he said finally.  Before.  Before, before, before…before the world went to shit and every single second became a fight for survival.  Before every decision had potentially life or death consequences. 
 
Before he’d wrapped himself in all of the harshest, most flawed parts of his personality like armor, burying all the best bits of the man he’d been so deeply that he wasn’t even sure there was anything of that man left. 
 
Before he’d lost Glenn.
 
“Cause I would have, before,” he said again.  The rest of it lodged in his throat, and even though he thought he trusted Andrea more than he had a scant two days ago, he couldn’t make himself continue. 
 
Andrea was watching him silently, her lips pressed into a thin line.  “Because of someone named Glenn?” she ventured after a few heartbeats. 
 
He froze.  He absolutely froze for those few precious seconds when he could have pretended not to understand, or asked her what the hell she was talking about.  He froze, all of the air leaving his lungs in a short, sharp whoosh. 
 
Andrea could tell in an instant that she'd gone too far.  “I’m sorry," she said quickly.   "I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business.  Just…when they said the name, you looked like you were gonna be sick.”  Just what in the hell had this woman done in her life that she was so good at reading people?  He knew he had a damn good poker face.
 
He grit his teeth and leaped up from his seated position, barely missing hitting her shoulder with the butt of the crossbow.  “You’re right,” he snapped.  “It ain’t your business!”
 
“Dixon…hey, wait!” she called as he stalked back up the length of the dock, intent on getting as much space between him and the woman as possible.  He growled, honest to God growled, low in his throat, and sped up.  He heard Andrea scramble to her feet, and start running after him.  “Dixon, please!  Please wait.  I’m sorry!  I swear, I didn’t say anything to anyone else…I won’t!” 
 
He whipped around again, finding her almost directly behind him.  She flinched back at the motion, and his eyes narrowed into slits.  “For fuck’s sake,” he bit out, “I ain’t never hit no woman.  Jesus Christ.” 
 
Andrea bit her lip, looking down at the ground before raising her chin to meet his gaze squarely.  “I’m sorry,” she said again.  “Look, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to—“
 
“Damn straight,” he interrupted scathingly.  “I don’t want ta’ talk,” he snarled, getting right up in her face.  This time, she didn’t back down.  “I don’t know what your game is, but just leave me out’f it!  The hell you even give a shit for?” 
 
“Because like it or not, all we’ve got now is each other!” Andrea burst out.  “That’s all we’ve got.  None of us can make it in this world alone anymore…and that includes you.  And I give a shit,” she continued, drawing out the word, “because I think you deserve it.” 
 
“I don’t need—“ 
 
From somewhere to their left, out in the woods, there was a sudden crashing—branches and brush snapping underfoot.  In an instant, he snapped his mouth shut, zeroing in on the direction the noise was coming from as he stepped forward and shoved Andrea behind him.  He was suddenly aware that the woods were completely silent…no sounds of nocturnal animals rustling in the bushes, no calls of owls or other night birds. 
 
“What was that?” Andrea asked, her voice tight and sharp. 
 
“Shhh,” he hissed.  The crashing came again—something large and clumsy moving through the woods.  Too big and too loud to be a deer or a wild hog.  He loaded the crossbow quietly, glancing over his shoulder to see that Andrea had pulled her own pistol out of the waistband of her jeans.  “How good a shot are ya’ with that?” he whispered.  Grimes and Walsh were the only ones he’d ever seen shoot. 
 
Andrea chambered a round, her face grim.  “Good enough,” she said. 
 
The crashing grew closer, right on the edge of the path they were standing on, and he reacted, gripping Andrea by the elbow and dragging her into the trees on the opposite side of the path from where the noise was coming from.  He pulled them into the brush, ducking down by the roots of a thick tree and pulling a few branches of a large, nearby bush over their position.  To her credit, Andrea didn’t protest the manhandling, just tucked herself into as small a ball as possible by his side, her gun held at the ready. 
 
They held themselves tensely, barely breathing as the crashing got louder and louder.  It was almost a relief when the Walker stumbled out onto the path.  Daryl grimaced at the sight of the thing—a woman in a torn and filthy nightgown.  One knee was bending the wrong way with every step she took, giving her even more of an awkward, halting gait.  As she wended her way closer, he could make out a horrific wound on the side of her neck, large chunks torn out of her throat and shoulder.  He took a slow, silent breath and raised the crossbow as unobtrusively as possible, letting the braches fall around him to conceal the movement. 
 
He took aim…but before he could release the arrow, a second Walker lurched out of the woods.  This one was a large man in jeans and a shredded plaid shirt.  One arm was completely gone, and where his shirt gaped open, they could see a bloody pulp of torn muscle and the glint of bone all down one side.
 
He reached over and gripped Andrea’s shoulder until she looked up at him, eyes wide…but determined.  He jerked his chin towards the closer female Walker, raising one eyebrow in question.  Andrea took a soft, shaky breath, and nodded, hefting her gun. 
 
And that was when another three Walkers staggered out onto the path. 
 
Then two more.
 
And there was still noise coming from the underbrush. 
 
He felt Andrea go absolutely still and rigid beside him.  He swallowed hard.  “Oh fuck,” he breathed, the sound barely carrying on the exhalation.  His eyes darted around desperately as the Walkers started shambling up towards the camp, taking the path of least resistance. 
 
They were heading for the camp.  They were heading for the camp, and everyone was probably still inside the meeting hall.  He had no idea what the watch schedule for the Royce’s group was.  He and Andrea needed to make it back to the camp before the Walkers did.  That was all there was to it.  He leaned close to Andrea. 
 
“We need to circle around ahead of ‘em,” he whispered against her ear.  “Gotta go back through the woods…ya’ stay low, ya’ step where I step much as ya’ can.  Only use your gun if there ain’t no other choice.  Got it?”  He waited until she nodded her understanding, before he turned around.  Still crouching as low to the ground as he could, he eased himself away from the trunk of the tree they were huddled behind, deeper into the underbrush. 
 
Before he lost sight of the path, he saw another four Walkers exit the woods. 
 
They moved in an awkward, stooped position for several yards, keeping as low as they could.  He slipped through the bushes and shrubs that made up the forest’s undergrowth as silently as possible, pleased when Andrea managed to move along behind him only a little more noisily.  His heart was pounding, even though they hadn’t started running yet.  They had minutes, only minutes to get ahead of the Walkers and warn the camp; to come up with a plan of action. 
 
His mind was racing as he finally deemed them far enough away to risk running.  He set them on a slightly curving route, one that should bring them out of the woods by where the vehicles were all parked.  “C’mon!” he hissed, and broke into a flat out sprint. 
 
Once again, Andrea surprised him, easily keeping up with his pace.  He clutched the butt of the crossbow, keeping a sharp eye out for any other Walkers as they ran.  Most of his attention was on keeping them on the correct path towards the camp, though, and so he missed the sudden lunge of movement on his right side as they passed a thick patch of brambles. 
 
The Walker tackled him to the ground with a hissing, snarling groan, hitting him at the waist and trapping one of his arms beneath its weight as they fell.  He couldn’t get the crossbow up at the correct angle to fire…couldn’t even use it to bludgeon the thing.  The wind was knocked out of him as they hit the dirt, but he had the presence of mind to slam his free elbow into the thing’s temple as its crusted, bloody teeth tried to close on his neck. 
 
“Dixon!”  He heard Andrea shout his name, but was too busy trying to dislodge the Walker on top of him without getting in range of its teeth.  He thrashed like a wild thing, kicking and punching for all his was worth.  The stench of the Walker was overwhelming, thick wetness dripping down onto him where his fists sank into yielding, putrid flesh.  It snarled and snapped at him like a rabid animal, and the thing was too heavy for him to get enough leverage to buck it off. 
 
And then, suddenly, the weight was rolled off of him.  For one, timeless instant he just lay there, blinking at the dirt beneath his face, unable to believe he was still alive.  Then sense reasserted itself, and he was rolling to his feet.  Andrea was standing over the Walker, a thick, heavy branch raised over her head.  As he watched, she brought it down as hard as she could on the Walker’s neck and shoulders, trying to bash the thing’s head in before it could go for her.  With a dull start, he realized she had actually managed to knock the thing off of him. 
 
“Move!” he barked, jerking the crossbow up into position.  Andrea jumped back and he let loose with the bolt, nailing the thing right in the skull.  The Walker, a heavyset man in a tattered business suit, slumped back down on the ground, and he bent over double, resting his hands on his thighs as he gasped for breath. 
 
“Shit, are you okay?” Andrea demanded, laying one hand on his shoulder.  “Did it—“
 
“Ain’t bit,” he said brusquely, shrugging out of her grasp.  He glanced down at the remains of the Walker, lying beside the branch that looked like it weighed almost as much as Andrea.  “Nice work,” he grunted, leaning down to jerk his arrow out of the Walker’s head.  He wiped it on the leg of his jeans and reloaded it onto the crossbow. 
 
“You’re welcome,” Andrea muttered, looking around warily for any more hiding in the brush.  The woods around them were quiet, though, and with a shared look between them, they set off running again. 
 
The lake wasn’t that far from the camp…they could only hope that the Walkers wouldn’t hear or smell anything to incite them to go towards it at a faster clip.  If they could keep up this pace, he was pretty sure they’d be able to beat the swarm. 
 
God, why hadn’t he told anyone what he was thinking about the Walkers leaving the city?  Grimes and Walsh pissed him off, but they took the safety of the group seriously.  There was no time for self-recriminations, though.  He forced himself to run faster, ignoring the weight of the crossbow in his arms, and the way his muscles were starting to burn from the exertion.  It seemed like hours, but in reality it could only have been a few minutes, before he finally spotted the windows of the meeting hall through the trees, glowing with the light of lanterns. 
 
Something the Walkers were sure to notice as soon as they got far enough up the path.
 
“C’mon!” he threw over his shoulder, forcing another burst of speed.  The two of them broke the tree line on the side of the meeting hall that was serving as an impromptu parking lot.  Something like relief coursed through him when he realized he couldn’t hear any screams, or see any shambling figures silhouetted against the light spilling out of the meeting hall windows. 
 
They’d beaten the herd.
 
“Go, go tell ‘em we got incomin’!” he gasped.  “Get everyone inside an’ douse the lights!”
 
“What about you?” Andrea huffed, thankfully not trying to argue with him.
 
“I’m gonna get on top a’ the RV, try ta’ bottleneck ‘em when they come off the path.”  The plan literally formed as he spoke.  “I’ll try an’ buy ya’ enough time t’get everyone armed.”
 
There were too many of the things to hope they could just lie low and wait for them to pass through the area.  They’d seen at least a dozen of them by the lake, and he was willing to bet there were more.  Their best bet would be to try and pick them off as they spilled out into the courtyard formed by the ring of buildings. 
 
“Okay…be careful!” With that, she split off from him, running full-tilt towards the meeting hall while he adjusted his course and headed for his truck. 
 
He didn’t have near the collection that Grimes had shown up at the quarry camp with, but the crossbow was certainly not his only weapon.  He skidded to a halt beside his truck and fumbled the keys out of his pocket, cursing the extra seconds it cost him.  He unlocked the driver’s side door quickly, leaning in and snatching his carry-case off the floor of the passenger side, as well as the rifle he’d left on the rack over the seats when he headed into the meeting hall. 
 
He swung the crossbow around onto his back and threaded one arm through the straps on the carry-case and the rifle.  By the time he reached the side of the RV, he could hear raised voices coming from the meeting hall.  He swarmed up the ladder on the back of the RV, making his way to the front of the vehicle and hitting his knees at the very edge of the roof.  The crossbow was set in easy reach, and he undid the zipper on the carry-case, pulling out an extra bundle of bolts, as well as his remaining guns…a shotgun he’d used for deer hunting, a pistol.  Three guns and the crossbow.  It would have to be enough.
 
Hopefully, he would have backup before he started to run out of ammo. 
 
He snatched up the crossbow, and stretched out on his stomach, propping the crossbow’s sight up on the raised lip of the roof.  He focused on the path he had taken down to the lake less than an hour ago, ready to try and buy the people inside the meeting hall as much time as he could to mount a defense. 
 
He waited for the first Walker to appear. 

 

 

 

Notes:

Oh gentle readers...you didn't really think Daryl was going to stride down into Atlanta and find Glenn as easy as all that, did you?

Bwahahahahaha!

That said, thank you very, very much for all the comments and kudos on this. Your feedback is truly the highlight of my days (and motivates me to write faster *wink wink*)

Many thanks to suzume42 for the awesome beta!

Chapter 11

Notes:

A couple things, please bear with me: First and foremost, thank you so, so much for all the comments and kudos this has been getting. I sincerely appreciate it; you guys are awesome!

Secondly, in case you can't tell, I'm BAMF'ing Andrea and Amy up a bit in this. Mostly because I call total bullshit on any father who was apparently as much of an outdoorsman as theirs was giving his daughter a gun she didn't even know how to CLEAN. My dad started teaching me gun safety when I was five :-/

Thirdly, all right, that's it, I one hundred percent PROMISE that the rescue will commence in the next chapter. No more delays (lots of obstacles, 'cause c'mon, they're heading right down into Walker Central, but yeah)...the reunion IS on the horizon :)

He waited.

Behind him, he could hear the sound of raised voices and shouting coming from the meeting hall. He narrowed his eyes, flicking a quick, disgusted glance over his shoulder. If the Walkers heard the noise and made a run for the building before they could mount any kind of defense, they were fucked. The group he’d seen down at the lake was too big for him to take out by himself, and if they started swarming the meeting hall…he didn’t know if he’d have time to do much good.

Idiots.

He settled himself more firmly on the roof of the RV as one voice rose above the others. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like Grimes. Whoever it was, the noise died down almost immediately after, and the soft yellow glow that was spilling out of the meeting hall windows started diminishing as they finally started putting out the lights. Daryl sighed in relief and sighted down the crossbow’s scope, fixing his focus on the gap between buildings where the path up from the lake spilled out. The guns might have been easier to use, but no way in hell he was giving his position away until he ran out of arrows, or there were more people out here with him.

Even as he waited, there was some part of him railing in disbelief at what he was doing. There was no telling how many Walkers were in the woods…it could be two dozen or it could be two hundred. What the hell was he doing making himself a sitting duck out here? The part of him that had been driving his actions for the past two months—the part of him that was hard, cold, purely about survival—was howling in outrage. For perhaps the first time since the outbreak, since he’d sat in his apartment and felt the slow, creeping realization that Glenn wasn’t coming back, since he’d forced himself to just duck his head and survive…he told that part of him to shut the hell up.

He curled his finger around the bow’s trigger, taking a deep steadying breath. The moon was just starting to rise. It was a mere sliver in the sky, but it cast a bit of silvery light down on the darkened grounds. It would be enough to see by. He hunched his shoulders forward slightly, feeling each second tick by like hours. He was just daring to hope that something else might have attracted the Walkers’ interest, turned them away from the camp, when a shiver went over the back of his neck, the hairs standing on end.

He stilled his body, hardly even breathing as the sound reached him…the barely-there crunch of gravel underfoot, the scraping of limbs dragging over the ground, like dry, deadened branches brushing against each other. And over it all, the moans. The wheezing, gasping moans, air whistling through ruined, rotted throats. The woods around the camp fell silent again, and he gritted his teeth as the first few shadowed figures stumbled off the path and into the courtyard.

Not even five minutes had passed since he and Andrea had separated…they’d only barely beaten the horde.

There was no time to worry about it, though. He spared one, final thought for the sheer insanity of what he was doing…and then he just let go of thought altogether.

He tilted his head slightly, picking his first target—the woman in the tattered nightgown that he had first seen down at the lake. Her stilted, lurching gait, worse than the others due to the busted out knee, made her easy to pick out of the writhing mass of shadows. Sight. Adjust. Release. The motions were as natural to him as breathing, as much a part of him as muscle and bone. There was the short, sharp twang of the crossbow’s string releasing and the bolt whistled through the air, finding its mark with a dull thud.

The Walker toppled.

He was already moving, already slotting another bolt into the rail. Sight. Adjust. Release. Another Walker fell to the ground and the swarm started to get agitated. Their movements quickened, shambling at a faster pace towards the meeting hall. His eyes flicked restlessly over them, settling on the ones that were moving the fastest, with the least trouble. Sight. Adjust. Release. Still more of them were staggering off the path, and his own movements became quicker. Two more Walkers went down in quick succession, then another towards the middle of the pack, felled with the intention of tripping a few of the bastards up.

He was reloading his next bolt when he finally heard the door to the meeting hall slam open, the thunder of boots and shoes on the wooden porch. Without hesitation, Daryl set the crossbow aside and snatched up his rifle, setting it against his shoulder with the same practiced ease.

“Dixon!” Grimes’ voice rang out, a question and a demand all rolled into one.

“There’s ‘bout twenty of ‘em…maybe more!” he called back.

“Shit…Shane, take a group around back and make sure there aren’t more coming from the woods! Rest of you, make sure nothing gets past that first aid station!”

Daryl listened with half an ear as Grimes barked out orders. He was vaguely aware of someone clambering up the RV’s ladder to the roof with him, but didn’t pay it any mind beyond a mild flash of irritation that he now had to adjust his aim to compensate for the way the vehicle was rocking slightly.

He started firing.

The crash of gunfire split the night air wide open…the time for silent attacking was over. The Walkers lunged forward, their hungry hisses and groans audible even over the roar of the guns. They were frenzied now, focused on the sounds of the group and utterly ignoring the fact that they were getting mowed down as they raced towards fresh meat. Daryl glanced over his shoulder again, a fast, assessing look at the group of about ten people lined up on the meeting hall’s porch, laying down cover fire.

Something like relief swirled through him. There was no way any of the Walkers would even get close enough to be a threat to him on the RV, much less the people in the meeting hall. This wasn’t going to be a repeat of the quarry. There was a flash of movement beside him, moonlight glinting off of blonde hair. Before he could do much more than register it, Andrea had thrown herself down beside him, stretching out on the roof as well and propping one of Grimes’ rifles up on the lip of the roof right next to the muzzle of his own gun.

“Don’t recall askin’ for backup,” he grunted, letting his focus slip just the slightest bit from the endless repetition of ‘target, aim, fire.’ Andrea let out a little huff of air, taking aim with the rifle and letting loose with a solid shot that struck a lumbering Walker that had been starting to circle out of the main group towards the cars.

“Maybe you’re my backup,” she shot back flippantly.

Despite himself, despite the situation, and the very real danger they were still in, for all he didn’t think there were enough Walkers in this herd to overrun them now that Grimes had gotten shooters out on the porch…Daryl bared his teeth in a feral grin.

The Walkers were still coming, but the numbers were thinning out rapidly. With Grimes and whoever was on the porch with him taking out the main clump, he and Andrea were able to concentrate on picking off any stragglers that broke off. The minutes ticked by unnoticed, everything narrowing down to the rhythm of finding targets and taking them out. Finally, though, the last lurching, staggering figure fell to the ground and was still.

“Hold up, hold up!” Grimes called out from the meeting hall porch, and the sharp bursts of gunfire ceased. Atop the RV, he and Andrea lay side by side, breathing heavily as they scanned the darkness for any other Walkers. “Dixon, Andrea, you see anything?” Grimes asked.

Andrea glanced over at him, plainly leaving the decision of whether or not to call ‘all-clear’ up to him. He gnawed on his lip a little, pulling himself to his knees as he stared intently at the darkened path the Walkers had spilled off of. He quieted his breath and listened, only relaxing a little when he heard the hesitant chirruping of frogs and crickets starting up again in the brush, the soft call of an owl.

“Think we’re clear,” he said, loudly enough for Grimes to hear. Beside him, Andrea breathed a soft sigh of relief, the end of it catching on a ragged, humorless laugh. She rolled to her own knees, checking the rifle with quick, nervous movements. He watched her warily, tucking his own guns back into the carry-case and slinging the crossbow up to its usual position on his shoulder. She didn’t try to say anything to him, though, and after a few moments they rose to their feet and started climbing down off of the vehicle.

People were starting to gather on the meeting hall’s porch, slipping hesitantly out of the building. Grimes, Dale, and (to Daryl’s surprise) Amy were standing on the steps, armed with unfamiliar guns. Six or seven of Royce’s group—including Andrew and Danny Royce themselves—were gathered slightly behind them, similarly armed. The low murmur of panicked, distressed voices started to rise as Walsh, T-Dog, and a few people Daryl didn’t recognize came jogging back around the corner of the building. He saw Walsh shake his head at Grimes’ questioning look, indicating that they hadn’t seen any Walkers around the back of the building.

Daryl sighed softly. Disaster averted.

He raised an eyebrow as more and more of Royce’s group started filtering out of the building. It didn’t take a genius to read the scared, angry tone of the voices clamoring for explanations. He snorted to himself as he saw Grimes and Andrew Royce raising their hands in identical placating gestures, no doubt already talking in perfectly calm, reasonable tones. He turned on his heel and started walking out towards the downed Walkers. Let Grimes play politician….unless a bunch of the other survivors were planning on starting a brawl, Daryl wanted no part of it.

He didn’t think too hard about why he would want a part of it under any circumstances.

“Dixon…hey Dixon! Wait, where are you going?”

Andrea.

He stopped, his thumbnail finding its way to his mouth before he was even conscious of the movement. Part of him wanted to whirl on her, wanted to shout and rage until she got it through her head that he wasn’t a damn stray that she could just adopt. He wanted to stalk away from her, away from her damn knowing eyes, and her questions about…about Glenn. Part of him wanted to turn on his heel and show her that all the hateful bullshit he’d been spewing the past few weeks was nothing compared to what he was capable of.

But…

But.

He didn’t understand why she had suddenly decided he was worth talking to. It couldn’t just be that she felt she owed him for saving her sister. He didn’t understand why she felt the need to follow him around, why she had defended him to the group back in the quarry—he couldn’t figure out her angle. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, though…it was kind of nice. It was nice to have someone who didn’t look at him like he was a goddamn rabid dog.

He knew, he knew that it was entirely his own fault that the others thought of him that way. He knew it and he owned it and he still maintained that it was the only way he knew how to keep what little remained of his sanity in this world. If he let himself slip even the tiniest bit, he honestly didn’t know if he was strong enough to keep himself from just shattering. Losing…losing Glenn had…

He couldn’t think about it. He couldn’t let himself think about it, and he couldn’t let himself feel it. It would cripple him. He couldn’t think about it, and he sure as hell couldn’t talk about it. But Andrea…he’d thought her to be some stuck-up city bred bitch, the kind that had looked down their noses at him his whole life. He’d been forced to revise that opinion in the past couple of days.

There was surprisingly little bullshit with the woman, and as much as he wanted to be angry at her for cornering him, he actually had to admit that she knew when to back off and leave something alone. She didn’t annoy him half as much as the rest of the group did. He thought of that brief moment of easy camaraderie on the top of the RV, the two of them working together so seamlessly. He thought of that brief instant when he’d felt a grin—an honest, real grin—break across his face.

He wasn’t sure what she was playing at--if it was really friendship she was offering or just some twisted sense of obligation for what he’d done for her sister--but he couldn’t make himself turn on her.

“Goin’ ta’ get my arrows,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder carelessly. When he glanced back at her, she was looking between him and the increasingly agitated group on the porch. She bit her lip, clearly torn between following him and going back to try and help Grimes. He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Don’t need no babysitter,” he bit out harshly.

Andrea sighed. “Will you take Amy with you? This looks like it might get ugly,” she said. He stared at her incredulously, feeling his eyebrows start to climb towards his hairline. “Please,” Andrea added quietly.

He made a low noise of displeasure in the back of his throat…but he shrugged his acquiescence. “She know how ta’ shoot?” he asked gruffly as Andrea waved her sister over. He was pretty sure that if anyone had missed a headshot on any of the Walkers, the things would have gotten back up by now, but you didn’t survive these days without being cautious. He hadn’t forgotten how the girl had just frozen when that Walker had latched onto her arm back at the quarry.

“Our dad taught both of us,” Andrea said grimly.

He nodded, and resumed his trek towards the Walkers. He heard Andrea and Amy whispering quietly, and then the sound of Amy’s light, hurried footsteps. The girl caught up with him quickly, falling into step beside him. He looked her up and down out of the corner of his eye, assessing. Even in the weak moonlight, Amy looked pale, the corners of her mouth pressed into a tight grimace. She was staring straight ahead at the piles of corpses, tension in every line of her body…but there was determination in the set of her jaw. He glanced down at the gun in her hands, recognizing Grimes’ Python.

He must have made some noise of surprise, because Amy suddenly looked down at her own hands, following the line of his gaze. “Rick didn’t have time to run out and get all the weapons when Andrea came running in…we had to use the guns Mr. Royce and his people had. I’m not very good with rifles, ‘specially in the dark like this,” Amy said softly. She turned the gun over in her hands, careful to keep the barrel aimed towards the ground. “Rick shoved this at me.” She laughed a little, tight and nervous. “It’s got a hell of a recoil.”

Almost of their own volition, Daryl’s eyes traveled up to her wrists, delicate and bird-thin. He rolled his neck a little, hissing out a breath through clenched teeth. The Python was too much gun for such a slip of a girl. He didn’t care if she was the best crack shot since Annie Oakley; the kick would hurt like a bitch. It would probably throw her aim off, too. Unfortunately, he knew Grimes didn’t have any weapons better suited to someone of Amy’s stature…Daryl had seen the man’s arsenal.

It wasn’t his business. Andrea’s gun was a good quality piece, perfectly suited to a woman’s smaller grip—plenty good enough to protect her sister with. Having someone to protect you in this world, though, wasn’t nearly as good as being able to protect yourself. He shot another sideways glance at the girl.

His own pistol was old. Merle had given it to him for his tenth birthday (one of the last things he’d ever gotten from his brother that he could say with certainty had a: not been stolen, and b: been given for no other reason than Merle gave a damn about him), and spent most of that summer teaching Daryl to shoot with it. He’d kept it in excellent condition, of course, and it was still as accurate as the day he’d gotten it…but while he could still use it, it was really too light for him. He wasn’t actually sure why he’d held onto it through the years, other than some vague sense of sentimentality. It had been his first “real” gun.
It wasn’t his business, Amy wasn’t his business. Giving up weapons was nothing short of idiotic these days (and possibly suicidal).

But…

But.

He sighed heavily, pulling up short. Amy stopped beside him, looking up at him in confusion, and not a little fear.

“What?” she asked sharply. “Do you hear something?”

He snorted and shook his head, swinging his carry-case down off his shoulder. He pulled the pistol out of its sleeve, checking that the safety was on—even though he knew perfectly well it was—through force of habit. “Here,” he said, shoving the weapon towards her. She just stared at it a moment, looking for all the world as though she was staring a live snake instead of a gun. Irritated, he shook the gun a little. “Take it!”

Hesitantly, she reached out and wrapped her hand around the grip, trading Grimes’ Python over with no protest. He was pleased to see her fingers curled neatly into the grip—not with the easy grace of someone to whom handling a weapon was second nature, but not with the fumbling hesitance of someone who was completely unfamiliar with it either. Clearly, she’d been taught at some point. The gun fit her almost perfectly.

He nodded once to himself, placing Grimes’ gun in the carry-case to be returned to the man later. “I got some extra boxes a’ bullets in m’truck. Ya’ come get ‘em ‘fore ya’ turn in for the night,” he said.

Amy goggled at him. “Wait…what? Don’t you—don’t you want this back when we’re done here?”

He stared at her a moment. He could back out, take the gun back…not give the sisters any more reason than they already had to bother with him. He could turn away from her right now, and maintain the front he’d worked so hard to put up. He could ignore how young she was, how his first instinct when that Walker had grabbed hold of her in the quarry had been to step in and help.

He could ignore the small part of him that knew how much—how much Glenn would have liked her. How his boy might have called her his friend. He could ignore the part of him that knew that for Glenn, there never would have been any question as to whether or not Daryl would do whatever he could to protect her…his boy would have just expected it. Expected Daryl to be that kind of person. He could ignore the fact that because of Glenn, he had been that kind of person. All he had to do was take the gun back.

“Keep it,” he said softly.

He turned on his heel and started towards the Walkers.

* * *

Glenn was starting to think he might be in trouble.

More trouble, he amended to himself, as a particularly loud groan reached his ears from the street below. The sun had finally set, sinking below the horizon and plunging the city into a darkness Glenn had never seen it achieve, even during those storms a couple years ago when half the power grid had been knocked out for three days. Unfortunately, the sun setting did almost nothing to drop the sweltering temperature.

He curled miserably back against the waist-high wall that ringed the pawnshop’s roof, sliding his heavy plywood “tent” aside so that he was out from under it. For a brief, wonderful moment, the air seemed blessedly cooler without the wood impeding the barely-there breeze that stirred weakly across the roof’s surface. He yanked his t-shirt up over his head, leaving only his undershirt on, and mopped his sweaty face with the fabric.

It was so hot. The concrete and tar-paper that covered the roof seemed to suck the heat of the sun in, until the surface felt like it was almost hot enough to burn when he touched his bare hand to it. Even under the shade of the plywood sheet, it was hot as an oven. The city was baking hot—glass and concrete and asphalt intensifying the heat of the Georgia sun until the temperature soared almost to triple digits.

The night brought almost no relief—still damp and humid, with the residual heat leeching out of the surrounding buildings and streets for hours after the sun set. Two days he’d been trapped on the roof…and today had been hotter than the day he and Danny had first come into the city. He had been forced to use some of his precious water rations to soak his t-shirt enough to wet himself down a bit so that the sickly breeze would cool his skin further. He’d almost gone through the water in his backpack, but he still had Danny’s.

The problem was, he didn’t think dehydration was going to be his biggest problem.

The heat was so bad. It wasn’t the hottest he’d ever seen Atlanta, but it was certainly the hottest he’d ever been without access to air conditioning. Or any way to cool down. People died in this kind of heat. He could die in this kind of heat…or at least get seriously sick. God, his ankle was bad enough. If Danny and whoever came back with him had to carry him down off this roof suffering from heat stroke or something, they’d be in even more danger.

Unfortunately…he didn’t know what else he could do.

He’d made himself as much of a shelter as he could. He stripped down as much as he could at night (he didn’t dare take off his shoes or heavy jeans during the day—he had to be ready to move when Danny came back). He forced himself to be smart and steady with his water intake. There was just nothing he could do but wait for rescue.

He pulled a granola bar out of his backpack, unwrapping it and nibbling on one corner despite the fact that he felt anything but hungry. He grit his teeth as he flexed his bad ankle slightly, testing the movement. No doubt, it was a bad, bad sprain. The flesh of his ankle was badly bruised, ugly shades of purple and black under the ACE bandage he’d wound around it. He’d been popping Tylenol like it was candy, taking the maximum dose of the painkiller and anti-inflammatory that was safe. If he was ambulant when Danny came back, that would certainly help. He hadn’t tried to put any weight on his foot the first day Danny had left him, or today. He would start testing his weight on it tomorrow, maybe try walking instead of crawling to the corner of the rooftop opposite of his shelter where he was…taking care of business.

He very carefully ignored the fact that that line of thinking meant he wasn’t expecting Danny to come back tomorrow.

He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the rough surface of the wall as he ate the granola bar. As he had for the past two days, he started running through his mental map of this part of the city, planning out various escape routes and bolt holes. It wasn’t hard. The pawnshop was actually only a few blocks from the pizza joint he had worked at, before. He knew all of Atlanta well, but he knew this particular section like the back of his hand.

He knew Andrew and Danny would have a solid plan before they came back for him—but it always paid to have backup. He tried to plan for getting out of the city by vehicle, for if they had to make a run for it on foot, for combinations of the two. He made mental notes of the cars he had seen parked along these streets that were likely to have alarms that could be used for distraction.

There was something calming about the process of planning, something that made him feel less like he was just sitting here like a damsel in distress. God, he could almost hear Daryl’s snort of amusement at that comparison. Could imagine his boyfriend’s smile of approval at his plans and considerations.

Seemingly all on its own, one hand crept down to his jeans, lying in a careless pile of fabric by his hip. He dug around in the pocket until his fingers closed around the smooth plastic sides of the bottle of aftershave. He pulled it out as he swallowed the last of the granola bar, turning the little bottle over in his hands. He almost didn’t want to open it again, irrationally afraid that somehow the reminder of Daryl’s scent would lessen, would lose its power if he did it too often.

He couldn’t help himself, though, unscrewing the cap and sighing as the cool, woody tang filled his senses. He drew his knees up to his chest, ignoring the stifling heat, the horrific sounds of the Walkers below him. He tried to draw up the memory of the last time he’d seen Daryl, that morning that everything had gone straight to shit. He tried to remember the way they had sacrificed a few precious minutes for showers and breakfast to just laze in bed together, the sheets and blankets kicked down off the mattress because their air conditioning usually lost the fight with the really hot days during the summer. He tried to think about the way Daryl had curled around him, the comforting, solid weight of his boyfriend pushing him down against the mattress as Daryl nipped playfully at his neck.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he said softly, whispering in the darkness. He closed his eyes, pretending he could hear an answer, the same raspy words that had been echoing in his head for the past two days.

“You’re gonna be fine, y’hear?”

He swallowed heavily, a broken little chuckle escaping him. He tried to believe it, tried to hold on to the optimism that had carried him through this disaster. Tried to hold on to the part of him that knew that for Daryl, there never would have been any question as to whether or not Glenn could keep himself together in the face of any adversity…his boyfriend would have just expected it. Expected him to be that kind of person. He tried to hold onto the fact that for Daryl, he had been that kind of person. He just had to hold on.

“I—I miss you,” he said softly.

The hissing moans of the Walkers were his only reply.

Chapter 12

Notes:

Hi all!

So, I'm a little pressed for time, and I need to get this up real fast. I'm very sorry for the wait on this (full explanation for the whys can be found on my tumblr, if your curious). I am eternally grateful for everyone's patience, and I hope that you will continue to bear with me.

Ummmm...quick caveat, though. In the last chapter I posted, I said that the rescue would be COMMENCING in this chapter. And it is. As in, BEGINNING. There are no quick fixes, and nothing's easy for our boys.

Also, it kind of doesn't begin until the very end of the chapter. But I can honestly say with 100% honesty that all chapters subsequent to this will be taking place DURING the rescue and the big reunion should be happening in about four chapters, if my calculations are correct. Thank you, and please enjoy!

The smell—that awful, sour-sweet-sharp rotten smell that had enveloped the whole goddamn world—grew thicker and thicker the closer they drew to the piled bodies of the Walkers. Daryl disregarded it as best he could, breathing shallowly through his mouth. He heard Amy gag once or twice, but to the girl’s credit, she got herself under control quickly.

Amy was thankfully silent as they moved, sticking close to his side without crowding him as he moved efficiently through the downed Walkers. She kept her gun at the ready as they moved, he was pleased to note, holding it more easily than she had Grimes’ Python. She still had a long way to go before she hit the easy comfort that he himself had with weapons…but he was reasonably sure that if any of the Walkers weren’t down for the count, after all, she’d be more of a help than a hindrance.

He shied away from the thought as soon as it occurred to him, not wanting to examine it too closely. He couldn’t afford to start thinking like that.

He also shied away from the part of him—a tiny, but insistent inner voice that sounded so much like his boy that it ached--that whispered it was already too late.

“Why are they all grouping together like this?” Amy’s soft voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he paused in the act of pulling one of his arrows from the forehead of what had been a teenager in the uniform of a gas station attendant. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. She was just looking at him, lips pressed together and eyes wide—as if she genuinely thought he would have some idea as to the motivations of these things. He huffed out a sigh, narrowing his eyes.

It was on the tip of his tongue to snap out that he didn’t have a fucking clue as to why the Walkers were suddenly swarming out into areas they’d never been before like—

He froze, head tilted slightly as something clicked in his mind. His eyes flicked around the scattered bodies, touching on the ten or twelve that were still fully dressed. “I need a map,” he muttered, rising from his crouch.

“Huh?” Amy asked, brow creased in confusion. He made an impatient noise in the back of his throat.

“A map! One a’ the city ones, not th’ interstate,” he barked. He glanced around the fallen Walkers again, his gut tightening a little. He was almost certain he was right...and if he was, the implications were dire. Amy jumped a little, but rallied almost instantly.

“I—I think Dale has a couple in the RV,” she offered hesitantly. He crouched down, snatching the last of his arrows out of the body of a Walker, and nodded at her tersely.

“Show me,” he ordered, and Amy just nodded her assent. Without another word, she turned and started jogging back to the RV. Daryl cast one more look around the bodies, checking to see if he had missed anything, and then quickly followed her.

They made their way through the darkness back to where all the vehicles were parked. He flicked a glance towards the meeting hall as Amy hit the door of the RV, pressing his lips together when he saw that most of the people had moved back inside the building. Dale, T-Dog, and a couple of others he didn’t recognize were pacing back and forth on the wide porch that wrapped around the building, shotguns shouldered and ready.

Closing the barn door long after the cows had gotten out, as far as he was concerned…damned idiots. He didn’t like the rigid way the people from Royce’s group were holding themselves, the lines of nervousness and tension he could read in their bodies. He shook his head as he swung himself up into the RV, where Amy was already digging through one of the various drawers at the counter that made up the ‘kitchen’. After a moment, she made a small sound of triumph and yanked a battered Atlanta city map out of the junk.

He caught it when she tossed it to him, and immediately spread it out on the small table behind the driver’s seat. He skimmed one finger across the map key before scanning the outlying areas of the city for the highway they had been travelling on, quickly pinpointing the KOA campground they were currently at.

“What? What is it?” Amy asked anxiously, her eyes darting between him and the map. Daryl shook his head slightly, sliding his finger over a section of the map slightly to the southeast of them. He huffed out a breath, one thumb finding its way to his mouth to worry at the ever-present hangnail. “Mr. Dixon?”

He glanced up at her, jaw working soundlessly. “I need ta’ talk t’Grimes,” he said reluctantly. Amy glanced between him and the map, her brow furrowing.

“We’re not safe here, are we?” she asked quietly. Despite himself, he snorted quietly.

Like there was anywhere ‘safe’ anymore. But yeah…he was pretty damn sure that the outlying areas of Atlanta were about to get even more dangerous.

“We got some problems,” he answered…because there was no use in trying to hide the truth, and he refused to sugar-coat anything for anyone the way the others were so damned insistent on trying to do. “C’mon.”

He tore out of the RV, barely taking a moment to stop by his own truck to drop off his weapons case. The crossbow he kept, as usual, its weight comforting on his back. He tucked Grimes’ gun into the back of his jeans, locking his vehicle as Amy caught up with him. The girl had the map he’d been looking at gathered up under one arm, and her eyes were wide and scared. There was a firmness to her mouth that put him in mind of her sister, though, and he didn’t say anything as she fell into step behind him.

It didn’t occur to him until he was already halfway up the steps leading into the meeting hall that Amy had not even questioned why it was so important he talk to Grimes. She had just looked at him like she was sure he knew what he was doing…had followed his lead without argument. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his shoulders hunching as he wondered—not for the first time—just what the hell he was getting into with these two women. There was no time for debating, though, and he gladly shoved the thought aside in favor of the larger problem facing them.

Dale’s eyes darted between him and Amy as they passed him on the porch, his eyebrows climbing in surprise. He heard Amy greet Dale softly as she passed, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the old man lay a hand on Amy’s elbow, shooting another concerned look between her and Daryl. Daryl ignored that, too, well aware of what the old man was probably thinking.

The door to the meeting hall was standing open, though someone had been smart enough to make sure the only lights on were a few small camp lanterns. He stopped just inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He flicked his gaze over the people gathered inside the building, lips thinning at the terrified, shell-shocked expressions on many faces that he could make out. Small groups of people were huddled around the scattered lanterns, and Daryl noted the clear division between Royce’s people and his own group with a touch of unease. Clearly, the residents of the campground were circling their wagons…and Daryl knew enough about human nature to know that this had the potential to get ugly.

His suspicions were confirmed when his eyes fell on a knot of people on the other side of the hall from where the cots had all been set up. Grimes and Walsh were standing shoulder to shoulder, staring down a small contingent of Royce’s people. Andrea stood off to one side, slightly behind Grimes, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. Daryl recognized Andrew Royce and his son amongst the people Grimes was talking to, but there were three other men standing beside them.

“That doesn’t look good.” He turned slightly at Amy’s soft voice, finding the girl standing just over his shoulder. He grunted an acknowledgement, before fixing his attention on Grimes again. He ran a hand over his mouth briefly, before coming to a decision.

If he was right, this couldn’t wait.

He started for the small knot of people, Amy following close behind him. The closer he drew, the easier it was to see that the situation was deteriorating. Walsh was standing ramrod straight, a stone-cold look on his face that Daryl had learned meant that not only had the man snapped into cop-mode, he had snapped into pissed off cop mode. Grimes’ expression was milder, but Daryl could read tension in the set of his jaw.

He hadn’t had a chance to observe Royce’s people the way he had Walsh and Grimes…but it didn’t take a genius to recognize the shifty, bristling looks most of Royce’s party were shooting them. To his surprise, Royce and his son appeared to be a third party in the standoff, rather than the spearheads as Daryl had first assumed.

“Two months, we been up here, Royce! Two months, and not a damn hint of those things! Then these guys show up and suddenly we get a swarm?” one of the men—a tall, dark-haired man with a military buzz cut and a gut just starting to go to paunch—was saying as he and Amy arrived in hearing distance. The man’s eyes were a little wild for Daryl’s liking…but there wasn’t the crazed spark that suggested he was about to start swinging.

Daryl knew a lot about what a man looked like when he was about to start swinging.

Royce reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, glancing between the man and Grimes a little warily. “For God’s sake, Mike—what, are you suggesting these people somehow brought a herd of geeks in without anyone noticing? Just trucked ‘em in in the back of that RV or something?” Royce’s voice was scornful, and ‘Mike’ had the grace to look a little ashamed.

“Look,” Grimes began in that calm, placating voice that never failed to set Daryl’s teeth on edge. “You’re scared, I get that, we’re all scared…that’s the second swarm of Walkers we’ve seen in as many days. But looking for someone to blame is just going to waste everyone’s time and we can’t afford that. There’s no way of telling where these groups are coming from, or if there’s more of ‘em…if we start losing our heads now--”

“Oh, there’s more of ‘em,” Daryl heard himself interrupting before he was even fully aware that he had stepped forward. Grimes broke off with a startled look, his head snapping to the side to stare at Daryl. Andrea’s arms fell from their defensive stance as she straightened sharply, her eyes darting between him and her sister. Royce’s people exchanged uneasy looks, while Royce and his son just looked wary.

“Dixon? What do you mean by that?” Grimes asked carefully. Walsh snorted dismissively, turning away, and Daryl felt his eyes narrow. He shot a look at the people gathered around him, all of whom were staring at him with varying degrees of incredulity and interest. He resisted the urge to take a step back, put some distance between them, and instead jerked his chin at Amy, indicating for her to lay the map out on the floor.

“Somethin’ the old man said th’day the quarry got swarmed,” Daryl muttered, fixing his eyes on the map. “’Bout the Walkers runnin’ out a’ food. Now I ain’t sayin’ the city’s completely empty—but there can’t be that many live folks left.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Walsh said impatiently, “what’s that got to do with anything?”

Daryl didn’t have to look up to know the man was glaring at him, mistrust and irritation in every line of his body. He squared his shoulders a little, tightening his hand on the strap of the crossbow as he knelt by the map. “Figure they been goin’ after animals—must’ve been a shit ton of pets got left. Rats. Hell, maybe they catch pigeons.” Amy made a small, distressed noise when he mentioned the Walkers eating pets, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Better a bunch of cats and dogs than people. “But it’s been two months. They gotta be runnin’ out a’ live prey down there. And when the top dogs on the food chain run out a’ food, they move on.”

“Like predators following deer herds,” Grimes said thoughtfully. Daryl gave a short, sharp nod.

“Now look…here’s us.” He stabbed a finger at the map, indicating where the campgrounds were. He traced his finger back several miles, down to the edges of the city proper. “This here’s the old Decatur suburb. There’s a strip mall, oh, ‘bout twenty miles out, right on th’ outskirts a’ the city. You know, WalMart, Starbucks, couple a’ restaurants and some Christian bookstore. Five miles or so further in the city, there’s a Southern Cross bank.”

He looked up, to be met with blankly confused faces. Walsh was actively glaring at him, clearly thinking he was just wasting their time. Amy, though, was staring at him with wide eyes. “The Walkers outside…there were a couple in Starbucks aprons. I think one had a WalMart vest on. And the really big guy! He was wearing a security guard’s uniform from that bank!”

Daryl nodded, and couldn’t help a pleased little quirk of his lips at the girl’s astuteness. He ducked his head quickly to hide it, though. He traced his finger back further, until he hit the intersection where the bank stood. “Ya’ start walkin’ in a straight line outta the city from the bank, ya’ pass all them stores an’ eventually ya’ end up here. Could be a coincidence…” he trailed off with a shrug. Grimes nodded grimly.

“But it’s a hell of a coincidence.” The man sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. “They’re leaving the city and picking up numbers along the way.”

“Same thing probably happened at the quarry,” Daryl said quietly. Over Grimes’ shoulder, he saw Andrea’s lips press into a severe line.

“How you even know all those things are along that route?” Walsh asked, his voice a little challenging. Daryl bristled a little, standing up and straightening his spine.

“I lived a couple blocks away from th’bank,” he said blandly. “Used ta’ eat a lot at one a’ the places in that strip mall.”

He tried, oh how he tried not to think of the little place right between the damn Starbucks and the WalMart, a Korean joint that had been Glenn’s favorite. The only place in the city that cooked like his mother, his boy had said, the first time he’d brought Daryl there. Glenn had made it his mission to get Daryl to try everything on the menu at least once…and while a lot of it was pretty good, he had put some truly terrible stuff in his mouth at that restaurant. It had been worth it, though, to see his boy laughing and chattering excitedly, so pleased to be sharing something as simple as his favorite meals with Daryl.

Daryl had even tried to use the weird metal chopsticks. And he’d laughed just as hard as his boy had when he’d proven utterly unable to master them.

He took a deep breath through his nose, letting the familiar pain stab through him before he pushed it aside. He shoved the memories down, beat them back ruthlessly as his grip tightened into a white-knuckled stranglehold on the crossbow strap. He breathed deeply again, pushing the pain aside. He didn’t have time to feel it, right now.

He doubted there was enough time in the world to feel the magnitude of what he had lost.

“So wait, you mean there’s more of those things coming?” The tight, scared voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see ‘Mike’ staring at the map with horror.

To Daryl’s surprise, Grimes looked to him to answer. He was utterly taken aback, but he recovered quickly, shrugging one shoulder. “No way ‘ta know for sure…but if they’re startin’ ta’ pour out of the city, we’re gonna run across ‘em eventually.”

Probably sooner, rather than later. The KOA grounds were fairly out-of-the-way, but they were almost smack in the middle of the path of least resistance out of the city. It would take a huge group of Walkers a fair bit of time to actually drag themselves this far out…but Daryl was sure it was going to happen. Judging by the various expressions of shock and fear on members of the other group’s faces, the same thought was occurring to them.

“Then we gotta break camp,” Mike said softly. There were murmurs of agreement from behind him. “We gotta get the hell out of here…get further up the highway.”

“Mike—“ Royce began gruffly, but was almost instantly interrupted.

“No, Andrew! If those things are comin’ toward us, we can’t stay here!”

“We barely got any warning this time…I got my kids to think of!” another man piped up. Though they weren’t shouting, yet, the agitation was starting to draw attention.

“And go where?” Royce demanded tiredly. “You’re not wrong, Mike…hell, we always knew we’d have to move on eventually. But we’ve got to be smart about this.”

“We can be smart when we’ve put some more distance between us and the city!” Mike protested, and Daryl saw the ones standing behind him start to nod their assent.

“So what, you want to just pull up stakes and leave? No plan, no destination?” Royce drew himself up to his full height, practically projecting an aura of command—much the same way Grimes did. It was easy to see how he’d become the de facto leader of this little enclave. His son was watching the events unfold with wide, cautious eyes, occasionally darting a look down at the map on the floor.

“We can come up with that after we get out of here. There’s other campgrounds…other places. Jesus, we can camp on the road for a couple days while we decide where we’re goin’. But two herds of geeks wandering out of the city? We can’t take that chance!”

Royce was going to lose this argument, Daryl could tell. He could hear whispering as word of what they’d worked out started to spread. Too many people were starting to crowd in to listen—people who were still riding high on adrenaline and fear from the first major encounter they’d had. Most of them weren’t in a mindset to listen to reason, and the ones who were probably wouldn’t be able to sway enough people to their point of view for it to matter.

Besides…it really wasn’t safe to stay here anymore. It was a lesson they’d all learned long before the quarry had been attacked—a lesson that was probably the only reason they had survived to make it to the quarry in the first place: safety was an illusion. There were places that were less dangerous than others; there were places where staying after the appearance of one or two stray Walkers was an acceptable risk. Once the Walkers started coming in large numbers, though, that was it. The risk stopped being acceptable. Not one of the blockades, not one of the checkpoints, not a single one of the quarantine zones had held once Walkers started swarming. There was no choice but to move on.

Looking at the expression on Royce’s face, Daryl could see he was coming to the same realization. As were Grimes and Walsh. After a few moments, though, it was Royce’s son who broke the stalemate that was fast developing between Royce and his people.

“What about G?” the kid asked quietly. “We still have to go back for Glenn.”

Daryl bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, refusing to flinch at the name. He could feel the weight of Andrea’s gaze on him anyway, though, and he knew if he turned to look at her, she would be watching him with that damned concerned curiosity. He sucked in a breath through his nose.

Mike, the man who was apparently going to be leading the charge for leaving the campgrounds immediately, reached up to rub the back of his neck uncomfortably. “Danny…Jesus, kid, we all like Glenn. But you have to—“

“I have to what?! Leave him there?” Royce’s kid whirled on the older man, fire flashing in his green eyes. Royce immediately laid a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Danny shook it off angrily. “You seriously think I’m gonna just run away and leave him?! Fuck you, man!”

“Daniel Victor Royce!” Royce barked out sharply. Danny subsided…but the glare he leveled at Mike was nothing short of murderous.

Daryl decided he thought the kid was pretty okay. So far, at least. The people Daryl had come into contact with since the world had ended had had a distressing tendency to turn out to be idiots or just plain unbearable, though, so he was reserving final judgment.

“G’s my best friend…he’s my brother! I’m going back for him, no matter what,” Danny said icily.

“Son, no one is leaving Glenn behind,” Royce said, his voice firm and calm.

“Andrew, be reasonable,” someone from the crowd behind Mike called out. “He’s not even really—“ Instantly, Royce whirled on them…and if his kid’s glare had been hot, then Royce’s could have set something on fire.

“We’re not leaving one of my boys behind.” The words were said coldly, in contrast to the fire burning in the man’s pale blue eyes. “Now I can’t stand here and tell you all that this place is still safe—it’s plain that it’s not. We all knew this was only temporary. Anyone who wants to head out on their own timetable…I’m not going to stop you. But my family’s not going anywhere until every member of it is back together, and we have a solid plan.”

Grimes and Walsh were exchanging significant looks, clearly having some kind of silent conversation. Daryl privately thought it looked more like an argument. Andrea’s arm had found its way around her sister’s waist, and both women were watching the proceedings with tight, pinched looks on their faces. Royce ignored them all, regarding the members of his own group steadily.

Daryl watched most of the people shift guiltily from foot to foot, few of them willing to meet the man’s eyes. To him, it was obvious that most of them were too frightened to chance staying…not even long enough to figure out an actual course of action.

Idiots.

He shuffled a little closer to Andrea and Amy (and immediately shuffled back a couple steps when he realized what he had done), watching the group of people warily. He hadn’t really had a chance to observe any of the dynamics in this group, but from what he could gather, they were all friendly with each other without being friends. It was an important distinction. As much as his own group pissed him right the hell off a good portion of the time, he’d been watching them long enough to know that most of them counted each other as friends.

If Glenn had survived, he knew they would have been his boy’s friends.

If Glenn had survived, he thought maybe they could have been his friends, too.

This group, though; this group worked together, and protected each other, and obviously looked to Andrew Royce as some kind of leader…but Daryl would bet money that with a few exceptions, they didn’t really care about each other. Not in the ways that really counted. That was an important distinction.

He might have been on the outside of it, might have been well aware that no one in the group—with the possible exceptions of Andrea and now Amy, and damned if he could figure out how he felt about that—would have much of a problem leaving him behind if push came to shove…but apart from him? They’d fight like hell to protect each other. Maybe they’d even die for each other. If it had been one of their people in the situation the Royce’s other son was in, Daryl knew that there would’ve been no problem finding volunteers to go on a rescue mission.

This group, though…this group didn’t seem to have that bond. And so he was absolutely unsurprised when Mike just shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Andrew…you’ve been good to us, and you’ve kept this place organized. But I can’t risk my kids. If the geeks are on the move, I gotta be too. Me and Annie are leaving as soon as the sun’s up.” A plain-looking woman with brown hair and eyes stepped out of the crowd, winding her hand around Mike’s arm. She kept her eyes on the floor, not looking at either Andrew or Danny. Together, the two of them stepped away from the crowd, brushing past Daryl as they started making their way back over to where the blankets had been hung to divide the meeting hall into smaller ‘rooms’.

Andrew didn’t say anything as the rest of his group started dispersing in small clumps. Some of them laid hands on his shoulder or wrist as they passed. Some whispered apologies and thanks…but they all walked away. Eventually, the only people who were still gathered around them were the old army vet Dale had been talking to earlier, Royce’s wife, and the blonde woman who had checked the women in their group over for bites when they first arrived. Andrew scrubbed his eyes with one hand, tiredly.

“What about you, George?” he asked quietly. The old man just shrugged one shoulder mildly, scratching at the scraggly, white beard that covered his chin.

“Aw, hell, Andrew…you ain’t steered me wrong, yet. ‘Sides! Me an’ Glenn got a chess game goin’…I ain’t leavin’ ‘til I beat that boy at least once!” the man cackled, and Daryl saw a bit of tension leave Royce’s shoulders.

“Jenny?” he said, tilting an eyebrow at the blonde woman.

“You saved my life when all this started, Mr. Royce…you saved my son’s life. We’re sticking with you ‘til the end,” she answered definitively, stepping closer to Jill Royce and sliding one arm around the older woman’s waist.

Jill closed her eyes briefly, patting Jenny’s hand, before straightening slightly. “I’m going to start divvying up the food we got left…dead equal shares, and everyone gets one?” she suggested, looking to her husband for confirmation. Andrew nodded shortly.

“Slip what extra you can in for the families with kids. Go ahead and divide up the medicine, too…easiest way to avoid a fight tomorrow.” He and his son exchanged a significant look.

Daryl couldn’t help thinking of the bulging duffle bag he’d seen Danny wrench out of the car when they’d first arrived at the campgrounds.

Jill, George, and Jenny hurried off, leaving him, Grimes, Walsh, and Andrea and Amy alone with Royce and his son. Andrew turned slowly to face Grimes, his face grim and serious. “I don’t blame you if your group wants to pull out stakes tomorrow morning, too, Rick…but I’ll be honest, I’m praying to God you’re still willing to help us get Glenn out of Atlanta.” For the first time, Daryl heard a crack in the man’s voice…a slight waver. Something too raw to be called hopeful was in his eyes, and Daryl almost wanted to look away from that depth of emotion.

Grimes and Walsh were staring at each other again, another silent conversation (argument) going on. Eventually, though, Walsh just shook his head, stalking away towards the blanket dividers with a thunderous look on his face. When Grimes turned to face Andrew again he looked tired…but determined.

“I still want to help you,” he said slowly, “but this does change things a bit. Now, I don’t think running off half-cocked is gonna do anyone any good, but I agree that this place has been compromised. I can’t in good conscience leave my wife and son behind if there’s a chance this place is gonna get overrun the way our last camp did.” Grimes looked genuinely regretful as he spoke…and Daryl was surprised at the way his chest clenched at the idea of Grimes backing out of the rescue. At the idea of leaving this other Glenn to the horror Atlanta had become.

Andrew sighed heavily, biting his lip. He and Danny exchanged another look, and then Danny was stepping forward. “What if we could make it worth it to your group?” the kid asked intently. “If we could…if we could pay you for your help, and make sure everyone was safe while we’re gone, would you still come with me?”

Grimes’ eyes narrowed slightly, considering. Danny took a deep breath and plunged on, not giving Grimes a chance to answer. “I heard the old guy…the one with the hat? I heard him talking to George about the radiator hose in his RV. It’s about shot, right? I can get you another one. Right size and everything. And…and if that’s not enough, G and I hit a pharmacy right before everything went to shit. I managed to bring most of it back with me. You can have your pick of anything in it. No one even knows what I got! There’s everything—antibiotics, painkillers, some prescription stuff.” The boy jutted his chin out, his expression turning mutinous. “Me and G risked our lives for that stuff…to get stuff for everyone and they wouldn’t…you can have it! Just help me get to him. Please.”

“I know a couple of other places off the highway we can hole up for a couple of days,” Andrew added. “At least long enough for you to get to the city and back. We can set up a meeting place and then go our separate ways…or maybe travel together for a while.”

Daryl knew that Grimes wanted to help Danny get his brother back. The man was like a dog with a bone when he got an idea in his head, and he’d given the kid his word he would help. Still, as much as Daryl knew Grimes wanted to keep his promise, the idea of leaving his wife and his kid here only to come back to another scene like the quarry…he didn’t think even Grimes’ white knight complex would allow him to take that risk. Grimes had pressed his lips together at the mention of the radiator hose, though, and his whole body had gone taut at the mention of the medicine. Daryl knew that they were even lower on that than they were on food. It was a good deal. A damn good deal. And if Royce could get the groups moving to relative safety…

 

“We need the supplies, Rick. And you know that’d make Shane and the rest feel better about this,” Andrea said.
“Ain’t gonna get much farther on the hose the way it is now,” he said softly, and again, he was surprised at how hard he was willing Grimes to take the deal, take the risk.

How much he wanted to help this kid he’d never met, never laid eyes on—for no other reason than the kid shared a name with his boy. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand not helping if Grimes turned Royce down. As it turned out, though, he didn’t have to worry.

“Andrea…Dixon? What do you think?” Grimes asked quietly. Immediately, Andrea unwound herself from her sister.

“I’m still in,” she said confidently.

“Me too,” he added, almost before she was done speaking. He very carefully did not look at the way she turned her head slightly towards him, her mouth quirking up into a smile. Grimes was staring at him as though he was trying to figure something out, and Daryl forced himself not to shift and fidget under the intensity of Grimes’ eyes.

After a moment, Grimes turned away. “Then I guess we’re still doing this,” he said.

Danny’s gaze didn’t waver, but Daryl saw a little bit of tension go out of his jaw. The kid nodded, sticking his hand out for Grimes to shake. “All right then,” he said, “I think I’ve got a plan.”

Chapter 13

Notes:

Pshew! I humbly, humbly beg the pardon of everyone who is still following this. After season 2 ended, I'll admit I kind of drifted into another fandom (see all my Teen Wolf stuff, lol!)...but now that Walking Dead is back on, I think my muses are back. And hey, Daryl is actually on the road to Atlanta now, so you know what that means, right?

At any rate, I sincerely thank you for your continued comments, kudos, and bookmarks. It means a lot to me that this is so well-received in the fandom. Please enjoy :)

Oh! Oh! And holy cow, I almost forgot to put this in! *facepalm*

There has been absolutely BEAUTIFUL fanart done for this story! Like, seriously amazing fanart! In no particular order, they can be found here:

http://uss-special.tumblr.com/post/27677347535/anathenaeum-still-awake-so-why-the-hell-not This is a beautiful drawing of Glenn and Daryl on their first camping trip together (that made me squeal like a little girl, yo! Soooo amazing!)

http://imgur.com/BYYMU Another lovely shot of Daryl teaching Glenn how to properly gut a rabbit, by Ren. Also made me squeal like a little girl and jump around. Amazing work!

http://imgur.com/CiU79 This one actually made me tear up a little. A lovely, lovely sketch by The Walking Bread of Daryl listening to Glenn's last voicemail.

http://imgur.com/Y9D1Z Also by The Walking Bread, a gorgeous, gorgeous, GORGEOUS imagining of what the long-anticipated reunion might look like (spoiler alert...I'm now going to write that scene to incorporate this art. It's amazing!)

It was well past midnight by the time Daryl finally dragged himself into the cab of his truck, one of his tattered blankets wrapped around his shoulders, and one thin camping pillow tucked under his arm to jam up against the window. Hell, it was probably closer to three or four in the morning, though he wasn’t curious enough to turn the truck on to see the clock in the dashboard. He wasn’t even sure that clock was still accurate.

It didn’t matter, anyway. It was late, he was dead tired, and the next day was going to be hell on Earth—and that was assuming everything went according to plan. Who the fuck cared what time it was?

He stretched out as best he could across the truck’s bench seat, shoving his pillow up against the glass of the driver’s side window and leaning awkwardly against it. It certainly wasn’t comfortable, particularly with the bulk of the crossbow tucked into the passenger side floor (his pistol was in easy reach up on the dashboard, but hell if he was going to leave the crossbow out in the open). There had been a cot set up for him in the meeting hall, but he couldn’t stomach being around that many people right now, that much noise.

The meeting hall was a flurry of activity—families trying to pack up their belongings and divide resources that had been pooled together for convenience’s sake. From what conversation he’d heard on the way out, most of the people at this campground were planning on pulling out at first light…still with no real destination in mind. His lip curled a little at the thought of such idiocy. Grimes’ idea about the CDC might be a pipe dream more than anything else, but at least he had a plan.

Danny Royce had been quick and concise in his explanations about where they needed to get to and what they needed to do to get the kid’s brother off the roof he was holed up on. It wasn’t a terrible plan, Daryl had to admit. Risky. Risky as hell…but there were decent odds that they’d be able to succeed. Better odds than he’d been expecting, anyway. Grimes had added a few flourishes and contingencies of his own, and Daryl had to admit (a hell of a lot more grudgingly) that his contributions weren’t terrible, either. The plan wasn’t as solid as it could have been—and according to Danny, his brother was some kind of tactical genius who could have done it a hundred times better—but at least there was a chance that they would all come out of it alive.

Grimes had kept shooting quick, wary glances at Daryl out of the corner of his eye as he and Danny talked, clearly trying to figure out the reasons behind Daryl’s sudden altruism, behind him volunteering to go back down into Atlanta when at the quarry, he had never volunteered to do so much as fetch water. The man had damn near done a double-take at Amy’s whispered Mr. Dixon gave it to me when Andrea had finally noticed the gun tucked into her sister’s waistband and asked where she had gotten it. Grimes had just stared at him, something unnervingly intense in those pale blue eyes, until Daryl had to fight the urge to drop his own gaze and shift uncomfortably.

When Danny Royce and Grimes had finally declared their plan as good as it was likely to get, Daryl had been off like a shot, weaving through knots of people and supplies expertly. He pretended he didn’t hear Grimes calling after him, not wanting to face the man’s questions and queries; not wanting to deal with Andrea and Amy and the fact that he had somehow gotten himself involved there. Fortunately, a distraction in the form of Walsh and Grimes’ wife had descended on Grimes as soon as the meeting broke up. Daryl had left Grimes standing toe to toe with his wife and Walsh, still arguing stubbornly about why he needed to go on this rescue mission. Not even the promise of fresh medical supplies and parts to repair their biggest vehicle had been enough to placate Lori Grimes, and Walsh…

Well, Daryl wasn’t exactly sure what was going on with Walsh. He doubted it would lead anywhere good, though.

He punched the barely-adequate bulk of the pillow in vain, trying to find some comfortable angle. Eventually, he was forced to give it up as a lost cause. Oh well—he’d slept in far less comfortable positions. And if his only other option was trying to catch some sleep in the kicked-over ant’s nest that the meeting hall had become, he could damn well deal with a crick in his neck. It might have been a little safer inside the building…but everyone on watch was going to be on high alert for what little remained of the night. He was fairly certain he’d have enough warning if any more Walkers appeared.

His eyes were burning with fatigue, his body strung out from too many days running on pure adrenaline. In truth, he probably wasn’t in any shape to go gallivanting down into the city. But hell, who was? Even dead tired, he trusted his aim and his senses more than anyone else’s. They had no choice. They needed the radiator hose and they needed to replenish their supplies.

And…he needed to do this.

Not just for the simple fact that this person trapped on a roof somewhere in the city shared a name with his boy. He needed to do this because he felt like he was losing himself, stripping down to just the bare bones of surviving and leaving everything behind that was living. He’d had to do it in the beginning. Had to. He couldn’t bear the thought of getting close to other people, letting other people close to him when the only person who had ever mattered was gone. He’d had to hunker down and protect himself, hadn’t been able to let himself think about, or talk about, or fucking feel anything that didn’t have to do with keeping himself alive. Now, though…now, with the initial rush of runsurviverunsurviverunrunrun past, with Andrea and her sister looking at him like they might actually give a damn if he lived or died, with his memories battering relentlessly at the walls he’d put up, well.

He’d seen the kind of man you became when everything but survival was stripped away. His pa had been that kind of man. His brother was that kind of man. Daryl had been different. Different before he’d met—he’d met Glenn, yes, but even more changed after. He thought he’d been changed forever. He had to know if that was still true. He had to know if he was still even capable of being the man who had had someone like Glenn in his life. He had to know if there was still anything left of the man who had deserved someone like Glenn in his life. For his own sanity—what little there was of it left—he had to know.

If the answer was no, what the hell was he even still doing?

He stretched his legs out along the seat, propping one foot up against the lip of the passenger side window. Uncomfortable as all get out, but it wasn’t the first night he’d spent in the truck. He forced himself to close his eyes, to try and relax as much as possible. It was still a long time before he fell asleep.

*

It seemed he had barely closed his eyes when his own internal clock (not to mention the gray, pre-dawn light filling the cab) woke him up. He growled softly to himself, reaching up with one hand to scrub at eyes that were still gritty and burning. Jesus Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a decent night’s sleep. He sat up, grimacing as his back and shoulders protested the motion, looked around outside.

The door to the meeting hall was standing wide open, and people were starting to trickle out carrying boxes and bags. He watched them curiously for a few moments, as they scurried towards various vehicles that were parked around the building. Running off like lemmings, the fear and nervousness practically rolling off of them in waves, even from a distance. He shook his head in disgust, before balling the blanket and pillow up into a ragged ball and shoving it onto the passenger seat.

The truck door squealed softly as he heaved it open, sliding out onto grass that was wet with dew. Walsh and the old Army vet (Daryl couldn’t decide if he wanted to bother learning the names of Royce’s tertiary group yet) were pacing the length of the meeting hall’s porch with weapons, watching the treeline and the spaces between the camp buildings warily. Daryl slipped the crossbow’s strap over his back and started toward the hall.

People stared at him nervously as he passed them, some of them pausing in their trips back and forth to their vehicles to watch him. They were leaderless, directionless, and there was more than a little suspicion still clouding their features. He paid it no mind. Hell, he’d been used to people watching him like they thought he was going to lose his mind and attack them long before the world had ended. Walsh shot him a side-eyed glare as he passed, but for God’s sake, when wasn’t Walsh shooting someone a side-eyed glare?

He pushed past a group of people scurrying out with a load of luggage and slipped into the hall, scanning the gathered crowd for Grimes or Andrea. They had agreed to leave with Danny Royce as early as possible, but when he’d finally gone out to the truck last night, Grimes and Danny’s father had yet to work out secondary meeting places. After a few moments, he spotted Amy standing over by the galley kitchen, Carl and Sophia standing beside her.

When she saw him, she waved and snatched a couple of granola bars off of a pile on the small counter that ran under the window between the kitchen and the meeting hall. She shooed the kids back towards Sophia’s mother, and jogged over to him. “Hey,” she said, and while her voice wasn’t precisely warm and confident…she didn’t sound as nervous talking to him as she had even a few days ago. Smiling hesitantly, she offered him the granola bars. “Rick and Andrea are out back with Danny and Mr. Royce…they said to send you out there as soon as I saw you.”

He took the granola bars with a noncommittal grunt, nodding a little in acknowledgment. He stuffed the bars into his pocket and was about to head out the back door near the kitchen when Amy laid a tentative hand on his elbow. A little startled—though he’d never admit it—he whipped his head back towards her.

“Sorry, I just…will you—could you do something for me while you’re down there?” she asked softly, chewing on her lower lip. There was a nervous sort of fright in her wide blue eyes, and Daryl found himself wondering for the first time just how old she really was. He watched her a moment, as she tried to get up the gumption to ask him for a favor that he was ninety percent sure could only be one thing. It didn’t surprise him, what she wanted.

What surprised him was how willing he was to give it. How he had already been planning to do it, anyway.

“I’ll keep an eye on yer sister,” he said solemnly, his gaze skittering away towards the backdoor when her head snapped up. He hunched his shoulders a little defensively, though what he was defending from he had no idea. Amy, though, just squeezed his elbow once, before dancing back a little and wrapping her arms around her middle.

“Thank you,” she breathed, relief and sincerity plain in her voice. He nodded once, shortly, and then resumed his trek towards the door before she could do something horrifying like try to hug him or something. He was pulled up short a second time, though, when her voice rang out again. “You make sure you let Andrea watch your back, too!”

He pressed his lips into a thin line and kept walking, not bothering to reply. He moved towards the back door Amy had indicated, dodging around people and groups who were still frantically packing and hauling belongings out to their vehicles. He paused by the door, taking a moment to just breathe, steeling himself for what was sure to be an ordeal, even if things did go well.

God, he just hoped it was fucking worth it.

* * *

Glenn sighed heavily as he shimmied back into the stiff, uncomfortable fabric of his jeans, thinking longingly of the semi-clean changes of clothes he had back at the campground. He was fairly certain the pants were made up of more dirt and sweat than fabric at the moment…but he didn’t dare leave them off, no matter how hot and uncomfortable it got. He had to be ready to go the moment Danny arrived with help. Because Danny would arrive with help. Soon. He had to.

Glenn wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last.

It was so hot. So goddamn hot up on the roof, and even if he still had water left, the heat was starting to get to him. He’d been stuck here for three days now, three days with only minimal shelter from the burning Georgia sun, and barely even the relief of a breeze. Three days since he’d had more than emergency rations. The nights were a little better, enough so that between them and the shade of his plywood shelter, he’d managed to avoid heat stroke…but he wasn’t sure how much longer that was going to last.

His ankle, at least, was a little better. He’d been able to take a few brief, hobbling laps around the perimeter of the roof on it. It was nowhere near healed enough for him to think about trying to get himself down off the roof, but he was fairly certain Danny and whoever came with him wouldn’t have to carry him down to safety. He tried to concentrate on that, on the bits of ‘good news’ he had.

Because there sure wasn’t a whole hell of a lot of that right now.

The geeks down below had mostly stopped mobbing the pawn shop the night before, many of them wandering off when one of them had bumped a little too hard into one of the cars on the street that still had an armed alarm. There was still a large crowd of the things in the alley-way below the only ladder down off the roof—and the street was still worryingly full of them—but it wasn’t as large as it had been. Danny could work with that.

He licked his dry, chapped lips as he pulled his shoes back on, tying them tightly, and then leaned back against the rough brick of the roof wall. He closed his eyes a moment, toying with one of the water bottles sitting beside him. It was almost three-quarters empty. The other one was down to half. A tired, wry smile quirked his lips.

“Not looking too good right now, is it?” he muttered out loud, keeping his eyes closed. He curled one fist around the smooth, sun-warmed plastic of the water bottle. “I mean, I know, I know…I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna get out of this. And I believe that, I do. Danny won’t just leave me hanging. Just…this isn’t looking good.”

There was no answer, of course. Nothing but the moans and groans of the geeks, muffled slightly by the distance between him and the street-level. He kept speaking, though. He’d been keeping up a quiet, one-sided conversation with—all right, with Daryl. Maybe it just helped him keep his mind off of his predicament. Maybe he was further along towards heat stroke than he thought, and he was starting to ramble deliriously.

Maybe…maybe he just liked to think that somewhere, somehow, Daryl was listening to him.

Whatever the reason, he couldn’t bring himself to stop now that he’d started. Running commentary about his plans for various escape routes out of the city, half-hearted complaints about what he’d give for a juicy burger and a cold Coke, muttered jokes and whispered memories. Anything to feel a little less alone. A little more like the man he’d loved was somehow there with him.

“He’s a good guy, Danny. You’d have liked him…well, eventually. Maybe. He’s been good to me—him and his parents.” He swallowed roughly and raised the water bottle, unscrewing the lid to take his first, measured, lukewarm sip of the day. “He’s a good friend. You’d have thought he was pretty okay.”

Sighing, he slid out from under the dubious shelter of the plywood sheet and rolled to his knees. Bracing his hands on the waist-high wall that surrounded the roof-edge, he boosted himself up a little and peeked over down onto the street below. Still swarming with geeks. They weren’t agitated or anything, mostly just meandering around in an aimless shamble, but God, there were a lot of them. He bit his lip softly and sank back down, scooting back into the shade.

“I wish you were here,” he said softly. So softly the words barely carried even to his own ears. “I don’t think I’d be this scared if you were here. I mean, I’m trying. I know that’s what you’d want me to do, but I’m so scared. We should be arguing about where we wanna go for dinner tonight, or planning our trip out to California, or just lying in bed or…or…you should just be here.” His voice cracked a little, and he let his head thump back against the brick. “You should just be here, you should still be with me, and maybe I’d feel like I had a chance of making it out of all this alive.” Angrily, he scrubbed his hands over his eyes, pressing against his closed eyelids a little, just until it started to ache.

“You should still be here. We should be together.”

They should be together. It had been three years since he’d thought in any other terms but ‘them.’ Since he’d had only himself to rely on. This, this was like missing a limb, like missing a vital part of himself. He was doing his best, would continue to do his best to survive because he knew that was what Daryl would have wanted, but it was so, so hard.

He rolled his shoulders a bit, cracking his neck from side to side and shifting slightly so that he could look out at the skyline of the part of the city he was facing. The pawn shop was only a few blocks from where he had worked, and a few blocks beyond that was the apartment complex where he and Daryl had lived. He stared up at one of the high rise towers, trying not to think too hard about how it was one of the same buildings he’d been able to see from their bedroom window. If he kept going beyond their apartment, eventually he’d hit Daryl’s old neighborhood—the garage he’d worked at, the crappy apartment he’d lived in.

The place where he’d met Daryl for the first time.

The memory stabbed. They all did, of course…as though all his thoughts and all his memories of Daryl had grown sharp edges in his mind, cutting him every time something called them up. He refused to chase them away, though, refused to just wall them up and never let them touch him. Because they cut deep. But they still made him smile through the pain.

“I don’t think you’re really embracing the concept of Irresponsible Fridays here!”

Glenn snorted into his glass—just rum and Coke, and still his first of the night—shaking his head slightly as his friend Kirsten threw herself back into the booth she’d vacated only a few minutes ago, draping herself over his shoulder. One hand flailed out over the already impressive number of bottle and glasses that already littered their table before she plucked a half-full beer bottle up seemingly at random. He set his own drink down and leaned back in his seat.

“And what, exactly, is the concept of Irresponsible Fridays that I need to be embracing?” he asked teasingly. Kirsten flailed one arm expansively over the table.

“To get as blind stumbling drunk as possible and have an amazing time before we drag ourselves back home at three a.m. so we can pass out until we have to get up for our Saturday shift, of course.” She grinned at him, puffing a lock of improbably-bright dyed pink hair out of her face.

“That does sound very irresponsible,” he intoned dutifully, shaking his head when Kirsten burst into the expected peals of laughter.

There were six of them out tonight, basically the entire day shift of the pizza place where they all worked. Glenn, Kirsten, her cousin Zia (having met most of the girls’ family, Glenn was ninety percent sure that was not the name she had been born with, but it suited her rather exotic personality), a girl named Cassie, and two other young men named Mike and Dante’. The girls all worked the line in the pizza kitchen, while he, Mike, and Dante’ shared delivery duties. Most of the bunch—with the exception of grim and serious Dante’—were a little wilder than the crowds Glenn had run with in high school, but he couldn’t deny that they were good friends.

Even if Kirsten and Zia had pouted for almost a week when it became clear that Glenn was never going to fall on the ‘sassy’ end of the gay friend spectrum.

They all tried to get together at least once a week (Glenn wasn’t exactly sure who had come up with the idea of ‘Irresponsible Fridays’ but he had to admit that it was pretty fun…particularly since he rarely drank enough to have the truly epic hangovers his other friends suffered from the following Saturday) and check out the various clubs and hotspots that Atlanta offered. After all, what was the point of living in a big city if one didn’t take advantage of the spectacular night life?

Tonight they were at one of their favorite places—a bar called Raglan’s only a few blocks from where they worked. It was a perfect mix of all their styles: big enough that there were always plenty of available dance partners, but small enough that they knew most of the ‘regulars; a bar menu that catered to the girls’ taste for whacked-out cocktails and Glenn and Dante’s simpler preferences; an atmosphere that was clearly party-oriented, but not so that any of them felt they had to wear ‘clubbing’ clothes. It was perfect.

Glenn liked it doubly because even though it didn’t really advertise as a gay club, it was definitely a safe zone. The owner, a woman by the name of Susan Raglan, ran the place with an iron-fist wrapped in a velvet glove and made it quite clear that all clientele were welcome. Glenn never felt nervous dancing with another guy out on the floor, even smack dab in the middle of the Deep South.

Not that he approached people all that often.

The current song thumping through the speakers ended and Zia abandoned her second dance partner of the night to collapse in the booth on the opposite side of him and Kirsten. She fanned herself exaggeratedly, shoving sweaty tendrils of her bright red hair out of her eyes and reaching across the table to pluck a tall glass with something pink and fizzy in it from the collection on the table. “Talked him into hitting the floor, yet?” she asked her cousin, and Kirsten shook her head regretfully.

“I can’t even talk him into drinking properly,” she bemoaned, and Glenn rolled his eyes heavenward. Setting his drink down on the table, he obligingly let his eyes roam over the crowd, not that he was expecting to see anyone who looked interesting. He wasn’t…he wasn’t really into just casual hookups (not that there was anything wrong with that), and even if he was, he hadn’t seen anyone who piqued his interest so far.

Until he did.

Just on the opposite side of the room from their booth, leaning against the side of the bar itself with a dark brown beer bottle at his elbow. The man was surrounded by a group Glenn vaguely recognized as not-quite regulars…frequent enough to be familiar, but not so frequent that Glenn could actually tell you anything about them. There were about eight in the group, all of them clustered around bottles of beer and plates of the bar’s (admittedly excellent) nachos. There were a few women interspersed, clearly wives or girlfriends, but the guy Glenn was watching was just as clearly alone.

He was tall, and a little rangy, wearing a dark t-shirt that showed off a nice set of biceps. He didn’t look overly ripped or anything, though…just strong. He was sporting a scruff of beard and there was something about the angles of his face—not classically handsome, really, but interesting—that Glenn found appealing. After a few moments, Kirsten and Zia seemed to realize that he wasn’t listening to whatever conversation they were having, and followed his gaze.

Kirsten whistled softly, and Zia made an approving little sound in the back of her throat. Glenn licked his lips nervously, and shifted a little in his seat. “All right, be honest…more likely to give me his number or more likely to punch me in the face?” he asked softly.

And he didn’t do things like that. Hardly ever just went up to strangers and started talking to them, chatting them up. At least not with intent to flirt. He could make friends pretty much in any situation, but his actual relationships were few and far between. The few times he’d actually gotten up and danced with someone at Raglan’s, he’d always been the one who’d been approached. There was something about this guy, though…

Something told Glenn it might be worth it to take some initiative.

Kirsten tilted her head consideringly. “Everyone knows Suze doesn’t let anyone get away with being a dick…and hell, anyone messes with you, you know she’ll blacklist ‘em.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t actually answer my question,” Glenn said wryly. Zia shrugged one shoulder eloquently.

“Well, I don’t see him checking out the booty-shakers on the floor, there,” she said, waving one hand in the air dismissively. Glenn let out a soft bark of laughter.

“I can’t believe you just said ‘booty-shakers’ with a straight face,” he said, and Zia grinned at him.

“Kir’s right,” she said. “Everyone knows Susan has a soft spot for you and I’ve seen that bunch here enough times that they should know shit don’t fly here. Worst he can say is ‘no’. I say go for it.”

“And give us lots of details tomorrow,” Kirsten added, smacking her lips and waggling her eyebrows in a way that had Glenn’s shoulders shaking with amusement. He drained the rest of his drink and set it on the table, drumming his fingers on the tabletop for a moment before taking a deep breath. Then another. Then another.

When he had sat there for a full five minutes without actually getting up to go talk to the guy, he heard Kirsten sigh heavily beside him. When he looked up, she and Zia were exchanging a look over the table that was equal parts ‘fond older sisters’ and ‘criminal masterminds’. Before he could even open his mouth to object to the no-doubt terrible idea that was about to be hatched, Zia had grabbed his empty glass and Kirsten was passing her various half-empty bottles and tumblers from the collection on the table’s surface. He watched with growing horror as a concoction formed in his glass that was no color found in nature, and probably contained enough alcohol to pickle a few dozen livers.

“You know, not all problems can be solved by pouring enough alcohol on them,” he said warily.

“Lies and propaganda,” Zia replied breezily. With a flourish, she dropped a cherry that had been floating in the bottom of a cocktail glass into his and shoved the Frankenstein’s monster of a drink across the table at him. “Liquid courage, hon…it’s a time-honored tradition. And if he turns you down, you probably won’t remember it in the morning, after this. Mike was drinking Jaeger.”

And yes, this was such a bad idea on so many levels…but that didn’t stop him from drinking it all down in one long chug.

*

He woke up the next morning with the taste of several dead and dying animals coating his tongue, and the vague impression that he should be plotting incredibly creative and painful revenge on Kirsten and Zia. He smacked his lips distastefully and groaned softly as he reached up and dug the heel of one palm against his temple. God, his head was aching something fierce. Jaeger. It had to be the Jaeger that was in that stuff Zia had given him last night…nothing else ever made him feel like crawling into a quiet hole somewhere and just dying.

As miserable as he was, he supposed he could be forgiven for it taking a few minutes for him to realize that he wasn’t in his own bed. That the scratchy, cream-colored sheets under his cheek weren’t his own, that the pillow he was currently trying to burrow all the way into didn’t smell like his own shampoo. Oh.

Oh, shit.

He jackknifed into a sitting position, the sudden movement making his head swim. He ignored the wooziness, the way his gut lurched threateningly, and stared with wide eyes at the room around him. It certainly wasn’t all that impressive…a boxy, studio apartment that was barely as big as a hotel room. The double bed he was lying on was the only furniture in the place apart from a ratty-looking sofa set up in front of a TV stand made of two milk crates and a two-by-four. There were multiple cardboard boxes piled along one wall, and a breakfast bar under a look-through window to a galley kitchen. Apart from a battered coffee machine, the counters looked as bare as the rest of the place.

Except for the rather large and wicked-looking knife sitting out on the breakfast bar, laid out on a towel with a jar of some kind of oil sitting beside it. It might even have been a machete. He wasn’t really sure how big a knife had to be before you could classify it as a sword.

There was a single door off the kitchen, behind which Glenn could hear a shower running. He glanced around uncomfortably, wincing when he spotted his various articles of clothing scattered around on the floor, mixed in with someone else’s jeans and shirt. Even his…yep, those were his boxers tossed carelessly on one arm of the couch, which meant he was not imagining that he was naked underneath the thin cotton sheet.

He drummed his fingers on the mattress nervously as he reluctantly took stock. Yeah, that was beard-burn all along his neck and down his chest. That was most emphatically a familiar sticky crustiness on the tops of his thighs, and now that he was thinking about it, Jaeger didn’t really account for all of the nasty taste in his mouth. Screwing his eyes shut in an anticipatory wince, he shifted on the bed a bit.

Oh. Well, okay, at least he didn’t go that far last night.

And judging by the familiar t-shirt on the floor, he hadn’t been picked up by a random stranger. At least not one that he hadn’t already been eying.

He was silently weighing the pros and cons of just gathering up his clothes and getting an early start on his walk of shame, when the water in the bathroom shut off. Despite himself, his shoulders tensed up. He hated the ‘morning-after’ awkwardness, though he’d only actually experienced it a few times. Especially when he was only kinda-sorta sure he’d get the name of the guy he was experiencing it with right.

God, yes, terrible vengeance on Kir and Zia. And he was swearing off drinking.

Then the bathroom door was swinging open and the guy from Raglan’s stepped out into the room, trailing a cloud of steam. He was dressed in nothing but a pair of dark blue boxers, a towel slung loosely around his neck. Glenn’s eyes widened a little at the various tattoos and scars that littered the man’s upper body, even as he had a distinct flash of licking most of those tattoos the night before, and then his eyes snapped to the man’s face.

Daryl—hah, that was it! Daryl Dixon—cocked his head a little, staring at Glenn intently. There was another flash of those blue, blue eyes staring at him just as intently as Glenn pulled him down on top of him onto Daryl’s bed, the remembered feel of that stubbled mouth on his, and he couldn’t help fidgeting a little. Well, at least it seemed he’d had a good time.

But yeah, that was a really big knife on the counter, and Daryl was looking a little more rough-and-tumble than he’d originally thought in the bar. And he hadn’t said a single word yet. Glenn pressed his lips together.

“So, um, if you’re planning on having a big gay freakout or anything, can you wait ‘til I get dressed? Also, my friends totally wouldn’t have let me leave the bar with you last night without getting an address, so if you’re a serial killer or something…”

He trailed off and shrugged a little apologetically. There was silence for a few uncomfortable beats, and then one corner of Daryl’s mouth quirked upwards in amusement. “Ain’t that somethin’ you shoulda figured out before ya’ came home with me last night?” he asked wryly.

Glenn laughed a little, ducking his head. “Usually, yeah, but there was a lot of alcohol involved last night.” He glanced up again just in time to see a strange look pass over Daryl’s expression, before it abruptly shuttered. The man reached up and started scrubbing one end of the towel vigorously through his damp hair, striding towards the stack of boxes along the wall. Dropping the towel, he dug another t-shirt out of one of the boxes, then turned around and scooped his jeans off the floor. Glenn frowned a little, suddenly struck with the feeling that he’d said something wrong.

“I got work in a couple hours,” Daryl said gruffly, stepping into his jeans and yanking them up. The words were clearly a dismissal, and Glenn knew that was his cue to gather his own clothes up, maybe jump in the shower before awkwardly exiting the apartment. Their paths never to cross again.

He was a little surprised at how much he suddenly didn’t want that to be the case.

There was no logical reason for it. There was nothing so far that leapt out and screamed that Daryl was a person Glenn should want to get to know better. Hell, most people would be eager to get out of this situation based on the state of the apartment alone…though, creepy knives aside, it was certainly cleaner than one might expect. His memories of the night before were a little fractured, but he knew they’d had a good time. A good time, though, wasn’t usually enough to have Glenn hesitating at the exit.

There was something about Daryl, though. Something about his eyes, about the way Glenn could remember him looking at him last night. Something that told Glenn it might be worth it not to just write this off as a one-night-stand.

He was used to obeying such feelings when he had them.

“So…you have time to go get some breakfast, then?” he heard himself asking. Daryl froze in the act of pulling his shirt over his head. “I know a place we could get some great pancakes.”

Slowly, Daryl pulled his shirt all the way down, turning to look at Glenn incredulously. “Thought ya’ was worried I was a serial killer?” he said, and Glenn shrugged again.

“Yeah, but I figure you can’t kill me in a public place…and if you’re not a serial killer then maybe we could get to know each other while we’re not drunk.” He offered a teasing grin, and was rewarded when Daryl let out a short, sharp snort of amusement. He cocked his head again, narrowing his eyes slightly as he once again pinned Glenn with an assessing stare. After a moment, he rolled his eyes a little.

“You got some balls, for a Chinaman,” he muttered, and Glenn raised one eyebrow at the name, though he could tell Daryl didn’t really mean it maliciously. Still, if he was going to pursue this—and it looked like he really was—that was going to have to go.

“I’m Korean,” he said, tossing the sheet aside and standing up, refusing to blush as Daryl’s eyes roamed over his body.

“Whatever,” he said a touch sullenly…but he followed Glenn to a diner around the corner from Raglan’s easily enough.
Glenn sighed softly, stretching his legs out and flexing his injured ankle gingerly. All his friends had teased him so ruthlessly about how he and Daryl had fallen into a relationship backwards—sex coming first, followed by a series of breakfast and lunch dates, followed by actually getting to know one another after Daryl had finally trusted him enough to drop his walls a little. They hadn’t really started doing things in the ‘right’ order until they’d moved in together. He’d never cared, though.

It had been right for them.

And he’d never regretted giving into that odd instinct, never regretted inviting Daryl to breakfast at that diner rather than just slinking out of Daryl’s apartment and braving his friends’ teasing. It had been the best decision he’d ever made. He’d never regret it.

Some of the wind picked up a little, sending a welcome breeze across the roof and into his shelter. He tilted his face towards it, reveling in the brief relief the cooling sweat on his face gave him. He licked his lips and carefully unscrewed the caps on both his water bottles. Slowly, he poured the contents of one into the other, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he set the empty one aside. It wouldn’t matter.

Danny would come for him before he ran out. He knew that. He did.

“I’m gonna be fine,” he said out loud. He imagined how Daryl would have drawn him close to his side, imagined the weight of his boyfriend’s arm over his shoulders. Imagined he could hear the whispered reply.

“Damn straight you are.”

Chapter 14

Notes:

So, this isn't actually all of this chapter. My damn laptop is refusing to play nice with my wireless, so I retyped this bit onto my ipad and am posting it 'cause I promised a chapter on Saturday. The rest of this should be going up sometime tomorrow.

As always, I thank you all so much for your support on this story. It means the world to me!

The highway leading into Atlanta was about as grim a sight as could be found.

Daryl had gotten used to letting his mind gloss over the details of his surroundings. Oh, he was always aware of what was going on around him--what might be sneaking up on him, what might be ahead of him. That had been true long before he'd ever have to worry about walking corpses trying to take a bite out of him. He was always aware, but he had learned to force himself to ignore the true scope of what he was looking at.

They all had. It would have been impossible to hang on to whatever sanity they had left, otherwise.

The entire fucking world was a tomb, now. Full of empty houses and empty buildings, abandoned cars and remains of last, desperate stands. Daryl had learned not to look too hard at the smears of blood and lumps of shredded flesh that decorated highways where traffic jams had made sitting ducks out of survivors. He'd learned to let his eyes slide right over buildings that had been fortified and barricaded, but nonetheless had broken out windows and doors hanging askew. He'd learned not to read the signs and posters and messages left scattered around and scrawled on walls--advertising safety that didn't exist or informing people who were probably dead about plans that had probably failed.

Dana, heading up Hwy 23 to Marlsburg. Left 5/15. Love, Mark

Red Cross safe zone at Crawley High School. Marine protection!

Dad, we are OKAY. Going to Papaw's. We love you! John and Sara

The End is Nigh! Repent, repent!

He'd learned to look away--learned fast before his stupid heart could let itself wonder if there was some message scrawled for him somewhere, some sign or piece of paper or a ripped-off pizza box lid that said Daryl and ended with Love, Glenn--learned to let his mind slide right over what he was seeing and only focus on what might be a threat. They had all learned to look away, to be aware of their surroundings, but not let their eyes linger.

It was damn hard when there was nothing else to do but look, though.

The roads were growing more and more crowded as they got closer to Atlanta. Cars and trucks and campers--some wrecked and flipped, more simply abandoned for whatever reason--were littering the highway in thicker and thicker numbers. Royce dodged around them all expertly, zig-zagging across the lanes and over medians with practiced ease. They were making good time, but he wasn't driving fast enough that Daryl couldn't see what they were passing through.

He shifted uncomfortably in the backseat of the Outback Royce had been driving when they first came across the kid, settling the crossbow into an easier position on his lap. Grimes had taken the front passenger seat next to Royce, while Andrea was tucked into the back with him. The rumble of the motor and the low hum of the tires racing over the pavement were the only sounds in the cab, and Daryl studiously ignored the uneasy silence stretching between the other occupants.

Every now and again, he had glanced up to find Grimes' eyes on him in the rearview mirror, and it was a struggle not to bristle under the scrutiny. So far the man had not voiced any of the questions that were so obviously running through his head, but Daryl seriously doubted that would be the case for long. Grimes never could just leave a situation alone, and he was too damn curious as to why, exactly, Daryl had volunteered to come along on this rescue mission.

Feeling the man's eyes on him yet again, Daryl focused his attention even more firmly on the scenery outside the window, trying to lose himself in the rushing blur of trees, guardrails, and mile markers.

Trying to ignore the cars with doors torn off the hinges and rust-brown blood painting the insides like murals.

Eventually, the road became so clogged that Royce was forced to slow down to a crawl, snaking through narrows paths between the cars and trucks that had obviously been made on purpose. Daryl spared a moment to wonder who would have bothered...if it had been Royce and his brother, or some other survivor who wanted to have a pathway back into the godforsaken city. His thoughts were interrupted, though, when Grimes sat up a little straighter in his seat, and began meticulously checking the Python over, making sure it was loaded.

"All right, everyone clear on the plan?" Grimes asked quietly, and Daryl didn't need to look to know the man's eyes were on him again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrea's head bob up and down in a terse nod as she began checking her own weapon. Daryl grunted an acknowledgement under his breath, running one finger over the string on his crossbow to check if there were any adjustments that needed to be made. In the driver's seat, he heard Royce take a deep breath.

"Okay," the kid said, "we can only go a couple more miles in the car. G and I usually park in the old industrial park on the south edge of the city and hoof it the rest of the way. It's about a mile and a half to the building I left him on." He drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel, slowing down still further to get through a particularly convoluted knot of vehicles--a semi had jackknifed into at least five smaller cars and a jeep was overturned on the median--before clearing his throat lightly. "I told Rick last night...I'm gonna take you to the place you can get your radiator hose first."

Daryl's eyebrows shot up in surprise at that. The reluctance was thick in the kid's voice, and it was obvious how very much he did not want to delay his brother's rescue any longer than absolutely necessary. Beyond that, it was showing an extreme amount of trust in Grimes, Andrea, and Daryl. After all, what was to stop them from just grabbing what they needed and then hightailing it back to the agreed-upon spot where the rest of their group and Royce's small bunch would be waiting for them?

Not for the first time, Daryl found himself wondering just what it was about Rick Grimes that made people trust him so completely, so quickly.

"There's an auto-supply shop on the way to where I left Glenn," Royce continued. "I mean, we'll have to go a little out of our way, but..." He trailed off, and Grimes looked over his shoulder to exchange a meaningful glance with Andrea.

"You really sure about that, son?" Grimes asked kindly. Daryl didn't miss the tense set of his shoulders, though. Who knew what kind of shape the Royce kid's brother was going to be in when they got to him? There was no telling what kind of trouble they might run into--there was no guarantee there'd be time to get the hose after they rescued the brother. And Daryl was good, but the RV wouldn't make it more than another fifty miles--maybe less--without a replacement.

Royce just nodded sharply, though. "We might have to make a run for it on the way out," he said, echoing Daryl's own thoughts almost exactly. "And I don't know what kind of shape G's ankle will be in. Best we get what you need first. It won't take that long."

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

Grimes took his words at face value, though, and Daryl saw the tension drain out of his shoulders. Silence fell over them once more as Royce guided the car into the edges of Atlanta's sprawl. True to his word, he pulled into a winding labyrinth of industrial buildings, shipping warehouses, and alleyways.

Most of the buildings looked like they had been out of use long before the outbreak, and the parking lot he eventually pulled to a halt in was bare and weed-choked. Royce pulled the car to a stop behind a brick storage building, covered in graffiti, and sat idling for a few minutes as they all scanned the area outside the windows. When no Walkers shambled into view, drawn by the noise of the engine, Royce turned the car off.

"We've never seen any geeks around here," he said as they all piled out of the Outback. "There's a few swarms that roam around the newer section, but there just weren't many people around here when everything went down."

Daryl moved off to the side of the group as Royce ran around to the Outback's trunk. They weren't carrying many supplies beyond a few bottles of water and what extra ammo could be spared, but Royce pulled a coil of light nylon rope wound around a rolled up army-issue sleeping bag out. According to Andrea, the boys' mother had been up throughout the night last night cutting small slits in the sleeping bag and looping the rope through them to fashion a makeshift stretcher in case her other son had to be carried off the roof he'd been hiding out on. The whole kit could be carried like a backpack. It was an impressive bit of ingenuity.

Nobdy had mentioned that if the kid was in such bad shape when they got to him that he had to be carried off the roof, it would seriously cut their chances of getting out of the city all in one piece.

While Royce was securing the sleeping bag on his back, Daryl took the opportunity to head a little ways down the alley that would--according to Royce--lead them onto the first of the streets they would have to take to this pawn shop they were trying to get to.

He wasn't entirely surprised when he heard the heavy tread of footsteps behind him almost immediately.

"Dixon, hold up a minute," Grimes said. His tone wasn't confrontational, per se, but Daryl was quite familiar with "cop voice." Grimes damn well expected to be obeyed.

Well, it was't like Daryl hadn't been expecting this. Might as well get it over with now, while they were still somewhere that was (relatively) sure to be free of Walkers.

 

He stopped, swinging the crossbow to rest on his back, and pressed his lips into a thin line as he turned around. He cocked an eyebrow in question, trying to look at a point just over Grimes' shoulder. Andrea and Royce were standing by the car, not even pretending not to be watching, and Andrea shot him a small smile as their eyes briefly met. He was surprised to realize there was a small part of him that wanted to return it.

"Whatcha want?" he asked, shoving the revelation aside with all the other things Andrea had been making him think about in the past few days. Grimes sighed heavily, wiping a hand across his mouth before tilting the brim of that damn ridiculous sheriff's hat down a little.

"Look, we ain't got time to dance around the topic, so I'm just gonna lay this out...we all know what we're walking into here, and I need to know we can count on you, one hundred percent, if things go south." Grimes' gaze didn't waver as he talked, and Daryl fought the impulse to look down at the ground. A flare of anger curled hard and hot in his belly at Grimes' words, at the implication, but he swallowed it down through sheer force of will. He'd done his level-best to make them all think that way about him, hadn't he?

"Ain't no punk-ass bitch," he gritted out, his fingers tightening on the strap of the crossbow. He risked a glance at Grimes' face to find his eyes narrowed in consideration, and no small amount of mistrust.

"Andrea says we can trust you," Grimes said quietly. A dull flare of something flashed through Daryl's chest, some complicated feeling he had neither the time nor the energy to put a name to. Trust. Andrea trusted him. "Now I'm inclined to listen to her, especially after what you did for Amy, and what you did last night. But you see where I'm comin' from, here? You've never seemed to care about lending a hand beyond the bare minimum requirement before. Why're you suddenly all gung-ho to help us with something this dangerous?"

The words were spoken in the same calm, reasonable tone that Grimes always used (the one that kind of made Daryl want to punch him in the face), and his expression was open and understanding, but still clearly expecting an answer (which also kind of made Daryl want to punch him in the face). Daryl swallowed, shifting his weight slightly and reaching up to swipe at the end of his nose.

What could he say?

That after months of carefully walling off every part of himself that didn't have to do with living to see the next day, saving Andrea's sister seemed to have woken something up inside of him? That after surviving the attack on the quarry, he'd taken a good, hard look at the man he'd become, and he wasn't sure he could stand that person? That he was starting to be afraid that all the parts of him that his boy had loved--that had been worthy of that love, damn it--were withered and dead and shattered beyond repair, and he needed to see if there was anything of the man he'd been left?

That he had survived when the one person who had made his life worth living hadn't, and he did not have it in him not to try and save this boy who had the same name?

There was no goddamn time for his internal crisis.

He flicked his eyes up to Grimes' again, blowing out a puff of air through his nose. "I heard ya' that night at the quarry," he muttered finally. Grimes' brow furrowed in confusion, and he rolled his eyes heavenward. "After we was done takin' care...well, takin' care a' the bodies," he elaborated. "You was all standin' around decidin' what to do. Who was gonna come with ya', who weren't. I heard what ya' said 'bout me."

Grimes actually had the gall to look apologetic. "Look, Dixon, we were all under a lot of stress--"

He let out a short bark of bitter laughter. "Hell, when ain't we under stress these days? Ain't gotta explain nothin' t'me. I know how it is. But I ain't stupid. Can't make it out here on my own--so if I need t'start pullin' more weight to stay with y'all, that's what I'll do. S'long as ya' got my back out here, I got yours."

Grimes tilted his head to one side, regarding him with narrowed eyes that were far too assessing for Daryl's liking. After a moment, though, he nodded shortly. "All right. I can accept that." He straightened a bit, and stuck out one hand in offering. Daryl eyed it for a moment, before reluctantly reaching out his own and shaking Grimes' hand firmly.

He still didn't like the man.

He still thought Grimes needed to get down off his high-and-mighty horse and for damn sure stop acting like some goddamn modern day Lone Ranger.

He still hated the man a little bit for getting to go to sleep every night in the arms of the person he loved when Daryl would never touch his boy again.

But for the first time, he thought maybe it might be time for him to try and get over it.

* * *

Glenn was in trouble.

There was no ignoring it, or trying to be optimistic about it. He was in serious trouble, and if Danny didn't come for him soon, he was starting to think he would not be making it off this roof. It was so hot. So damn hot, and his water was running low. He was sick to his stomach, and a low-level pounding had started up in his head that would not abate. He'd sat up too fast this morning, and an alarming wave of black dots had danced across his vision, dizziness making itself known and worsening the nausea to the point where he'd been sure he was going to throw up.

Forget dehydrating to death...he was going to stroke out from the heat.

The roof of the pawn shop felt like an oven, the concrete and tar paper soaking up heat like a sponge and reflecting it back at Glenn mercilessly. Even the comparatively cool nights brought little relief as it took nearly until dawn for the heat to leach away from the stone. His shelter was the only spot of shade available and it didn't help much.

He licked his dry lips and took another swallow of his increasingly precious water. He well-recognized the symptoms of heat exhaustion (anyone who lived through Atlanta summers with unreliable air conditioning knew them) and was well on his way to pure heatstroke. He'd already stripped his jeans off, despite his initial vow to keep them on during the daytime in case Danny showed up and he had to make a run for it. The absence of the heavy denim had helped a little, but even that benefit was wearing thin.

He was in trouble.

He tried to keep his breathing calm, tried to think of what options he might have...but the fact was there were none. He was trapped on this roof like a rat in a cage, completely dependent on Danny returning for him before he got too sick. He was able to hobble at a fairly good clip on his ankle now, but there was no way he'd be able to run fast enough to escape the swarm of geeks on the street below him. Even if he somehow managed to get away, he doubted very much he'd be able to avoid the geeks long enough to get to a workable vehicle. He was stuck.

He was in trouble.

He was in trouble, and he couldn't see a way out of it.

"Yes ya' can."

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, rubbing until he saw stars painted across the backs of his eyelids. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped him. He couldn't. He really, really couldn't.

"Yes ya' can. Ya' ain't goin' down like this."

"There's nothing to do," he muttered out loud, not even caring that he was arguing with the phantom voice of his boyfriend in his head. He was stuck here and he was probably going to die...who the hell cared if he was going a little crazy?

"This is what yer good at. Ya' think a' somethin' an' ya' hold on."

He scrubbed harder at his eyes, biting his lip and breathing hard. "Okay," he said aloud. "Okay." He pulled his hands away from his face and looked around, eyes lighting on his two water bottles. One was only a third of the way full; the other had only a few swallows left. "Okay," he said again, steeling himself internally.

He had to cool himself down some before he got sicker.

Danny had to be coming for him. Had to be coming for him soon...because if he wasn't, it meant that Danny had never made it out of Atlanta. Glenn's gut churned at the thought in a way that had nothing to do with the queasiness he'd been battling all morning. Danny couldn't be dead. He just couldn't be. But...but if he was... If he was, it wouldn't matter how long Glenn could last on the roof, because nobody was coming for him ever.

If he did what he was thinking, it would be a huge gamble. He would probably be betting his life on Danny coming today, or tomorrow at the latest.

"You're gonna be fine, y'hear?"

"Okay," he said, and grabbed the least-full water bottle. Quickly, he scooted as far under the shelter as he could, stripping out of his t-shirt as he went. There was a light breeze blowing across the roof today...not enough to do much more than stir the hot, humid air around, but maybe enough to help him out a little here.

Silently, he folded the t-shirt up into a large pad, and set his jaw grimly as he unscrewed the cap on the water bottle and dumped the remaining liquid onto the t-shirt. He went slowly, soaking the fabric as much as he could. When the water bottle was empty, he tossed it out onto the scorching roof and lay down, stretching himself out as much as he could without letting any part of his body out of the shade. The concrete under him was warm--but not as godawful hot as the concrete hit by direct sunlight. It would have to do.

He closed his eyes and started wiping his arms and chest down with the soaked shirt, squeezing it slightly to let a little bit of water collect on his skin. Almost instantly, there was a little relief--the breeze blowing through his shelter swept across his dampened skin, cooling it a little. Just a little.

But maybe enough. Maybe enough to last until Danny got here.

He sighed softly, trying to remember the last time he had been this miserably hot. He thought it was probably the summer the wiring in his building had shorted out and blown the central air conditioning. The entire apartment building he'd been living in at the time had baked for a week until the landlord got it fixed. Those had been miserable days, and even going over to Daryl's place had brought no relief, as the air conditioning in his building hadn't worked properly since the seventies. They had drifted between their two places, spending their nights panting and sweaty for all the wrong reasons. That had...

That had been the summer they moved in together.

Glenn swallowed roughly, setting the t-shirt aside and spreading his arms as much as he could to let the breeze get at his whole body. That had been the summer they moved in together, the summer Daryl had gotten his promotion at the garage, the summer he had introduced Daryl to his parents.

The summer he'd finally realized how much he meant to Daryl.

He’d guessed that Daryl hadn’t come from the best of circumstances, but the double-wide trailer Daryl had driven them to was approaching after-school-special levels of disrepair and decay. The whole structure was sagging on its foundations, more than one window busted out and just covered with plywood and duct tape. The outside was streaked with dirt and filth, and empty beer cans and bits of trash carpeted the ground immediately around the trailer. The little building sat on about five acres of land, most of it woods according to Daryl, but what had been cleared was weed-choked and overgrown.

The inside was even worse.

Glenn stood awkwardly in the middle of a cramped, dirty living room and reflected that every question he had about his boyfriend was pretty much being answered. Daryl had made a vague gesture towards a stained, sagging couch as he headed back to the (presumed) bedrooms, but hell if Glenn was going to sit on it. His eyes tracked restlessly over his surroundings, trying to imagine Daryl growing up in this place where everything was threadbare and dirty and reeked of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. The idea made him want to just follow his boyfriend into the bedroom and hug him.

Though, that probably wouldn’t go over well.

Daryl had been tense all day, ever since he’d quietly asked if Glenn wanted to come with him to pick up a few things from his father’s house over breakfast that morning. Glenn honestly wasn’t sure why Daryl had asked at all, as he was clearly bothered by the idea of Glenn seeing his childhood home. He’d long ago learned that Daryl never asked for something unless he really, really wanted it, though.

And most of the time, not even then.

Glenn shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing at the narrow hallway Daryl had vanished down. He could hear the man moving around in one of the rooms, throwing things into a couple of cardboard boxes he’d brought with them. Glenn’s face softened as he remembered why, exactly, they were here picking up the last of Daryl’s possessions. Another week, and they’d be moving into their new apartment. Their apartment. With its ugly, yellow wallpaper and too-thin walls. Barely better than either of the places they were living in now, but absolutely amazing because they were moving in together.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway outside, and the loud, choppy roar of a motorcycle. From the back of the house, he heard Daryl curse loudly. Seconds later, his boyfriend stalked back into the living room an shoved a half-full cardboard box of clothes into Glenn’s arms.

“Who is it?” Glenn asked curiously, automatically taking the box. He didn’t like Daryl’s expression—pinched and carefully neutral, his eyes gone hard and flinty. Daryl glanced over at him, mouth tightening into a grim line.

“That’s m’brother’s bike,” he muttered. “Didn’t think he’d be here.”

Glenn felt his eyes widen. He could count on one hand the number of times Daryl had mentioned his older brother in all the time they’d been together. From what little Daryl had said, Glenn had formed a very unflattering picture in his head of Merle Dixon. Daryl himself seemed to both love and hate his brother with an intensity that made Glenn nervous. He wasn’t stupid…he knew the kinds of experiences that inspired that kind of emotional conflict, and he hated the thought of his boyfriend going through something like that.
He watched warily as Daryl seemed to draw in on himself, shoulders tensing, his whole expression changing. In a flash, Glenn watched the man he’d come to love just…vanish. Daryl’s eyes went narrow, his mouth twisting into something harsh and mean. He swallowed as heavy footsteps echoed on the rickety stairs leading up to the front door, and glanced over at Glenn.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered gruffly, “an’ whatever ya’ do, don’t say nothin’.”

Well. That wasn’t overly reassuring.

“Daryl? You in here?” The door swung open.

“Wow…they don’t look anything alike,” Glenn thought nonsensically as Daryl’s brother stumbled into the house, clearly drunk off his ass or high as a kite (or both) despite the fact that it was barely past noon.
Merle Dixon was big, muscled and heavy in ways Daryl wasn’t, and his face bore the scars of years of hard living. And Glenn certainly wasn’t fearful by nature…he stood on his own two feet, thank you very much…but as Merle’s bleary, pale eyes focused on him and Daryl he found himself obeying Daryl’s demand that he step behind him.

Over his boyfriend’s shoulder, Glenn watched as Merle’s eyes went hard and flat as a snake’s. Abruptly, the drunken weave seemed to vanish from his step.

“Who the fuck’s that?” Merle demanded, staring at Glenn in a way he had thankfully experienced only seldom in his life.

Daryl took a deep breath, shifting so that he was more squarely between Glenn and his brother. “Kid’s with me,” he said firmly, not offering a name or an explanation. Glenn tried not to be hurt that the other man didn’t immediately clarify their relationship. Obviously, Daryl wasn’t expecting such a revelation would go well. “We’s just leavin’.”

“The hell you hangin’ around some fuckin’ slant-eye for?!” Merle asked, an ugly chuckle bubbling out of his mouth.

Glenn winced, and Daryl’s shoulders tightened still further. “Don’t,” he said, voice low and dangerous, and Glenn felt a little glow of pride in his chest. Because a year ago? Daryl wouldn’t have even noticed the slur.
His pride was short-lived, though, as Merle’s angry eyes started darting between him and Daryl. Through the liquor haze, Glenn could practically see the pieces snapping together. Merle’s eyes suddenly went wide and he stomped forward, raising his finger and stabbing it towards Daryl’s chest.

“What the fuck?!” he bellowed.

“Glenn, go get in the truck,” Daryl murmured as his brother advanced on them.

“You ain’t no fuckin’ fag, boy!”

Glenn swallowed. There was murder dancing in Merle’s eyes.

“Now!” Daryl demanded, and Glenn couldn’t argue with that tone of voice. He dropped the box and darted for the door. Merle whirled on him, but Daryl was already rushing forward. “Hey! You wanna run your mouth, you talk ta’ me!” he shouted.

Glenn practically threw himself off the stairs and jogged towards Daryl’s beat-up old truck. Behind him, he could hear both the brothers’ voices raising in heated shouts. A litany of hateful, ugly words were spewing out of Merle Dixon’s mouth, all centered around him demanding that Daryl deny he was involved with Glenn. He had just gotten his hand wrapped around the passenger side door handle when a loud crash joined the shouting.

Horrified, he whipped around to face the house again, just as a heavy thud that couldn’t be anything other than a body hitting the floor sounded. They were still shouting, still screaming profanity and filth at each other, and by the sounds of it, the argument had devolved into a full-on fist fight.

He stood frozen by the truck for a bare instant, then reached into the bed and snatched up the first heavy object that came to hand—a long wrench from the toolbox Daryl had bolted just behind the cab.

Hell with this…he wasn’t any damsel in distress!

He was charging back across the yard when the front door slammed open again, and Daryl came striding out. There was blood pouring down his boyfriend’s chin from a split lip, and as he got closer Glenn could see the knuckles of his right hand were torn open and oozing, already starting to swell.

“Goddamn it, boy, you go with that chink, yer fuckin’ dead ta’ me! You got that?! Don’t you never come back here!” Merle hollered from just inside the door. Daryl’s steps faltered…but then he seemed to square himself up.

“Told ya’ t’get in the truck,” Daryl said evenly as Glenn stared, still clutching the wrench. He spat a mouthful of blood on the ground, never once looking back at his brother as he and Glenn silently climbed into the truck.

They left, without a single one of the things Daryl had said he wanted to get from the house, and with Merle’s furious roars still echoing in their ears. Daryl pulled the truck out onto the main rode, his hands getting tighter and tighter on the wheel as he drove, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Glenn searched desperately for something to say, something to make this all right…because he didn’t know Daryl’s brother, but even he could tell that the man had meant every word. The magnitude of what Daryl had just done left him shaken, sitting huddled on the bench seat as Daryl pointed the truck back towards Atlanta.

Abruptly, though, he brought the vehicle to a screeching stop, right in the middle of the deserted country road that would take them back to the highway. Glenn threw one hand out, bracing himself on the dashboard as the truck came to a shuddering halt. Daryl was silent and still beside him, just breathing harshly, his hands clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.

“Ain’t the first time he said that,” Daryl said without preamble, just staring out the windshield. “Never did like no one I brought home…girls, I mean. Ain’t never brought…well, you know.”

Glenn nodded silently. He was well aware that his and Daryl’s relationship was an aberration in the man’s history. Daryl had admitted to a few relationships with women, and a few sexual liaisons with men…but Glenn was the first serious entanglement Daryl had ever really had.

“Ain’t the first time he’s pulled that ‘you leave now don’t never come back’ shit…but that’s the first time I left,” Daryl continued softly. There was something a little hesitant, almost wondering in his voice, as if even he couldn't believe what he had just done.

Glenn bit his lip, sucking in a soft breath. They didn’t talk about things like this—not really. Daryl was still staring out the windshield, as if the lonely road had all the answers to the universe. Finally, though, he turned in his seat, pinning Glenn with his gaze.

“I love ya’. Ya’ know that, right?” he asked quietly, and Glenn could see how much his eyes wanted to dart away, how much it cost him to actually put words to what was between them. “I can't give ya' much...I ain't never gonna be better than what I am. But I love ya’. I’ll always love ya’.”

Glenn swallowed roughly, reaching across the seat to slide his hand over one of Daryl's on the steering wheel. Daryl’s bloodied lips quirked before he finally turned away again, throwing the truck back into drive.

“I just wanted ya’ to know that,” he said softly, as they got back on the road to home.

Glenn threw one arm over his eyes, reaching blindly for the soaked shirt to start dragging it over his skin again. The air was still oppressive, even in the shade of his shelter, and he was under no illusions that he was doing anything but buying himself maybe a few more hours before he got seriously sick off the heat. He had to try, though, had to trust that Danny was coming for him, and that he was going to live through this.

Daryl would have expected nothing less from him.

"I love you," he said softly, wishing to God that wherever Daryl was, there might be some way he could hear him. "I'll always love you."

Chapter 15

Notes:

*gathers pillows, blankets, and Dr. Pepper, and hunkers down in her bomb shelter*

Don't mind me, lovelies. So, yeah, I sincerely hope the fact that there's another chapter up makes up for the ending of this chapter. *cackles ominously*

Also, I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who has commented on this, and is still trucking along with me as we wind to the end. Most especially, I would like to thank The Walking Bread, who has made such beautiful, beautiful fanart. I can't get over how GORGEOUS their pictures are and it blows me away that they take the time to do such a thing.

Apparently, I put some of the links up wrong the last time I tried to share the lovely art in a chapter, so let me try again:

www.imgur.com/M0tLa

www.imgur.com/tJE3I

www.imgur.com/Y9D1Z

Beautiful. Just beautiful.

Royce led the way as they slipped as silently as possible through the empty streets of Atlanta. It was eerie. In all the years Daryl had lived and worked in Atlanta, it had never been quiet. There was always something going on. Even in the dead of night on the most deserted street, the city had been bustling. Noisy.

Alive.

It was more disconcerting than Daryl was willing to admit to see the city like this. The stench of rot and decay was stronger here than it had ever been in the quarry or along the highways. It hung in the air like a physical thing, cloying and stomach-churning. Trash and abandoned vehicles (some wrecked into telephone poles or walls, but plenty of them just parked along the curbs as though their owners would be back for them any moment) lined the streets, along with all the other detritus Daryl had gotten used to seeing in the past months. Bags and suitcases hastily stuffed with whatever desperate people had thought they might need, overturned and torn into. Improvised barricades of dumpsters, cars, even random pieces of furniture, along with the more professional ones of sandbags and barbed wire.

And of course, there was the blood.

Always the blood, dried to dull stains of brown and black now, but there was no mistaking it for anything else.

The blood was everywhere, pooled around chunks and bits of rotted flesh and bone, each smear and trail a silent marker of where someone--or many someones--had been caught and dragged down like an animal on the savannah. The blood decorated the barricades like everything else. Thrown together in haste or assembled by trained soldiers, it had made no difference. They'd all fallen eventually.

They made their way through the city, sticking to the alleyways as much as they could. Daryl was surpised to realize that many of the alleyways had been blocked off and barred--too many for it to be a coincidence. The blocks weren't foolproof, but they would certainly make it harder for any Walkers to find their way into the alleys. It wasn't a guarantee of safety (not that such a thing truly existed anymore), but it was enough to give anyone crazy enough to try and make their way through the city a few moments of breathing room, a few heartbeats of protection. These days, a few moments could very well be the difference between survival and a grisly death.

Royce moved confidently, leading them through seemingly random twists and turns and shortcuts that nonetheless kept them moving deeper into the city. Daryl only vaguely recognized the section of Atlanta they were currently in, and was more than content to bring up the rear of the group, behind Andrea and Grimes, senses alert for any hint of Walkers around them. They saw more than a few, of course. Atlanta was crawling with the dead...there was no avoiding them. What Walkers they encountered, though, were far enough away not to be much of a threat, and they saw no large swarms.

Daryl knew better than to hope that luck would hold--luck was a fickle bitch, after all--but he silently hoped that they'd be able to get the radiator hose and rescue the kid's brother before the shit well and truly hit the fan.

After nearly an hour of creeping through back alleys and darting furtively across open streets when there was no other choice, Royce finally called a halt in a narrow pass between two multi-story office buildings. They had to scurry under a cab parked crosswise at one end of the corridor to get into it; the other was blocked with a chain-link gate that had been tied closed with several filthy-looking scraps of cloth. They slipped into the alley and huddled behind one of two large dumpsters that were in it, mostly out of sight of any passing Walkers.

Daryl knelt down beside Andrea, shifting the bow onto his back. Royce was wiping his palms nervously on the knees of his jeans, his eyes wide and scared, but so, so determined. Grimes pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, darting sharp, thoughtful looks around the alleyway. After a brief moment's rest, Royce straightened, leaning back against the rough brick wall of one of the buildings.

"All right," he began, his voice a low whisper, "the auto supply shop is just around the corner from here. G and I never hit it up, so I don't know what the geek situation is inside...but we don't usually start seeing the really big crowds of geeks for another few blocks. There weren't any big residential places or hospitals or anything around here."

Grimes was nodding as the boy spoke. "Probably safer just to send a couple into the store--don't want a big group drawing attention. In and out, right quick. Dixon, you know what we're looking for...." Grimes trailed off, a slightly raised inflection to his voice on the last words. Daryl narrowed his eyes slightly; whether or not Grimes was doing it on purpose, Daryl knew when he was being tested. He ground his teeth silently, spitting on the ground beside him.

"I'll do it," he muttered. "Better ta' go in with this, anyhow." He patted the strap of the crossbow across his chest. "Ain't no point in ringin' a damn dinner bell if we have to put a few Walkers down."

"I'll go with you," Andrea said immediately, prompting a startled look from Grimes. Royce shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Hang on, I know the best ways out of here if something goes wrong--" the boy said, even as Grimes started shaking his head.

"I should be the one," he started, and Daryl reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "We ain't got time t'argue!" He glanced over at Andrea to find her frowning angrily and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Andrea," he said firmly. When Grimes looked as though he was about to protest, Daryl held up one hand to silence him. "Seriously, ain't got time. You're right...I know what we need, or what I can jerry-rig if they ain't got it. Junior here's the only one who knows the best ways in and out a' where we gotta get to, and you..." He hesitated, jaw working soundlessly for a brief instant before he forced himself to plunge onwards. "If we gotta come out hot, you're a better shot long-distance. Rather have ya' coverin' our asses if we gotta make a run for it." He looked over at Andrea when he felt her start to rile up beside him. "I know y'can handle yerself in close quarters. An' yer fast." He turned his attention back to Grimes. "Makes the most sense for her n' me to go in while you two cover us from out here."

Unspoken, but very much in his mind, was the fact that if he had to pick someone in this bunch to trust, Andrea was the closest he was going to get.

He ignored the little part of him that muttered that there was no "closest" about it.

Grimes stared at him silently for a few heartbeats, that incisive assessment in his eyes that always gave Daryl the uncomfortable feeling that Grimes was looking into him, rather than at him. He made himself meet the man's gaze steadily, refusing to back down. Grimes blew out a gusty breath, dropping his head briefly before nodding with evident reluctance.

"All right," he said quietly. "All right." He licked his lips and squatted down on his heels. "Danny, where are we gonna have the best line of sight to the store?"

Royce thought a moment, pursing his lip slightly. "There's another alley a block up from here. We'll have full view of the front." He turned his attention back to Daryl. "The shop's closed up tight...there might be a couple geeks inside, but it was closed the day everything went to shit. None of the windows or doors are busted out, so it should be pretty clear. If you can't get back out the front, the back door opens out into one of the alleys that's been blocked off like this one. You should be able to make it back out onto the street and make a run for it."

Daryl cleared his throat briefly, a little shocked that Grimes had given in so easily. There was no time to dwell on it, though. He rose, shifting the bow off of his shoulder and waiting for Andrea to stand as well. Royce bit his lip, before reaching over and laying a light hand on Daryl's elbow.

"Your best bet'll be to head across the street," he jerked his chin at the end of the alleyway with the chain link fence, "and just make a run for it to the storefront. There shouldn't be too many of them in the street...you might be able to make it all the way to the store without anything seein' you."

Daryl nodded shortly, and then nudged Andrea with his shoulder. Andrea reached out to warmly clasp Grimes' elbow, before she started down the alley towards the fence. Daryl moved to follow, but was stopped when Royce suddenly lunged forward and laid his hand on Daryl's shoulder. Daryl tensed, cocking his head to one side and glaring at the kid. Royce immediately let go, but didn't move away.

"I--I..." he stammered, before abruptly taking a deep breath, "You gotta get the part for your RV, I get that. Just...please....man, please hurry?" he asked, soft and broken-sounding.

Daryl's gaze darted over to Grimes, but the man was watching Royce with eyes that were too open and sympathetic. He turned his attention back to Royce, licking his lips.

He swallowed hard. He knew this kind of devotion, this kind of worry, this kind of love. Even if no one else would have believed it, he knew exactly where this boy was coming from. And yeah, he was right...they couldn't afford not to go after the radiator hose. But there was only one answer Daryl could offer to the kid's pleading request.

"Yeah," he said hoarsely. There was nothing else to say, really. "Yeah, we'll hurry."

He stepped away from Grimes and Royce, nodding to Grimes gravely one more time. Then he followed after Andrea.

*

They did indeed move quickly, leaving the dubious shelter of the alley and racing across the street to the even more dubious shelter of a stoop housing the entrance to what had been a small thrift shop. They huddled against the glass door, listening intently for any sounds of pursuit or sudden interest. After a moment, Daryl leaned back out enough that he could see the sidewalk and the street they were on.

The auto-supply shop was right where Royce had said it was, about half a block up from where he and Andrea were. He sighed softly, low in his throat, at the sight of about twelve Walkers between them and the store...though he knew full well they were damn lucky it was that few. Still, twelve Walkers was hardly a piece of cake. They didn't dare risk firing a gun unless it was absolutely necessary. Who knew how many more Walkers were in the stores and buildings surrounding them?

"So, what's the plan?" Andrea whispered, crowding in close to stand just behind his shoulder.

Daryl tilted his head, sweeping his gaze up and down the street they were on. It was surprisingly free of debris: a few overturned public trashcans, a Jeep Liberty that had crashed into a fire hydrant, and a city bus that had just stopped dead in the middle of the street with no apparent damage. Beyond that, there were seven or eight cars that were parked neatly in front of meters, two with the windows busted out, but all of the others completely intact. The buildings that lined the street were all constructed similarly to the thrift shop they were hiding in front of...their entrances sheltered by brick arches that created alcoves two or three feet deep and about five feet across at each doorway.

The dozen or so Walkers were scattered between them and the auto shop, just wandering aimlessly up and down the block. Three were close enough for Daryl to shoot without leaving the alcove they were currently crouched in, but the others... He sighed again.

"Gonna have ta' leapfrog our way up there," he whispered back. "See that silver mini-van?"

"Yeah."

"I'll take out them three in between it and us," he said, indicating a Walker that had once been a teenage boy in jeans and a leather jacket, and two females in matching aprons from a sandwich shop on the side of the street they had just come from.

"And then take cover behind the van while you hit the big guy in the overalls?" Andrea finished.

"Go from car to car, an' hopefully they won't even see us comin'," he agreed.

"Well, sounds sufficiently terrifying and suicidal," Andrea said, going for levity and missing the mark by a wide margin. Daryl appreciated the effort, nonetheless.

Silently, he reached down and flicked the strap on the sheath attached to his belt open, drawing out the buck knife that never left his side--the one he had used to save Andrea's sister--and testing its familiar weight in his hand for a moment.

"Here," he said gruffly, shoving the knife handle-first into Andrea's hands. "Don't use yer gun 'less there's no other choice." Andrea startled slightly, wrapping her hand around the knife automatically, before raising surprised eyes to his. He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, wanting to duck his head away from it, but refusing to give into the urge. "What?" he demanded.

Andrea didn't say anything, merely smiled at him again--a soft, genuine smile that seemed somehow out of place in this city full of death and decay. He cringed away from the expression, feeling the back of his neck heat up despite himself. "Promised yer sister I'd watch out for ya'," he muttered defensively.

Andrea just shook her head. "Thank you," she said softly. Daryl sucked on his teeth a moment, spit onto the ground by his boot.

"Yeah, thank me when we survive this," he said. They exchanged one final look, Andrea curling her hand tightly around the handle of knife as Daryl adjusted the crossbow's sight a final time. Taking a deep breath, he leaned out of the alcove and sighted quickly.

The first two Walkers went down in fast succession, falling to the ground before they even had a chance to notice him. The third, the youth in the leather jacket, began shuffling around to face them at the sound of the two females collapsing. Daryl reloaded calmly and stepped all the way out of the alcove, Andrea close behind him. The thing hissed at them, ruined arms coming up to stretch toward them as it took a few shambling steps before Daryl's bolt buried itself in its eye. It hit the street face first, and he and Andrea ran, scuttling towards the van as low to the ground as they could. Daryl dodged around to the two females to snatch the bolts out of the backs of their skulls. The third was too far away to try for.

They skidded to a halt by the side of the van, crouching down below the windows. Andrea moved quickly, though not as quietly as him, the knife clutched at the ready in her hand. Daryl sidled along the van, pressing himself against the hot metal surface, eyes scanning constantly for any Walkers beyond those he had already counted. He hesitated briefly just beside the van's passenger window, waiting just a breath for one of the next targets to turn away from their direction before stepping out of what little cover the van offered and firing again.

Two more Walkers went down, and they raced for the entrance alcove of a toy store.

Fire. Run. Duck for cover.

Fire. Run. Duck for cover.

They repeated the process as rapidly as possible, sprinting from flimsy shelter to flimsy shelter. Another four Walkers fell, only two of which he was able to recover the arrows from, and they were left crouching behind a sedan that was half up on the sidewalk, its doors flung open and stained with blood. Daryl eased along the side of it as they had the other cars, his eyes on the final three Walkers that were between them and the auto shop. He bit his lip and edged a little closer to the open door of the car, trying to get a better angle for his final shots.

He'd glanced in the sedan's windows...but he hadn't checked the floor.

As he stepped up to the open passenger side, a mottled, putrid hand shot out of the car, latching onto his knee as a hissing groan filled the air.

"Goddamn it!" he yelped, lurching backward and trying to bring the bow to bear on the half-rotted corpse that was stretched across the floor of the car, wedged up under the steering column. Before he could gain even a clumsy line-of-sight, though, Andrea lunged forward and without preamble, plunged the blade of his buck knife into the top of the thing's skull. Thick, black ichor oozed up around the hilt, and Andrea made a choked sound of disgust as she jerked the knife back out of the Walker's head.

Ignoring the close call, Daryl's eyes snapped back up to the Walkers he had been going after, noting with unease that the things had taken notice of the brief commotion, and were now shuffling towards him and Andrea.

As were three more further down the street.

As were two just shambling out of one of the store-entrance alcoves just ahead of them.

"Fuck," Daryl hissed succinctly. He darted a glance between the gathering Walkers, the alleyway up the block where Grimes and Royce were supposed to be watching, and the auto shop.

They couldn't leave without the radiator hose.

"Goddamn it," he muttered and grabbed Andrea's elbow, dragging her forward a couple of steps until she realized his intention to run for the store.

He took out two more of the Walkers as they ran, racing for the auto-shop's entrance, but there were still at least six coming towards them, and he didn't want to risk losing anymore bolts. There was no way they'd be able to clear the street entirely without Andrea and Grimes using their guns, and if that happened, they'd likely lose the chance at the auto-shop entirely. They hit the auto-shop alcove in seconds, and Daryl narrowed his eyes at the bright orange "Closed" sign hanging in the window...as well as the very obviously bolted security bar.

"Dixon--" Andrea started nervously, but Daryl barely hesitated. He swung the crossbow around so that the butt was facing outward and grit his teeth as he slammed it forward, striking the glass pane of the store's door just above the security bar. Cracks spiderwebbed out from the point of impact, but the glass didn't quite break. Growling to himself, he raised the crossbow again and hit the same spot as hard as he could, grunting with the effort.

This time he was rewarded as the glass shattered inward, large shards breaking off and falling to the floor inside the store. The entire door didn't shatter, but he was left with a largeish hole just above where the security bar was bolted. The Walkers were getting closer, their groan and hisses growing louder, and Andrea nervously pulled her pistol out of the back of her jeans. Daryl ignored the sounds, thrusting his arm into the hole he'd created at reaching awkwardly for the release on the security bar.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he muttered, hissing himself when a sharp edge of glass bit into his arm, slicing through the fabric of the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing and leaving a long, jagged cut on the inside of his forearm. He managed to get a grip on the release, though, and twisted the deadbolt sharply, breathing a sigh relief when he felt it slide open. "Let's go!" he shouted, yanking the door open and hustling Andrea through.

He followed her a bare instant later, turning and shoving the door closed behind them just as the first of the Walkers staggered into the entryway alcove. He threw the security bolt again just as a rotted arm, stripped of most of its flesh and showing ragged bone and muscle in most places, shot through the hole he'd used to break in, clawing at him uselessly.

"This way," Andrea ordered urgently, hurrying further into the store and ducking out of sight behind a tire display. He followed, bringing the crossbow up even as Andrea did the same with her gun, awkwardly clutching the hilt of his knife against the butt of the gun. They huddled together behind the display for a few moments, listening intently for any signs of movement in the store.

There were no sounds, though, except for the groans and growls of the Walkers rattling the front door as they struggled to get inside. Daryl peeked out around the display, noting uneasily that while the security bar was good quality, the door itself probably wouldn't hold long. Great. Just great.

Beside him, Andrea was panting softly, checking and rechecking that the safety was off on her weapon.

"Do I wanna know why you can break into a store in less than thirty seconds?" she remarked, but her voice was light and almost teasing. When he looked over at her, she was smiling at him lopsidedly.

Teasing him. She was teasing him. Talking like they were always so easy with each other. Like they were friends.

The realization actually startled him enough that he forgot about the Walkers outside the store for a few moments. Eventually, though, he shook his head, an honest-to-God smile tugging at his lips. "Gonna have t'plead the fifth on that," he answered.

She chuckled a little, glancing around the edge of the display herself to take stock of their situation. "We'd better hurry. I know they saw us get in here okay, but Rick won't give us more than ten minutes or so before he comes in, guns blazing. What're we looking...shit! What happened to your arm?"

Surprised, Daryl followed her gaze down the length of his right arm--where the sleeve of his shirt was split open nearly to the elbow. Blood was dripping steadily down the limb from a long, nasty-looking cut. Now that he was looking at it, the edges of the cut started to throb dully in time with his pulse.

"Damn it," he muttered. He flexed his hand a few times, shaking several drops of blood onto the floor. Andrea reached for the limb, and he instinctively flinched back from her touch. "Leave it," he barked. "Chrissakes, woman, it's just a cut."

"Dixon, you're bleeding all over the floor!" Andrea protested, and Daryl pressed bit down on the inside of his cheek grimly, considering.

There were few things that riled Walkers up quite like the scent of fresh blood.

Goddamn it.

"Fuck...all right, listen--" He darted a look around the store, flicking his eyes over the signs hanging in the aisles, detailing what prodcuts could be found down them. "Start down in that aisle, and see if they have any a' the things just out on the shelves. We might have to go lookin' through th'inventory in the back." He made a few quick calculations in his head, and rattled off a couple of product names and sizes that he could work with. "Silicon if they got it. I'll be right behind ya', soon as I find somethin' t'bind this up." He paused, levelling a hard glare at her. "Ya' get in trouble, ya' shoot. Hear me?"

Andrea smiled at him wryly. "Anything else?" She was smirking at him again, her eyes twinkling with amusement despite their precarious situation, despite the moans and groans of the Walkers trying to beat down the door.

Daryl found himself returning the smirk. "I'll let ya' know," he said brusquely. Casting one last wary glance at the front door (it wouldn't hold forever...they had maybe ten or fifteen minutes before the small group of Walkers clamoring at it busted through), he jogged towards one of the other aisles where he had an inkling he'd find something he could use to bandage himself up, as Andrea headed for the one where the collant system supplies were displayed.

He scanned the shelves quickly, eager to get what he needed and get back to Andrea. The sooner they got the part for the RV, the better. At the moment, the Walker situation was manageable. The street had been mostly clear, and if the ones at the door managed to break through, Grimes and Royce would be right behind them with additional firepower.

A situation could go from "manageable" to "disastrous" in a heartbeat in this world, though. Hell, that had been true even before the dead had gotten up and started hunting the living. Daryl just wanted to get what they needed, get the kid's brother, and get the hell out of the city. He'd gone about halfway down the aisle before he spotted something he could use to bind up the cut on his arm, and sighed in relief. It was the work of seconds to bandage his forearm, and he was turning to head back to Andrea when the relative silence of the store was suddenly broken.

By the sound of shattering glass.

Daryl froze for a bare instant, eyes widening as he instantly reversed course, running for the back end of the aisle. He could hear the hollow, metallic thump of the security bar being crashed against over and over, hear the remains of the door rattling in the frame, and he had seconds, maybe, before the Walkers broke through. He zizagged through the aisles, running for the back of the store where he'd sent Andrea, a silent countdown starting up in his head. There were at least four or five Walkers pressing against the door. He caught a flash of blonde hair in the next aisle over from him, just as the situation went from "manageable" to "disastrous".

The door gave a final, almighty groan, just before he heard the shriek of the metal security bar giving way. He didn't have to look to know the small knot of Walkers was pouring through the entrance, perhaps drawing still more of the things down on them with their howls and hisses.

"Goddamn it," he hissed, flattening himself against the shelf he was crouched behind. A few boxes wobbled precariously, and he held his breath until they stopped without falling. He leaned out cautiously, just enough so that he could track the shambling movements, even as he calculated the risk of making a run for the back door. He glanced across the aisle to where Andrea was crouched by another set of shelves, her gun out and her kips pressed into a thin, white line.

As if sensing his eyes on her, she tore her attention away from the Walkers, looking up at him. Once again, he was struck by the calm determination in her expression as she jerked her chin towards the crossbow before raising her own weapon slightly, one eyebrow tilting upwards in a distinctly questioning manner. He licked his lips, looking up at the front of the store again. Five Walkers--only two of which he was in a position to take out without breaking cover. Just. Fucking. Perfect.

Royce and Grimes had to have seen the Walkers break through. No doubt they were on their way...the question was if he and Andrea would be able to avoid getting swarmed before they got here. The Walkers were spreading out, their motions getting more frenzied and chaotic as they searched for him and Andrea. The things knew they were in here.

Daryl glanced over at Andrea's gun once more, making a split-second decision. They couldn't afford to start shooting before they knew where Royce and Grimes were, and if their escape route was clear. Their best bet was for Daryl to take out as many of the Walkers as he could silently, and then either make a run for it, or wait for Grimes and Royce to arrive with more firepower. Decision made, he heted the crossbow up and pulled an arrow from the quickly-emptying quiver on the stock.

"Cover me," he mouthed at Andrea...and stepped out into the center aisle, in full view of the Walkers.

The reaction was instantaneous. The five Walkers started for him en masse, their grasping, rotting hands reaching towards him as they stumbled forward. He drew himself straight, raising the bow and taking aim in nearly the same breath. The arrow loosed, finding its mark in the lead Walker's eye socket. Even as that Walker was collapsing, he was slotting another arrow into the shaft, refocusing his aim, and another went down. There were three left, and Daryl grabbed yet another bolt out of the quiver, slotted it home, and dared to think that this wasn't going to be a problem. Dared to think that they had it under control.

He should've known better. He really should have.

"Dixon, look OUT!!" Andrea screamed suddenly, even as he caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, coming straight at him from the side aisles he had just stepped out of. He had a bare instant to start to turn, to bring the bow up, before a heavy weight slammed into his side.

Two more, he registered in shock. There were two more, boiling out of the aisle and bearing him to the floor, and he twisted under the weight of the one that had tackled him, frantically trying to get the bow up, to get his arm up, to roll away from the thing's hold. Andrea was shouting, screaming his name and there were still three more coming at them from the front of the store. Five Walkers, five Walkers, and he bucked like a wild thing as he felt the Walker pawing at his chest, as his nose was filled with the putrid stench of rotting flesh. The thing lunged forward--

"Dixon!"

He screamed as the thing's teeth sunk into his arm.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Hello my loves!

Many thanks for the kind responses I've gotten to this. I decided to be nice and not leave everyone in limbo on the cliffhanger in the last chapter :)

Thanks to my lovely beta Suze and special thanks to the Walking Bread, who had ANOTHER glorious picture for this story that I forgot to include in the last chapter. It can be found at:

http://imgur.com/M0tLa

Go and heap praise upon this talented, talented artist :)

"The fuck is that?" Glenn glanced over at his boyfriend, who was currently staring at the radio in his truck with what looked like honest horror. Glenn's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Dude, seriously? That's Snow Patrol," he replied, a note of chiding laughter in his voice as the chorus of Chasing Cars swelled out of the truck's scratchy, old speakers. If anything, Daryl's face took on an expression of even more consternation, his nose wrinkling like a five-year-old being told they had to finish their vegetables.

"I say 'gain...the fuck?" Daryl shook his head in disgust, and Glenn chuckled lightly.

He stretched his legs out a little more in the passenger seat, rolling his neck from side to side until a few vertebrae popped satisfyingly. It seemed as though they had been going full-throttle all day--visiting every apartment complex and building within a ten-mile radius (and Glenn had honestly not been aware there were that many apartment complexes and buildings within a ten mile radius) looking for a decent one-bedroom they could afford on his and Daryl's combined salaries. One that was not too far out of the way for either of them to get to work, and had either a garage or on-street parking for the truck. Glenn had been sure that with such a small list of demands, they'd be able to find something in no time.

Glenn was wrong.

For the most part, the apartments they had visited had been terrible--either in neighborhoods that neither of them wanted to live in, or full of too many problems like bad wiring and worse plumbing to make it even worthwhile.

And he was pretty sure that at least one of the buildings they had visited in the past week had been housing a meth lab.

Glenn wasn't under any illusions that a mechanic and a pizza delivery boy would be able to afford something nice in Atlanta, but he'd been hoping to avoid living in another shithole like he currently occupied. The last place they had been to today--an apartment in an older building with only one window and the most appalling yellow wallpaper Glenn had ever seen (the building super had called it 'cheerful' and Glenn had agreed with her mostly to see Daryl's reaction)--had been the best of the bunch, but there were a couple of other places they were going to check out tomorrow. As it was, Glenn's shift at work started in about ten minutes.

Ultimately, it didn't matter, of course. Glenn would be perfectly happy wherever they ended up. Okay, maybe not in the meth lab place...he did have some standards. For the most part, though, Glenn was content to just be excited that he was moving in with the man he was in love with. Who he was pretty damn sure was just as in love with him. Oh, Daryl hadn't actually said the words, yet, but Glenn had long ago figured out that actions really did speak louder than words with Daryl. And his actions were telling Glenn that the man really was in it for the long haul with him.

The thought made Glenn ridiculously happy.

He grinned to himself, watching Daryl out of the corner of his eye as the man kept shooting increasingly irritated looks at the radio--which was now spewing out Leona Lewis's latest--as he waited for a light to change in the intersection that would take them down the street to where Glenn worked. Finally, as the song rose to a crescendo of how Leona just kept bleedin' love, Daryl's hand shot out, one finger stabbing at the buttons on the radio with a desperation better suited to life-threatening situations. Immediately, the cab was filled with the whiskey-rough vocals of Johhny Cash, imploring listeners to know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.

"Hey!" Glenn protested, more for the principle of the thing than any burning desire to listen to Leona Lewis. Daryl snorted, shaking his head again.

"My truck, my music," he grunted as the light turned green again. Glenn waited until he was engaged in putting the truck back into gear before reaching out and flicking the station back to the Mix.

"We're gonna live together, you gotta learn to share," he said, though without any real heat in his voice. The corners of his lips were twitching in amusement. Daryl looked over at him briefly, shooting him a mock-glare.

Then he flicked the station back to Johnny Cash.

"I'll share all the dishes 'n laundry ya' want. Music's sacred."

"Expand your horizons!" Glenn said melodramatically, and hit the button for the Mix station.

"Man in Black's a classic," Daryl shot back, a smirk of his own twisting his mouth.

"Classically depressing," Glenn countered. He was trying not to burst into laughter.

"Better n' that shit yer tryin' t'call music!"

I keep bleedin', keep, keep bleedin'--

--know when to walk away, know when to run--

--keep bleedin' looooove--

--when you're sittin' at the table, there'll be time enough for countin'--

--you cut me open--

--dealin' is done!

"Knock it off," Glenn laughed as Daryl pulled into the parking lot behind the pizza joint. He reached up to switch the station back, only to have his hand smacked away. He sputtered in fake outrage and went for it again, only to again be thwarted by his boyfriend's admittedly faster reflexes. Daryl was openly grinning by now, his eyes twinkling with amusement that only Glenn ever seemed able to elicit. He made a few more attempts at the radio, batted back every time, before he finally admitted defeat and decided to distract Daryl in the only way possible.

He launched himself across the bench seat to kiss the corner of that grin, smiling against Daryl's skin when the man's work-rough hand immediately curled around the back of his neck. He tilted his head slightly for a proper kiss, bracing one hand against Daryl's chest while the other sneakily darted back to--

--I'd catch a grenade for ya', throw my hand on a blade for ya'--

Daryl broke off from the kiss to lean back slightly so that he could fix Glenn with a sardonic look of mock-disappointment. "Ya' really listen ta' this crap?"

"Hey, don't diss Bruno Mars, man," Glenn chuckled. Daryl rolled his eyes heavenward and pulled him closer, pressing his lips against the side of Glenn's neck before going back to his mouth with renewed purpose. They kissed lazily for a few moments, neither making any move to ratchet things up a notch (like hell Glenn was walking into work with a boner, for God's sake), but just enjoying the closeness.

Until Glenn was suddenly struck with a prickly, uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He frowned slightly, pulling back and darting a look around in an effort to see what had caused the feeling. Daryl pulled back slightly, brow wrinkling in confusion, but as soon as the man opened his eyes, he sighed heavily.

"Oh for--" he trailed off, shooting an irritated glare over Glenn's shoulder. He craned his neck around to find that sometime within the last few minutes, Kirsten and Zia had pulled into the parking lot on the passenger side of Daryl's truck. Zia was currently half hung over her cousin, and they both had their faces pressed to the glass of Kirsten's driver's side window, smiling like loons and shooting Glenn enthusiastic thumbs up.

"Ya' got the weirdest friends," Daryl muttered sourly. Glenn sighed.

"Don't I know it," he said. Reluctantly, he slid back onto his side of the seat, "I'll get them to drop me off at the garage after my shift...you wanna grab dinner at that sub shop by your place?"

Daryl nodded his assent. "Sounds good. I'll see ya' later, then." He shot one more sour look at the two girls climbing out of the car beside them, but nonetheless leaned over just as Glenn reached for the door handle, grabbing his chin in a gentle grip and tilting his face back for one more kiss goodbye.

Glenn smiled at his boyfriend warmly and hopped out of the truck, heading for the back door of the pizza place and ignoring his friends' good-natured catcalls.

*

Glenn gasped a little as he startled back to wakefulness, flailing about in confusion as he looked wildly around him. For the moments it took his brain to catch up with his body, he couldn't understand where Daryl had suddenly vanished to, or why he could no longer hear Kir and Zia teasing him about making out in the parking lot like a teenager. Then reality reasserted itself, and he sagged back against the concrete under his little shelter, scrubbing one hand angrily over his sweaty face.

Just another dream. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep.

His friends weren't here. He had no idea if his friends were even still alive--the girls had been visiting relatives up in New Jersey when everything hit, so he supposed there was a chance, but the rest of them had all been talking about getting back to family and heading for one of the quarantines zones inside the city. He had no idea if the damn pizza place he'd worked at was still standing, or if it was a burnt out husk like so many parts of the city. His friends weren't here.

And Daryl was dead.

The thought stabbed through him, stealing his breath for a moment with the sheer magnitude of the hurt, with the memory of Daryl's graveled voice and rough-soft touch still so fresh in his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled onto his side a little, drawing his knees up to his chest. He was alone.

He was all alone, and he was fast reaching the end of his endurance. He was alone, and Daryl was dead, and Glenn was getting surer and surer that soon, he would be too.

He bit his lip, pressing the side of his face a little harder against the warm concrete as he tried to muster up a little more of the optimism and hope that had carried him through this long. He wasn't sure if he had any left, though. Daryl was dead...

Maybe if he died, too, Daryl would be waiting for him somewhere.

He squeezed his eyes shut harder, digging his nails into the skin of his knees. Maybe they could be together again. Maybe they could--

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and his head shot up with a speed that was almost painful. A sound split the air in the city, rising above the groans of the geeks down on the street. A sound that set Glenn's heart to thudding painfully in his chest. He rolled to his knees with a groan, shuffling out of the shelter a little so that he could lean up and look out over the waist-high wall encircling the roof.

Was that...had that been gunshots?

* * *

For a precious few seconds, Daryl was frozen in shock, just staring up into the face of the Walker with its teeth currently in his arm. Bit. He'd just been bit. The absolute, the guaranteed death sentence in this motherfucking world. He'd been bit. The Walker lying on top of him was easily Walsh's size, big and muscular in the way you only got from regular visits to a gym. Half of his face had been gnawed out...reduced to hamburger meat on the left side, with one eye utterly gone, the optic nerve dangling out of the mutilated socket like a tattered, bloody ribbon. The stench of rot enveloped him.

He'd been bit.

For a moment, the shock of it held him paralyzed, and the Walker got an even better grip on his shirt, clawing at the fabric as though it was going to tear Daryl apart with its bare hands. Then Andrea's screams penetrated the haze of shock. The woman was shouting his name wildly, and it was enough to get Daryl moving again. Enough for a couple of very important facts to register. There were multiple Walkers in the store, and he'd promised Amy he'd look out for her sister. She'd get swarmed for sure if he didn't fucking move. Right now.

Adrenaline shot through him. With a roar, he wrenched his whole body under the weight of the Walker he was pinned under, struggling to get it to roll. He threw his whole weight into it, bucked and writhed like a maddened animal until he was able to get his other arm free. He wasted no time slamming his fist into the ruined side of the Walker's face with as much force as he could muster. He punched it once, twice, and on the third time finally managed to dislodge the thing from his arm. The Walker broke off with a hiss, and Daryl used the momentary leverage to its full advantage.

He scrambled backwards frantically, yanking his body out from under the Walker's weight and kicking out as much as he could with his legs. He'd almost managed to work his way out from under it when the sound of a gunshot tore through the store like a clap of thunder, and the other half of the Walker's face disintegrated under the assault of a bullet fired at close range. Ears ringing, Daryl threw a wild glance in Andrea's direction, only to see the woman was fully facing the two (now one) shambling figures that had attacked him...and was utterly ignoring the ones still closing in on her from the front of the store.

He kicked his way free of the Walker's deadweight. "Behind you!" he shouted, reaching for the crossbow's quiver as he swung his leg at the nearest of the other Walker that had come out of the aisles (a woman in a torn and bloodstained hospital gown). She toppled forward and he threw himself on her, jerking a bolt free of the quiver and stabbing it into her forehead with all his might.

"Dixon?!" Andrea called nervously, her gun wavering in her hands.

Daryl grunted in exertion, lurching to his feet and stumbling forward to her side. He grabbed Andrea's arm, hauling her back into the aisles with him, desperate to grab a few seconds to regroup. They had enough bullets to take out the rest of the Walkers with Andrea's gun...but the two that had ambushed him had to have come from somewhere outside. He'd been positive there were only three or four at the door. They couldn't risk drawing more of the damn things into the store with gunfire...not until they knew where Grimes and Royce were. They couldn't risk bringing a swarm down on the other two men as they made their way to the store.

"Oh God, oh God, Dixon, your arm!" Andrea panted, stumbling along beside him until she gained her footing.

"Leave it," he ordered harshly, not looking down at where the Walker had bitten him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered at the moment but getting out of the store alive. Grimes and Royce had to be coming...they had to be. They just needed a minute or two to re-group. Just a minute so he could catch is breath. His eyes darted frantically around as he and Andrea ran down one of the aisles, the Walkers close behind them. He risked a glance over his shoulder and cursed loudly at the sight of all six of the damn things cramming into the aisle behind them.

"Shit, the hose," Andrea gasped suddenly.

"What?"

"The hose...I found the one you wanted, but I dropped it when the door went."

"Are ya' fuckin' kiddin' me?!" he ground out.

"Well excuse me for saving your life!" she snapped back. Almost immediately, her hand shot to her mouth, but he just shook his head. He couldn't think about it, couldn't think about it until Andrea was saf--until they were both out of here.

With the motherfucking hose.

"All right," he said, "all right just..." He shot another frantic look around him, at the boxes on the shelves around them, at the Walkers closing in on them, at the shelves around them...

At the shelves.

"Christ, c'mere," he barked, skidding to a halt at the end of the aisle. He looked down at the floor, nodding to himself when he saw they weren't the type that bolted into the floor. Cheap-ass, and a lawsuit waiting to happen...but it just might save their lives. "Help me," he said, slinging the bow onto his back and setting his shoulder against the end of the shelf they were standing next to. Andrea caught on instantly, and darted around into the next aisle over to push from the other side.

They waited a bare second, waited for the Walkers to make a final lunge at them--and shoved. Daryl strained with all his might, throwing his full weight into it, even as Andrea did the same. The shelf rocked, boxes on it teetering dangerously. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, pushing with all his might against the heavy shelf, and finally felt it start to give.

"That's it, that's it, that's it!" he called triumphantly, as the shelf rocked forward, toppling with a crash of sound as the boxes on it spilled into the aisle. It collapsed, and Daryl felt his mouth stretching into a feral grin as it crashed into the next set of shelves beside it, crushing the Walkers beneath it as it started a domino cascade into the set of shelves the next aisle over.

"C'mon, every Walker on the street heard that!" Andrea shouted breathlessly. She turned and began racing back towards the place where the Walkers had taken Daryl down, while Daryl followed slightly behind, his eyes trained on the downed shelves, watching to see if any of the Walkers managed to crawl out from under it. He could still hear the terrible, hissing groans...they were still moving, if nothing else, and Andrea was right. Every Walker on the street had to have heard the shelves falling.

But every Walker within a few blocks would have heard multiple gunshots, as silent as the city had become.

He followed Andrea back, nearly wilting in relief when she proved to have been correct. It was indeed the radiator hose in the size he had asked her to find. The package was large and unwieldy, but light enough to carry without much trouble. He nodded his approval.

"Got it, now let's get th'fuck outta here!" he said urgently. Andrea maneuvered the hose into a more comfortable carrying position, and nodded frantically. Together they ran for the front door, ignored the thumps and crashes of the trapped Walkers trying to work their way out from under the debris.

Daryl slowed slightly as they came to the front door, bringing the bow up and ignoring the flare of pain the action sent rocketing through his arm. His arm. He didn't look.

He couldn't look.

The doorway was mercifully free of Walkers...but he didn't hear or see Grimes and Royce anywhere either. What the hell? The shattered glass crunched under his boots as he cautiously stepped over the ruined doorframe and out into the brick alcove, Andrea close behind him. He eased himself silently out, the bow held at the ready. As soon as he peeked out of the alcove, he saw why Grimes and Royce hadn't come to help them.

And he saw where the unexpected Walkers had come from.

"Shit," he breathed.

"What? What is it?" Andrea demanded instantly, crowding in closer behind him and peering out around his shoulder. She gasped softly

There must have been more Walkers in the buildings along the street, ones that had been drawn out when the bunch he and Andrea had attracted had busted through the auto store's door. There were at least twenty of them in the street, where before there had only been a scant handful. The alleyway where Grimes and Royce were supposed to be waiting was still clear, but Grimes and Royce were out in the street. They had clearly been trying to run in after Andrea and Daryl, but the Walkers pouring out of whatever building they had been hiding in had cut the two men off from the store. They were about fifteen feet away from the alley opening (and the relative safety of another chain link fence across the mouth of it...but neither man was making a move to run.

Instead they were hovering uncertainly in the street, dancing back away from the crowd of Walkers that was starting to take notice of them, but not firing their weapons, or trying to get to safety. Daryl was momentarily confused...until he realized with a pang that Grimes and Royce were trying to draw the larger group away from the auto store without the gunfire that would bring even more of the things down on them. Trying to protect him and Andrea (all right, at least trying to protect Andrea...but even if he didn't like the man, he didn't think Grimes would leave him to be torn apart by Walkers). His lips thinned into a grim line.

"Jesus, they're gonna get themselves killed," Andrea whispered. Daryl didn't say anything, but nodded sharply.

"So let's get outta here 'afore it comes t'that." He took a final look around the street, orienting himself as much as he could...and then let loose with a piercing whistle.

Instantly, Grimes' head snapped up, and even from a distance, Daryl could see the man's gaze narrow in on him and Andrea. There was no time for argument, no time to plan, and while they had enough ammo to take out a crowd this big, there was still the question of how many more the noise would attract. He and Andrea stepped out into the open as a few of the Walkers started turning towards the source of the whistle, and he pointed very clearly at the alleyway he and Andrea had come out of the first time.

"Sullivan an' Decatur!" he bellowed, naming off an intersection they had passed on the way in. He didn't know this part of the city very well, but he was reasonably certain the alleyway Grimes and Royce had access to would hook up to a street that would let them retrace their steps a bit. "Twenty minutes!"

He saw Grimes glance between him and Andrea, and the crowd of Walkers, who were getting more and more agitated, some of them starting to break off towards Daryl, some starting to go towards Grimes with serious intent. He could read the reluctance in the man's stance, but Grimes quickly lifted his hand in a thumbs-up, indicating he had heard.

Daryl didn't wait for any other confirmation. He and Andrea took off for the alleyway, running straight down the middle of the street. Behind them, they heard Grimes fire off a few shots with the Python, but their way was blessedly clear. In less than a minute, Daryl was pulling at the knots he himself had tied in the bandanas that held the fence across the mouth of their alley closed, and he and Andrea slipped through.

Andrea stumbled further up into the alley, all but collapsing beside one of the dumpsters that would somewhat shield them from view. Daryl concentrated on re-knotting the ties, making them as firm as he could without being impossible to undo quickly. No sense in making it harder for any other poor sap who might need to use the alley for cover. The whole time, he refused to look at the shredded remains of his sleeve, refused to acknowledge the steady, throbbing pain in his arm. As soon as the last tie was in place, though, there was nothing to distract him. Nothing else that needed his attention. Nothing else to delay the inevitable.

He looked down, and gently peeled the remains of his shirtsleeve back from his forearm, grimacing at the ichor that now coated the limb.

"D-Dixon?" Andrea asked softly as he stared down, and he was surprised to realized that her voice sounded thick, choked. As though she was close to tears. "It...oh God, did it--" She broke off with a deep breath. He stared at the limb for a few more moments, before abruptly sagging back against the rough brick wall. He heard Andrea scramble to her feet, and then she was suddenly in front of him, grabbing his arm and shoving the torn and tattered sleeve further up his arm...

To reveal his entire forearm wrapped in several thick layers of electrical tape where he'd had to stop the bleeding from the cut he'd gotten while breaking into the store.

The top layer was shredded and frayed, a few clear imprints of teeth in the thick, black material...but it was obvious not more than a few layers had been damaged.

The thing's teeth hadn't broken through to skin.

Andrea gasped, before her eyes flew up to his face, wide and startled and actually a little wet in the corners. Crying...she had been close to crying for him. She'd been close to crying for him, and had risked her own neck to try and save him when everything she knew should have said he was dead the minute the Walker's teeth closed on his arm, and he was all right.

He was all right.

Despite himself, his mouth quirked up into a crooked grin...not the open, joyful smile that had been and always would be for his boy and his boy alone. But he grinned at her. At this woman who he thought might just have managed to become his friend without him knowing about it. He smiled at her and shrugged.

"Hillbilly bandaid...best damn first aid ya' can get," he said. And he didn't laugh when Andrea blew out a gusty breath of sheer relief, and smacked him in the chest. But for the first time in a long time...he kind of wanted to.

Chapter 17

Notes:

Well my darlings, what can I say? I'm feeling inspired of late :) This is mostly a little more snapshot into Daryl's state of mind and him firmly resolving just what his relationship is with Andrea now...but I can officially announce that Glenn will be getting OFF that roof in the next chapter. And I'm sincerely hoping to post that chapter before Sunday. Your payoff is coming soon, gentle readers :)

As always, I am exceedingly grateful for every comment and kudos left on this story. You are all wonderful, and I thank you for taking the time to read my little story.

They didn't waste time lingering in the alleyway. A few Walkers had followed them as they ran from the store, and were even now clustering at the gate, clutching it, pulling at it, rattling the chain links in increasing desperation. Daryl didn't trust just a few knots of cloth to hold, and if they left, hopefully the Walkers would lose interest before the knots gave and ruined the relative safety of the alley. However much they would have liked a few moments to just breathe...there were none to be had.

Silently, he rolled the remains of his sleeve down over the thick electrical tape bandaging his arm. Despite himself, a shudder went through him as the ruined fabric covered the part that the Walker's teeth had broken through. CLose. It had been so close, and there was some part of him that was a little startled by how relieved he was.

Oh, he wasn't suicidal. Not even at his worst, in those irst few days when it had slowly been sinking in that this nightmare would not be ending any time soon; that Glenn...that his boy was gone forever--not even then had he considered ending his life. That wasn't the kind of man he was, and no amount of grief--no matter how soul-destroying it was--would change that. He wasn't looking to end his life...but he'd sort of thought in the back of his mind that if something happened to him...he wouldn't actually mind that much. He buttoned the frayed ends of the cuff together, tightening the sleeve as best he could, and swallowed softly.

It seemed today was a day for revelations.

He shoved the thought aside, though, storing it away to be mulled over later (much, much later, when they weren't in such immediate danger of dying horribly). He shouldered the crossbow and straightened up from where he was slouched against the brick wall of the alleyway, nodding sharply at Andrea. He glanced down the opposite end of the alley, silently trying to map out what would be the best route to take to the intersection he had indicated Royce and Grimes should meet them at.

"C'mon," he said quietly, "we gotta get movin'." Andrea glanced down at her gun, checking to make sure there was a bullet chambered and that her precious extra ammo clips were easily accessible, and nodded back. She wiped the back of her hand over her forehead, and then reached down to the back of her jeans, where his buck knife had been shoved between her belt and the waistband during their frantic flight from the store. Carefully, she drew it out and leaned down to wipe the blade against the knee of her jeans, clearing some of the swiftly drying gore from the blade.

"Here," she said, holding it out hilt-first. He took it with a nod of thanks, shoving it back into the sheath on his own belt and making a mental note to clean both thoroughly as he could at the first opportunity. "All right, how far have we gotta backtrack?"

Daryl thought a moment and shrugged. "Not that far," he said. They were only a block or so away from the streets he'd called off, and the way had been fairly clear coming in. Maybe, just maybe, their luck would hold.

Yeah, right.

He sighed, rolling his neck from side to side and cursing a bit at the heat. He was beginning to regret wearing something other than his customary tank--but like hell he was wandering down into the middle of Walker Central showing a ton of skin. That was just asking for trouble. He took one more look at the growing crowd of Walkers at the fenced end of the alley, mouth curling in disgust at the way they were mindlessly crushing each other against the chain link, reaching out towards him and Andrea with their rotted, mangled limbs. Andrea joined him in his brief contemplation, before shaking her head.

"Let's get out of here," she said softly. Together, they turned and started jogging up towards the other end of the alley.

* * *

Glenn strained his ears as hard as he could, going so far as to hold his breath as he listened, trying to pick out the sounds he had heard only moments ago. Gunshots. He was sure those had been gunshots. Only a few--a pistol by the sound of it--but he was sure he'd heard them. His heart was still pounding as he chanced a look over the edge of the roof into the street below.

A few of the geeks had evidently heard it as well...some of them were looking around in an aimless, confuesd manner, or were wandering further down the street. Glenn closed his eyes briefly, pounding his fist on the concrete roof beside him a few times.

It...it might not be Danny. He knew that. There could still be a few people down in the city---he and Danny had speculated several times about organized groups that might be eking out survival in the city. Someone had blocked off the network of alleyways and roof-access buildings that he and his friend took advantage. And there had to be other survivors around the city--people like them, who ventured down into the buildings to scavenge for supplies. Whoever had been shooting might not have been Danny.

But it was the first sign of life Glenn had heard in going on four days, now. So close to him...it could be Danny. It could be his friend coming to get him, couldn't it? He ran his tongue over his parched lips, straining to hear anymore shots. The city was back to silence, though...nothing but the groans of the geeks below him. He crouched down by the wall for another few minutes, anyway, before reluctantly shuffling back under the shade of his shelter. He pressed his back against the wall, swiping his hand over his face. Silently, he took stock of himself.

His headache had abated somewhat, and he'd not had another bout of dizziness or anything, but he was still in pretty bad shape. The impromptu wet down had helped a little bit; given him some temporary relief, but it was just that...temporary. He was down to his last few swallows of water in the other bottle, and he'd eaten the last of his granola bars yesterday. There were a few bags of candy he'd grabbed for the kids at camp in his backpack, but he doubted very much his stomach would appreciate chocolate right now. He'd just about hit the point of no return. If he was up here very much longer, it was not going to end well for him.

He flexed his bad ankle a few times, a sharp breath hissing out from his clenched teeth at the still-sharp pain of the injury. It wasn't as bad as it had been, though. He could put weight on it; could hobble around fairly quickly on it, now. Still, he was nowhere near in good enough shape to run from a herd of hungry geeks. He bit his lip, looking at the pile of his clothes lying on the roof just beside him. He'd stripped down to his boxers in a bid to escape some of the heat, but if those gunshots had been Danny and Andrew...if they really had come for him, finally...

It...it could have been his friends, couldn't it?

And if it was them--if it was them, he'd have to be ready to go. He almost wanted to cry at the thought of yanking the heavy, dark denim back on, but he'd have to be ready to go.

"What do you think?" he asked out loud, brow creasing slightly. There was no answer, of course. God, how he wished there was someone here to answer him.

How he wished Daryl was here to answer him.

Slowly, hesitantly, he grabbed his jeans and began wiggling into them, reluctantly rolling back out from under the shade so that he could stand up. He stuffed his feet back into his sneakers and tied the laces tightly, then grabbed his t-shirt. It had already dried out almost completely, only a little moisture still clinging to the thicker collar. He scrambled back under the shelter, sitting with his legs crossed and his shirt in his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then snatched up the water bottle.

"What do you think?" he asked again, taking a carefully measured swallow of water. He swished the remaining water around in the bottom of the bottle for a moment, before sighing heavily and tipping the bottle to spill about half of what was left--the very, very little that was left--onto the folded up cotton of his shirt. He was left with only a swallow or two in the bottle. Slowly, he raised the wet pad of his shirt up to swipe across the back of his neck, letting it drag down over his collarbones and chest, before raising it to wipe at his face. The sluggish breeze that had persisted all day was still going, and he sighed in relief as it momentarily helped to cool his wetted skin.

It could be his friends who had fired the shots.

He hoped it had been his friends.

He wasn't going to last if he had to wait much longer.

* * *

They kept up a quick pace through the streets, keeping to the mostly-deserted alleys and finding cover around cars and other debris when they had to be out in the open. For the most part, they were able to cover the ground unmolested, with only a scant few Walkers taking notice of them--and those were easily outrun and thwarted by the various blockades that had been set up in the city's alley system. Daryl had to hand it to the Royce kid...the runs the people at the quarry camp had made into the city had always been turned back by huge hordes of the Walkers. The kid had managed to map out the parts of the city that hadn't been so heavily populated when everything had started going to shit.

The Walkers didn't tend to do much exploring. If there was no living prey available, they wouldn't stick to a place.

He and Andrea made fairly decent time back to the intersection he had told Grimes and Royce to meet them at, even taking into account the times they'd had to wait out a passing group of Walkers. Andrea sighed in relief as the street signs they were looking for came into view, and within moments, they were holed up in yet another corridor between two buildings, crouched behind a stacked pile of chairs that belonged to the small cafe that formed one wall of the alley. There were no barricades at either end of this pass though, so he and Andrea each picked a side to watch for danger on. After a few minutes, Daryl huffed in annoyance and pulled a couple of chairs off of the stacks, setting one out for Andrea and one for himself. They sank down on them almost in unison, grateful for the chance to rest after nearly half an hour of flat out running.

"Think Rick and Danny made it out okay?" Andrea asked at length, running one hand nervously over the barrel of her gun again and again. Daryl shrugged one shoulder, glancing over at her.

"Don't see why they wouldn't...they had a clear shot t'the alley," he answered. She nodded, taking a deep breath and visibly steadying herself. He watched her a moment more before returning his attention to the alley entrance he was meant to be watching. "They don't show up in half an hour, we'll go lookin'," he muttered.

It was a stupid thing to say. If Grimes and Royce hadn't shown up in half an hour, it was very likely they wouldn't be showing up, ever. Hell, it shouldn't take them more than about ten or fifteen minutes to get here, if Daryl was plotting out the course they'd have to take right. If they hadn't gotten here in thirty minutes, he and Andrea should be trying to make their way back to the car, not going out to look for them. He knew Andrea would never stand for that, though...and he had promised her sister he'd watch out for her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some of the tension drain out of Andrea's shoulders.

Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He would go and look for Grimes and Royce because he knew it was what Andrea would want to do. He would maybe even go look for Royce because he admired the kid's spirit, and his loyalty to his brother. People like that deserved to have someone go after them when they were in trouble.

Grimes...well. His feelings about Grimes were too complicated to sort out right now. He wasn't sure he didn't still hate the man for the simple fact of the unbelievable miracle of him finding his family. He wasn't sure he didn't still hate the man for the high-and-mighty way he and Walsh had tried to order him about in the quarry camp, so damn convinced they were right and everyone else just had to fall in line.

He also wasn't sure he hadn't been wrong about the man.

"You're pretty handy to have around out here," Andrea said suddenly. Daryl snorted, ducking his head slightly.

"Yup, that's me," he said wryly, "always good fer a fight."

Even though he wasn't looking directly at her, he could feel the weight of her gaze on the side of his face. He heard her shift slightly in the seat before she took a breath. "Can I ask you something?"

And that had ended so well the last time, hadn't it? Nonetheless, he shrugged one shoulder, inclining his head slightly.

"Why weren't you ever this helpful at the camp? Go on any of the supply runs with us? I mean...God, I'd have probably gotten myself killed in that auto store--"

"Don't sell yerself so short," he interrupted, gaze fixed uncomfortably on the alley opening in front of him. He didn't want to talk about this.

"Okay, fine, but I doubt I could've gotten out of there that quickly. You know how to handle yourself, Dixon...and you're not bad company when you're not being a total dick." The last was said lightly, a teasing tone to the words tempered with something that sounded almost affectionate. "I just...you could be a part of this group, you know. A real part. I don't see why you haven't tried more."

There were a thousand ways he could answer--most of them unpleasant. But again, there was no judgment in her voice. If anything, he might have said she sounded concerned. If it was anyone else, he would have told them to fuck off. Andrea though...Andrea...

Andrea was his friend.

In the course of only a few days, Andrea had become his friend. How in the hell had that happened?

He drummed his fingers on the stock of the crossbow, trying to string the words he wanted to say together in his head. "You so sure anyone 'sides you an' yer sister want me ta' be a part a' the group?" he asked neutrally. He looked over at Andrea to see her starting to protest again, and shook his head. "I know I ain't been...well, I know they all got good reason not ta' give a damn 'bout me."

"You never gave anyone a chance to," she said gently, her words a little hesitant, as though she was afraid of sparking off his temper. He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"Didn't want to," he said. Couldn't, he thought.

"But now you do?" Andrea asked.

Daryl was about to answer, when a noise caught his attention. Immediately, he jumped out of his seat, bringing the crossbow to bear on the mouth of the alley. Andrea rose hastily and took up position beside him, gun held steadily out before her. They stared at the mouth of the alley as the sound grew louder--the scuffling thud of feet hitting the ground at a run. Daryl raised his gaze from the sight on the crossbow, tilting his head slightly. A moment later, his suspicions were confirmed when Grimes and Royce careened around the corner and spilled into the alley--sweaty, and breathing hard, but otherwise unhurt.

Royce braced his hand against the alley wall, leaning against it and bending over at the waist, taking great gulps of air. Grimes had his gun out, but it was dangling loosely by his side, so Daryl figured it was safe to assume the two were not being pursued. Andrea darted forward as Grimes followed Royce's example and leaned heavily against the alley wall, blowing like a bellows. The man looked up and smiled at Andrea when she reached out and clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Daryl watched them quietly for a moment, mulling over Andrea's words.

"Yeah," he murmured, too low for anyone to hear. "Maybe I am."

After a few moments, Royce forced himself to straighten, stepping away from the wall. "Everyone okay?" he asked, shooting a look between Andrea and Daryl. Andrea grinned at him.

"We're fine...and we've got what we need for the RV," she said, jerking her chin at the box sitting on the ground under the chair she'd been occupying.

"Dale'll be happy to see that," Grimes said jovially. He tipped the brown hat back on his head for a moment, enjoying the small victory, before his expression turned serious again. "Now...let's get your boy and get the hell out of here."

Royce looked massively relieved, and nodded eagerly. Daryl glanced back at the other end of the alley, and then to the small group in front of him again, trying to plot out where they were in his head. He wasn't quite sure which pawn shop Royce was talking about, and he hadn't come down to this section of the city much before. "'Bout how far are we?" he called quietly. Royce chewed on the inside of his cheek briefly, before looking back at him.

"From here? About three blocks...maybe twenty, twenty five minutes if we hurry." Daryl nodded thoughtfully.

"All right, best get goin' then," he said. "We're wastin' daylight."

Chapter 18

Notes:

So. I know I said Glenn was getting off the roof in this chapter, but Rick and Daryl decided they had other plans and I got stuck in some re-writes. That's the bad news.

The good news?

Oh, that would be that this is not the only chapter I'm posting tonight.

And yes, I did have some clever readers who realized I said Glenn would be getting off the roof, not that they would be reunited. But now, I am officially saying it. This story will not be over next chapter, but the next chapter (that IS going up tonight) will be the chapter you've all been waiting for. For reals. No April Fool joke, I promise (that would just be cruel).

So bear with me, my darlings. I'm hoping it's worth your wait.

The closer they got to the pawn shop, the more Daryl began to recognize the part of the city they were in. The streets grew more and more familiar, as did the stores and restaurants. Within a block, he knew exactly where he was in the city, realized he could figure out a dozen different ways to get back to where they had parked the Outback, if he needed to. At first, the knowledge was comforting. He was never comfortable when he couldn't orient himself.

Then he noticed just how familiar the streets were getting.

He looked around him, and saw places he had driven past nearly every day on his way to and from work. He recognized the neighborhoods, the street signs, even the fucking billboards hanging off the taller buildings. He recognized it all, and realization hit him harder than he was expecting.

They weren't that far from the garage he had worked at. They weren't that far from the first apartment he'd had when he moved to the city. They were...

Royce led them around another corner, hugging the buildings and sidewalks as close as they could as they were starting to see more Walkers, and Daryl felt as though his heart was going to stop in his chest. His feet nearly stumbled to a halt totally without his permission, and a tight, closed-off feeling bubbled up in his throat.

They were right across the street from the diner his boy had dragged him to that first morning, after they'd met. The memory hit him like a punch to the gut, and for just a moment, he was right back in that diner...shifting uncomfortably on the worn vinyl seats while the bewildering young man who was just supposed to be a one-night-stand (supposed to be just another of the indulgences he occasionally allowed himself now that he was out from under the watchful eyes of Merle and his Pa) chattered nervously about how great the pancakes were.

"So where do you work?" the kid asked curiously, after they had been seated in a booth with faded red vinyl and handed a couple of laminated menus by a tired-looking woman in her early forties. Daryl just blinked at the question, tilting his head slightly and wondering--for roughly the hundredth time--just what in the hell he was doing.

Then again, he'd been questioning just what in the hell he was doing pretty much since the moment the young man sitting across from him had approached him in the bar he and the guys he worked with sometimes went out to after Friday's shift. It wasn't...it wasn't like he'd never picked someone up, before. Hell, since he'd finally gotten out of his Pa's house and moved into the city, he'd had a string of one-nighters. He'd even cautiously, oh so cautiously, experimented a little bit with other men...giving into feelings and urges he'd ruthlessly suppressed while he was anywhere within spitting distance of his Pa's belt, or Merle's unpredictable temper. It wasn't that he was particularly thrown off when the boy who'd been eyeing him from across the room for the better part of an hour finally got up the nerve to come and talk to him. The crowd he hung out with after work were the more easy-going guys at the garage...and no one came to Susan's place and gave anyone a hard time about who they left with.

No, what had thrown him was how easily he'd taken up what the kid was offering.

He hadn't been looking for a partner last night--male or female. Even if he had been, this kid was light years away from what he usually went for...too young, too friendly-looking, too eager.

He was Asian, for fuck's sake.

He'd meant to just politely turn him down, but something about the kid had caught his attention. Caught it and held it, and polite refusal had turned into acceptance of a drink at the bar, had turned into a bit of conversation about the music, had turned into necking in the parking lot, pushed up against the side of Daryl's truck...had turned into them stumbling into his apartment at two in the morning, pulling frantically at each other's clothes like horny teenagers. And he could blame it on the alcohol--the kid had obviously been flying a little high, and Daryl had downed a few more beers than usual in the course of the evening--but that didn't explain what he was doing here, now.

Sitting across from this kid in a diner, staring blankly at a list of pancake specials while he tried to decide if he was really going to do this--was really going to sit here and have a conversation with this youth who was supposed to be nothing more than a one-night-stand. Except, apparently he was.

"Work down t'the garage on Fifth...Anderson's? Been there a few months, now." He glanced up over the edge of the menu, waiting for the edge of judgment to creep into the kid's features the way it usually did...like having a job that paid his bills and put food on the table was somehow something to look down on just because he got dirt under his fingernails. To his surprise, though, the kid's expression didn't shift from honest interest.

"Really? That's cool. I can barely change a tire...you go to school for that, or just kind of pick it up?" And again, there was no condemnation. No high-and-mighty condescension.

Strangely, he felt the awkwardness that had been lingering over him (for Chrissakes, he'd seen the kid naked last night. That mouth had been on his dick only a few hours ago.) dissipate as he realized the kid genuinely just seemed to want to know more about him.

Even more strangely...though it went against every intention he'd had that morning when he'd slipped out of the bed to go take a shower; against every instinct he'd been raised with; against all fucking common sense...he found himself wanting to know more about the kid.

Glenn, his mind supplied. He said his name was Glenn.

He'd never been able to say what had possessed him to accept Glenn's stammered invitation to go out for breakfast, rather than just kicking the boy out of his apartment and heading to work early. It had just been instinct, a feeling that this kid might be worth getting to know a little better.

Obeying that instinct had turned out to be the best decision he'd ever made in his whole damn life.

He stared helplessly at the diner, unable to push the memories aside like he usually did...not with the building right in front of him. The specials were still written in the windows in bright, neon paint; the vinyl booths were still visible through the glass. The place had escaped a lot of damage--it looked like it was just waiting for someone to flip the sign from 'Closed' to 'Open'. God, he could remember every detail of that first morning. He could still remember all the details of the mornings after; all the times he and Glenn had gone back (at least once a month, and though neither of them had ever said anything about it, they'd both known it was in quiet celebration of that first breakfast date).

"Hey...you okay?" He was startled out of his thoughts by Andrea's voice, and he couldn't help the quiet gasp that escaped him, the way he wheeled around on her in a jerky, uncoordinated motion.

"Huh?" he asked stupidly, his eyes darting around to the others in the group. Royce and Grimes were a few feet farther up the sidewalk from them, looking back at them in impatience--though tempered with concern on Grimes' part, Daryl was surprised to realize. He flicked his eyes down to the sidewalk before raising them once again to the diner's doorway. "I'm fine," he grunted brusquely, tearing his gaze from the place that had been so special to him and his boy.

Andrea eyed him dubiously, but he shouldered past her and continued up the sidewalk, ignoring the churning in his gut. Ignoring the way his head wanted to start spinning a bit. Royce was leading them deeper and deeper into the part of Atlanta he and Glenn had lived in. Daryl recognized the landmarks around him--could tell immediately how far away he was from the garage he'd worked at; from his old apartment; from Glenn's old place.

He could tell how far away they were from the apartment--the home--he'd shared with his boy.

He jogged along with the group, ducking in and out of alleys and criss-crossing blocks and intersections, and the lump seemed to keep growing in his throat. He even had a pretty good idea which pawn shop Royce was talking about now, and he ached at the thought of how close he was to the pizza joint Glenn had worked at. The place his boy had been when everything started really going to hell. The place where Glenn had likely...

What would he find if he were to slip away from the group? Make that run down those few more blocks. What would he see? Would he find the place still standing? Burnt out and destroyed like so much of the rest of the city?

He frantically tried to put a stop to those thoughts as soon as they formed, tried to pull himself back before the idea could actually take root. Goddamn it, he knew what he'd find. He knew. It hurt more than anything else he'd ever experienced, but he knew exactly what he would see if he went to Glenn's workplace. There was nothing there but death and destruction and maybe...maybe--if whatever God was up there was feeling particularly vindictive--maybe there was one of these things, one of these Walkers roaming around with ink-dark hair and eyes that had once sparked with love and affection for Daryl.

The thought sickened him. It sickened him, and he was so, so tempted to throw caution to the wind...to go storming down to that place and see for himself. To lay all the imaginings that had tormented him over the past months to rest, once and for all. To...

If it came to that, to...

To do what he had to, to make sure his boy was resting in peace. Even if it would kill him to get comfirmation of what he'd known in his heart for months now. To see the face he'd loved more than anything else in the world gone gray and rotten, those eyes void of anything human.

He was tempted--more than he could ever say. But...

He couldn't. He knew he couldn't.

Glenn wouldn't want him to do something so foolish--he knew that down to his bones. His boy wouldn't have stood for him putting himself in that kind of danger, no matter the reason. And--there was his promise to Andrea's sister to think of. He couldn't very well look after her sister if he went off on his own, no matter how much he wanted to. He couldn't do it.

Atlanta was for the dead, now...and Daryl was still living. His boy wouldn't want him to risk himself like that.

Silently, deliberately, he turned his thoughts away from where he was, from all the things around him that reminded him of Glenn. He grit his teeth and focused all his attention on the sidewalk, watching for anything that might be lurking in the various cars and vehicles that were abandoned along the street. He felt Grimes' eyes on him for a few seconds longer, but none of them could afford to be distracted in this place.

Royce led them quickly and efficiently through the streets, still sticking mostly to alleys and side streets and only leading them out into the open when there was no other choice. There were more Walkers now, roaming the street in ever-increasing numbers. Several times, they were forced to double back to find a more deserted street, or duck through a series of barricaded alleys to shake a pursuing group. They were trying to avoid using the rest of Daryl's bolts up, and no one wanted to let any of them get close enough to use knives or Royce's baseball bat unless there was no other option. They were holding off on the guns for the same reason.

Daryl could see the kid getting more and more impatient with every detour they were forced to take, practically jumping out of his skin with his need to get to his brother. He was impressed, though, that Royce wasn't letting his impatience make him stupid...wasn't letting it make him rush, or take foolish chances.

Maybe this kid's bunch really wouldn't be bad to travel with for a while--assuming they all lived through this rescue attempt.

All told, it took them a little under forty-five minutes to make their way through the city streets to a final alleyway on the street where Daryl knew the old pawn shop Royce was talking about was. Unlike many of the others, there was no barricade at either end of the passage between two buildings (a half-price bookstore and a specialty Italian grocery)...just a large dumpster that had been half dragged across the mouth at one end. A single Walker (an older man in a shredded and bloodstained bathrobe) was slumped against one wall about halfway down the alley...easily dealt with with a single arrow before it had managed to do much more than start stirring at the sound of their approach. As soon as they slipped into the corridor, Royce made a beeline for the dumpster, stripping his backpack--into which they had managed to cram the awkwardly shaped box containing the radiator parts--and dumping it alongside the brick wall.

There was relief in every line of the kid's body as he pressed up against the dumpster, peering around it into the street beyond as the rest of them crowded in close behind him. Daryl shouldered the crossbow as he jostled for his own position, eager to see exactly what they would be dealing with.

He peeked over the top edge of the dumpster, getting his first look at the final goal of their mission...the homestretch, as it were. He tilted his head slightly, squinting as he let his gaze roam up and down the street. Blinked. Looked again.

"Motherfucker," he spat.

The street was crawling, crawling, with Walkers.

He could see the pawn shop that was their target only a few hundred yards away. Less than two minutes' walk. But between them and it was a crowd of at least forty or fifty Walkers. They were ranged up and down the street, a large clump of them at the base of the building where Royce had left his brother. Clearly there had been a huge crowd of the things chasing after the boys when they had made their desperate plan, and the crowd had not broken up and drifted away in the ensuing days as much as Royce had been counting on.

"Shit," Royce hissed.

"I thought more of 'em would've wandered off by now," he finished tightly, echoing Daryl's thoughts perfectly. The kid's hand tightened into a fist against the side of the dumpster, the tension that had drained away as soon as he realized they had actually made it to the pawn shop coming back tenfold. He raked his hand back through his bright red hair, straightening slightly to stare up towards the roof of the pawn shop.

Daryl followed his gaze, straining to see any movement on top of the building. Any sign that the kid was still alive up there. There was none, but that didn't necessarily mean anything...if the kid had any sense, he'd have tucked himself under anything that was available up there for shade and not moved except at night. Assuming there was something up there for shade.

"What're we going to do?" Andrea whispered from where she was crowded in between him and Grimes. She was staring out at the street with wide, round eyes, tracking the crowd of Walkers with an expression that was both fearful and determined.

"I...just give me a minute. I'll--I'll think of something," Royce said, scrubbing his hand back through his hair again. "We...last time we set off a couple of car alarms--they're not riled up right now or anything--"

Daryl flicked his gaze out onto the street again, noting that there were, indeed, several cars parked on the street that were new enough models to have a car alarm. Almost immediately, though, he rejected the kid's plan. There had to be at least fifteen Walkers between them and the nearest of the cars, and he was down to seven bolts. There was no way they'd be able to get anywhere near one of the cars without bringing the whole herd down on them. He shook his head.

"Ain't gonna work," he said. "Even if we could get t'one of 'em, car alarm ain't gonna keep 'em occupied enough not ta' notice us gettin' yer boy off that roof. An' that's assumin' he's mobile. We gotta carry him down, we may as well turn back now."

"Don't you say that!" Royce protested instantly, whirling on Daryl with fire in his eyes. Daryl held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but it was Grimes who lay a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Easy, son, no one's suggesting we turn back. Dixon's right, though...car alarms aren't gonna be any help." Grimes nodded gravely at Daryl over top of Royce's head. "We've got to find a way to clear the street."

For a moment, Daryl was struck dumb simply out of sheer amazement that Grimes had managed to come up with a worse plan than the kid.

"What?!" he sputtered. "How n' the hell we gonna manage that?"

Grimes turned his attention back to the Walker-choked street, his eyes scanning rapidly back and forth. "There has to be a way," he said grimly. Daryl stared at him incredulously for a few heartbeats more, before turning away with a muttered curse.

"Goddamn crazy sumbitch," he grumbled under his breath...but nonetheless he started wracking his brain for some way they could lure the Walkers away (short of one of them strolling out into the middle of the street like an all-you-can-eat buffet) long enough for Royce and maybe one more of them to get up onto the roof. Christ, that wasn't even the entirety of the problem. They still had to get away from the street and back to the Outback, all while possible carrying an injured man. He knew Royce and Grimes had taken that into account...but their plans had also pretty much been assuming the worst of the horde under the pawn shop would have wandered away by now. Shit they'd need...

They'd need...

He straightened suddenly, narrowing his eyes in consideration. "How bad is it a couple streets over?" he asked quickly. Royce started and craned his neck around to look up at Daryl blankly.

"Huh?"

Daryl made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "Morse an' Robinson," he pressed, "how thick are the bastards over that way?"

Royce blinked stupidly for a moment, before shaking his head. "Uh...uh, I dunno, we haven't been that way in a couple weeks. Wasn't too bad..the National Guard evacuated the townhouses and there was a Marine blockade a couple blocks up that looks like it was abandoned instead of overrun. There were geeks, but there weren't a ton of 'em. Why?"

Daryl swiped the back of his hand over his upper lip, nodding silently to himself. Beside him, Grimes raised a questioning eyebrow. "Dixon, what you thinking?" he asked mildly. Daryl glanced up at him, shrugging one shoulder.

"Only way we're gettin' this street clear is t'give 'em somethin' ta' chase," he said. "Don't know 'bout you, but I ain't too keen t'do that on foot. An' we're gonna need a fast getaway, regardless. There's a Uhaul place over on Morse...used ta' keep a good-sized fleet on the lot. Gassed up an' ready t'go, an' the keys are right there in a lockbox on the lot."

At Daryl's words, Royce perked up. "Hey, yeah! Seen that place a couple of times...we'd thought about trying to get a couple pickups off the lot, but there were other places we wanted to hit. It's still pretty intact...gate on the lot'd be easy to jump."

"Figure two of us go, grab a couple a' trucks...one baits the Walkers of the street, an' the others get the kid down off the roof an' make tracks for where we left th' Outback."

Grimes was nodding as Daryl spoke, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It's our best shot," he said when Daryl was done, surprising Daryl with no argument. Andrea was looking between them, her arms crossed over her chest.

"It's a good idea," she said slowly, "just one problem, though. How're we actually going to get over to the UHaul place? Double back again?"

Royce was shaking his head before she'd finished. "Only route that's even a little bit safe'll take us another hour or more. By the time we get back here and get to Glenn, we'll be losing the light." They all fell silent at that. Everyone knew what that meant.

And no one was willing to risk being out after dark.

Daryl sighed heavily. He leaned out around the dumpster slightly, staring down the street to where it intersected with another road. The UHaul place was only a couple of blocks down the intersecting street. It was a ten minute walk. Four or five minutes if they ran. It was close...but it was four or five minutes in utterly unknown territory, with who knew how many Walkers between them and their destination. It was a fool's errand. An impossibility. The only sane thing to do would be to retreat, regroup, and try again the next day...maybe bring the vehicle deeper into the city, or find another way to distract the Walkers.

But Royce's brother had to be running low on water by now, if he wasn't totally out. What was it now, four days, five in this heat? Trapped up on top of that building with maybe no shade available? Kid had to be in bad shape, if he hadn't stroked out already. They couldn't afford to wait another day.

"There's no way we can risk making a run for it," Andrea said seriously. "If we ran into a big group, we'd have to shoot our way out--we'd bring every Walker in the city down on our heads."

"What if...what if we went back around to one of the closer streets and tried to boost an SUV or something? Any of you know how to hotwire a car?" Royce asked, a desperate edge creeping into his voice.

In fact, Daryl did know how to hotwire pretty much anything--a skill Merle had quite proudly taught him the summer he turned fourteen--but he was saved from dropping that tidbit when Grimes nodded an affirmative. Well. That was interesting.

"I can do it," Grimes went on to say, "but we'd be better off with one a' those trucks. We set a car alarm off too early breaking into a vehicle, we're no better off." He turned back to the street, scanning up an down the block as though it held the secrets to the universe. "There has to be a way," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

If there was, Daryl couldn't see it. They were well and truly pinned down...they might not attract the attention of the whole herd on the street were they to make a run for it, but they sure as hell wouldn't be able to get by unnoticed. Grimes squatted down by the dumpster, taking his hat off and scrubbing at his hair with one hand in a nervous tic. After a few moments, though, he tilted his head staring hard at the large group of Walkers.

"Rick?" Andrea asked quietly.

"How come they don't attack each other?" Grimes said, ignoring her. His voice was thoughtful, faraway, and he was staring at the Walkers intently. "Once they turn, you never see 'em bothering each other."

Behind him, Daryl shrugged. "Instinct. Scent, maybe." He hadn't had much opportunity to just observe Walkers--no one in their right mind stayed close enough to observe a Walker if they had a choice--but he felt reasonably comfortable in assuming they 'hunted' mostly by smell and sound. Sight seemed to be their least relied-upon method. Grimes was nodding thoughtfully to himself again, and Daryl suddenly got a sinking feeling in his gut. "You ain't thinkin'--" he started, but Grimes stood again, cutting him off.

"Think they'd leave us alone if we smelled like them?"

Immediately, Royce's eyes went wide, and Andrea began shaking her head. "No way, Rick," she said firmly. "That's crazy."

"Too risky," Royce added, though his voice lacked conviction, and he shot another worried look up to the roof of the pawn shop.

Grimes spread his arms wide. "If anyone has any better suggestions, I'm all ears. But either we try something now, or we cut our losses and try to come back tomorrow with a vehicle."

"No!" Royce protested instantly. "No, please, we can't leave him up there another day!"

Andrea looked uneasily between Grimes and Royce, before shooting a look to Daryl, as if she was waiting to hear what he had to say about the matter. Daryl shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny, but in all honesty...he couldn't think of a reason why Grimes would be wrong. The Walkers...they had been people, once. Ordinary people with ordinary human senses. He'd...in those days before he'd found the quarry camp, he'd seen plenty of corpses that were fresh enough to be mistaken for living from a distance--people who had been bitten, but escaped being devoured for whatever reason--wandering among the ones that had been dead longer, and the Walkers hadn't turned on them. He shifted his weight again.

"Can't be much different from smearin' fox urine on yer boots when yer huntin', I guess," he said finally...and turned to look over his shoulder at the man in the bathrobe he'd put down as they entered the alley. Beside him, Andrea's face twisted in disgust. Royce's mouth was a thin, colorless slash in his pale face. Grimes, however, Grimes was looking at Daryl with something that bordered on respect.

Andrea sighed gustily, biting her lip. "All right...all right, I guess we're trying it. So who's going?"

"I'll do it," Grimes said without hesitation. Daryl had been expecting no less. Whatever problems he had with Grimes, he'd never been able to say the man wasn't willing to do anything he'd ask another to. Daryl sniffed, glancing between Royce and Andrea again.

"Guess I'm in, too," he heard himself saying, almost before he'd realized he'd opened his mouth.

"Hey! I should help--" Royce started, even as Andrea bristled for argument as well. Daryl shook his head sharply.

"I could go," she said sharply. Daryl gritted his teeth in irritation...they didn't have time to be arguing this!

"No," he said shortly, ignoring the surprised look Grimes shot him. Andrea drew herself up to her full height.

"You think I can't?" she challenged, and Daryl rolled his eyes.

"I think I know this area better n' you if we're talkin' about gettin' those things t'chase us once we get a truck, an' I got less chance a' bein' cut off. An' I think Grimes is a better shot long-distance an' at movin' targets, which is what we're gonna be dealin' with if this don't work. Ain't about you 'can't', it's about we can do what needs done better. An' that means everyone has a better chance a' gettin' out a' this alive!"

For a moment, Andrea looked like she was going to protest anyway. Her jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as she looked between him and Grimes. For his part, Grimes cocked an eyebrow somewhat sheepishly, shrugging a bit.

"He's got a point," Grimes said. Reluctantly, Andrea subsided, stepping back. Almost immediately, though, she pinned Daryl with another fierce glare.

"You're teaching me everything you know when this is over," she announced, jabbing her finger into the middle of his chest. "Amy too." The set of her shoulders dared him to defy her.

Daryl wasn't even surprised anymore when he realized he had no intention of saying no. One side of his mouth quirked up into a rueful, but genuine, smile.

"Hell," he said, "we live through this, I'll teach ya' anything ya' want."

Grimes was looking back and forth between them, as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of what he was seeing, but was decidedly pleased about it. Daryl decided not to think on that too hard. "All right, then. Dixon and I'll go for the trucks...Andrea, you stay and help Danny. One of us'll lead the Walkers off, and you two go for the roof as soon as it's clear. Danny, you sure you can carry him if you need to?"

Royce nodded furiously, and Daryl had no problem believing him. Kid was built like a linebacker. Grimes pursed his lips briefly, "Whoever isn't leading the Walkers away'll meet you at the foot of the building with the other truck. Meet back at the Outback and get the hell out of here."

It was a plan...about as good a plan as they were likely to be able to get.

"All right," he muttered, turning back to the Walker slumped against the wall of the alley. No point in putting it off. Silently, he slid the crossbow off his shoulder and passed it to Andrea, snorting to himself when she let out a soft 'oomph' at the weapon's weight. Gesturing for her to stay close in case he needed the weapon, he pulled the buck knife out its sheath.

"Careful!" Andrea admonished as he stalked towards the corpse. "Don't get anything in that cut."

"Anything else, Mom?" he asked sardonically. Andrea snorted indelicately.

"I'll let you know," she said.

He rolled his eyes as he knelt down beside the Walker, grimacing and reminding himself to think of it just as another carcass he had to butcher. The others crowded in around him. "How much ya' want?" he asked Grimes, looking up with the knife hovering over the Walker's rather copious gut.

"Oh God," Royce groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"Can't afford t'be squeamish no more, kid," Daryl grunted, and forced himself to keep that in mind as he shoved the tattered remains of the Walker's bathrobe aside and lifted an equally stained and ripped undershirt. He felt more than heard Grimes crouch down right behind him, knew the man's eyes would be focused on the Walker's face. He grabbed the corpse's ankle and pulled it a bit, ignoring the way his fingers sank into the rot-softened flesh, forcing himself to ignore the smell. It was only going to get worse.

Don't think about it. Just another carcass, he told himself firmly, and made the first cut.

The blade sunk into the Walker's stomach easily, sliding through skin that had gone a mottled, putrid gray as easily as a knife slid through softened butter. He heard Andrea gag from somewhere above him at the wet, squelching sound the knife made as he concentrated on slicing all the way into the body cavity. The stench rose up in a cloud, and he nearly gagged himself, suppressing the reflex through ruthless determination. Thick, black ichor--blood, it used to be blood--leaked sluggishly from the cut he was making, carrying with it the smell of pure, rotten death.

"Christ," Grimes choked. Royce stumbled back from them, taking a few hurried steps away to the other side of the alley.

Daryl kept his focus on his hands, slicing through the flesh of the Walker's belly and into the guts. He very carefully did not raise his eyes to the chest, to the face. Just another carcass. It was just another carcass, and what he was doing might help them save the other Royce kid's life. When the incision was made to his satisfaction, he sat back on his heels and glanced up at Grimes. The man looked a little green around the gills, but there was nothing but steely determination in his eyes.

"Last chance t'back out," Daryl said anyway, lifting an eyebrow. Grimes' jaw clenched.

"Let's get this over with," he said.

Daryl nodded his acquiescence and leaned over, ready to plunge his hands into the Walker's guts, when Andrea laid a staying hand on his shoulder. When he looked up at her curiously, she nodded significantly at the arm he'd wrapped in electrical tape.

"Here," she said, swallowing hard, "you two let us do this." She set the crossbow down gently, within easy reach.

"Fuck," Royce moaned from a few feet away. As Daryl stood, the kid came forward, though, clenching his teeth furiously and pale as a ghost.

Andrea looked as though she wanted to echo the sentiment, but there was no hesitation as she knelt down and shoved her hands into the Walker's gut, staring up at the sky as she bit her lip and yanked, coming up with a handful of dripping intestine.

He and Grimes stood silently as Andrea and Royce went about the grim task of draping them in the remains of the Walker. They pulled their collars up to let them wind the Walker's guts around their necks like garland without touching their skin; held still as the other two smeared copious amounts of the thing's rotten blood over their chests and down their legs. Daryl concentrated on breathing shallowly through his mouth as they were enveloped in the thing's scent. After a few minutes, Andrea stood back, wiping her hands furiously on a semi-clean bit of the Walker's bathrobe.

Daryl silently resolved to burn the clothes he was wearing at the earliest opportunity.

At least he'd get the satisfaction of knowing Grimes would probably have to do the same to that damn uniform.

"Well," Grimes asked when both Andrea and Royce were done. "Do we smell like them?"

Andrea swallowed roughly, pressing her nose into the crook of her arm. "Oh God, you'll do," she answered.

Grimes took a deep breath...and judging by his expression immediately regretted the action. Beside them, the Royce kid looked as though he was about to lose his lunch. "All right...Dixon, you ready for this?"

Gingerly, Daryl scooped the crossbow up from where it was resting against the alley wall, sliding the strap onto the arm that was somewhat free of gore (though he'd refused to let Andrea avoid putting anything at all on his injured arm. He was pretty sure the tape would keep anything nasty from getting to the wound.) and grandly gesturing for Grimes to precede him to the mouth of the alley.

"Anything goes wrong, we're gonna have to get the hell out of here and try to come back tomorrow," Grimes said seriously. Royce closed his eyes briefly...but nodded. "Okay--here goes nothing."

Chapter 19

Notes:

Well...okay, three-thirty is still technically tonight, right?

Right?

Anyone?

Okay, sorry, I got a little more involved in the end than I was anticipating. But please enjoy, and I sincerely hope this lives up to expectations.

They hesitated at the mouth of the alley, the magnitude of what they were about to do too much to ignore. Even Grimes--whose self-assuredness Daryl had often cursed in his mind and out loud--looked as though he was having serious second thoughts about stepping out into the street. Daryl paused just behind the man, struggling not to let his own doubts rise to the surface...hadn't he just been trying to talk himself out of taking unnecessary risks only a little while ago?

This was different, though. They had no other choice.

"Dixon," Grimes said quietly, not turning around. "This doesn't work, we're gonna be sitting ducks out there. You sure you're up for this?"

Are you with me? Grimes didn't ask. Are you really one of us now? he didn't ask.

Daryl heard it loud and clear, anyway.

He tightened his hold on the crossbow's strap; thought of Andrea and her sister, and what they had come to mean to him in such a short span of time. He thought of the others back at the camp, and what it might mean if he let himself care for Carol and her little girl, for Grimes' wife and son, for the old man...hell, even for T-Dog and Jacqui. He thought of his boy, and how very much Glenn would have wanted this for him--would have wanted him to not be alone.

"I got your back," he said just as quietly, deliberately, and he knew Grimes understood.

The man's shoulders squared, and he stepped out of the alley, Daryl following close behind.

It was quite possibly the most terrifying moment Daryl had experienced since everything had began. No matter how bad things had been right after he fled Atlanta, he'd never deliberately put himself into this kind of danger. There was a knot of seven or eight Walkers about twenty feet away from them, just milling around in the middle of the street near a flipped police car. Daryl closed his eyes briefly, trying to calm his suddenly racing heartbeat as two of the Walkers turned toward him and Grimes when they noted the motion.

He kept his steps slow and unhurried as he and Grimes made for the intersection that would lead them to the UHaul place. The Walkers broke off from the group and began wandering toward them, the hissing growls Daryl had become so familiar with over the past months starting up in their ruined throats. Beside him, Grimes tensed, his hand twitching towards the Python at his hip.

"Shit," Daryl breathed out.

"Steady," Grimes hissed back instantly, taking a few more steps forward. The Walkers were coming closer...

And then they weren't.

The one in the lead--what had been a middle-aged woman in a tailored pantsuit--slowed suddenly, cocking its head in what looked like curiosity. Daryl held his breath, his fingers tightening on the crossbow until his knuckles went white. He waited for either of the things to lunge, waited for them to have to turn tail and run back to the alley, their whole plan in ruins.

Instead, the Walkers abruptly broke off their pursuit, turning and meandering back toward the police car as though he and Grimes weren't even there.

Daryl let out his breath in a soft gasp, hardly daring to believe that it had worked, that Grimes' hare-brained scheme had actually worked. The Walkers were ignoring them.

Cautiously, they quickened their pace, walking as quickly as they dared down the street and to the intersection. They passed near two more groups of Walkers--small crowds that had congregated together for whatever reason--and the result was the same. The things paid them no mind, and Daryl felt nearly shaky with relief. It was going to work. It was going to fucking work.

The street they turned down was slightly less crowded than the one the pawn shop was on...but only just. I they had tried to just make a run for it, they would have been swarmed. The sidwalks and street were full of the things--most of them in business suits and service uniforms. He and Grimes kept close to each other as they made their way closer to the UHaul lot, not daring to speak as they passed Walker after Walker with no problem. A few times, one brushed a little close for comfort, but each time, the Walkers veered off again, not recognizing Grimes and Daryl for living prey.

It was nerve-wracking in the extreme, moving slowly down the street when every instinct he had was screaming at him to run. To race for the UHaul lot and get the fuck out of this hellhole. They couldn't draw the attention, though. The Walkers might be ignoring them now, but running would surely trigger the things to chase. They had to be slow, deliberate.

It was the longest ten minutes of his life, meandering down the street while the Walkers pressed in on them, passing them, staring at them for long, long moments before moving on. His heart was pounding against his ribs, and by the sound of his harsh breathing, Grimes wasn't much better off.

He was bracing himself for something to go wrong--for one of them to get close enough to smell him or Grimes even over the Walker's rot; for them to reach the UHaul lot and find it ransacked; for the goddamn skies to open up with one of Georgia's frequent summer rainstorms and wash the camoflauging filth from them.

That would've been just his luck.

To his immense surprise, though--they made it. Ten minutes of wandering through the Walker-infested streets, and he caught sight of the familiar orange and black logo sign just ahead of them. Every nerve in his body almost wilted in relief, and he heard Grimes sigh softly. Even from where they were, they could see multiple vehicles still sitting on the lot, ready and waiting to go.

It was about damn time something went right.

"We're gonna have to jump the fence," Grimes murmured as they quickened their pace as much as they dared.

"Yup," Daryl agreed just as softly. The lot was protected by a simple chain link fence with a padlocked gate. It would be child's play to get over.

"What do you think? Van or a pickup?"

"Yer askin' now?" Daryl muttered exasperatedly.

"Had other things on my mind earlier," Grimes muttered back sardonically. There was no real heat in his voice, though. Daryl gnawed on the inside of his bottom lip, considering.

"You take one a' the vans...easier to maneuver than th'movin' trucks. I'll take a pickup an' draw the Walkers off."

"You sure you wanna do that?"

"For fuck's sake, Grimes...I used ta' live five blocks from here. Think I know these streets a little better...I run into a blockage, I got a better chance a' gettin' back out," he snapped.

Grimes was gratifyingly silent after that. They scrambled the final few yards to the UHaul lot, and Daryl cursed to himself as he realized there was a knot of Walkers hanging around near what had been the place's storefront.

"They're gonna see us go over the fence," he said. And he had no illusions that the smell of Walker on them would keep the things from realizing they were alive.

"No help for it," Grimes whispered back. Silently, he drew the Python from the holster at his hip. "You go over first, be ready to take out anything that's in the lot."

Daryl grunted an acknowledgement. They walked another few feet, preparing themselves to make a break for it. Slowly, so slowly, Daryl slid the strap of the crossbow from the crook of his elbow to his shoulder, so that it would be in better carrying position when he boosted himself over the fence.

"One more thing?" Grimes said as they paused about ten feet away from the gate.

"What?"

"Think it's about time you started calling me 'Rick,' don't you?"

And with that, the man broke into a run. Daryl had time for a flash of surprise, and then he was following after, sprinting for the gate. The Walkers milling around the front of the store did, indeed, take notice as soon as they darted forward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw them start to stumble after them. Grimes--all right, Rick--hit the gate first and paused, bringing the Python up and leveling it at the approaching group of Walkers, though he refrained from shooting just yet.

Daryl barely broke stride as he threw himself at the fence, scrambling for toe holds as he hauled himself up. It was awkward with the crossbow banging against his back, but he didn't let it slow him down. He swung one leg over the top of the fence and balanced awkwardly for a brief moment as Rick broke off and started scrambling up as well. The Walkers were only a few feet away from the fence as Daryl reached down and grabbed the back of the man's gore-encrusted shirt, yanking him up to the top of the fence.

They leapt down together and wasted no time racing for the small security booth at the north end of the lot, with the bright orange lockbox on the side of it that Daryl knew contained the keys to the fleet of vehicles. He swung the crossbow back around to his front as he ran, reaching up with his free hand to start frantically tugging at the ropes of intestine and other organs that Andrea had wound around his neck. They ran as fast as they could, shedding bits and chunks of offal as they went, until they skidded to a halt in front of the lockbox.

Glancing behind them, Daryl noted grimly that the crowd of Walkers by the gate was growing...quickly. The things were pushing and shoving at the chain link, attracting more and more from the street as they whipped themselves into a frenzy. Evidently Grimes noticed, as well.

"Damn it," he muttered, and whipped the gun up, taking aim at the simple padlock that held the lockbox closed. Daryl winced as the Python went off, the boom of the shot earth-shatteringly loud this close. Daryl shifted the crossbow up against his shoulder as Rick slung the ruined box open, skimming his fingers down the multitude of keys hanging on the inside and glancing back over his shoulder to try and match the numbers on the bright plastic tags with the vehicles parked on the lot.

"Here," Daryl said, shouldering past him and snatching a set of keys with a bright orange tag on it off a metal hook. "Row, parking space," he muttered, pointing to the letter/number combination in bold black on the plastic. He flicked his eyes back over the vehicles around them and grabbed a set of keys with a red tag for himself. "Gonna have ta' split up...pickups are parked that way." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, before pointing at the rows of passenger vans parked a little ways off. Grimes nodded reluctantly, grabbing the keys from Daryl's hand.

Then he clapped Daryl on the shoulder. "I'll skirt around the block we came up, wait for you to clear the street as much as you can. We'll wait for you in the industrial complex. Be careful, Daryl," he said seriously.

Daryl tensed a little under the man's hand, but didn't pull away. "You too," he said. "Get that kid offa' there."

Then, he turned and ran for the pickups.

He kept the crossbow up the whole way, half his attention fixed uneasily on the growing crowd of Walkers at the fence. Fuck, he was going to have to run them down to get out of here. Luck was still with him for the moment, though, for he reached the truck he wanted unmolested. He wasted no time unlocking the truck and throwing the crossbow into the passenger seat, before clambering in after it and yanking the door closed. Only then did he breathe a slight sigh of relief.

But he wasn't safe, yet.

And he wasn't going to be for a while.

He stared out the windshield at Rick's loping figure as the man ran for the vans parked elsewhere in the lot. He waited until he saw Rick reach the one he was after, and then stuck the keys in the ignition and gunned the truck's engine. He pulled out into the main aisle formed by all the various trucks and moving vans parked on the lot, pointing the nose of the truck straight at the gate. The Walkers were in a true frenzy now, clawing at pulling at the chain link, and rocking the gate dangerously. He took a single moment to appreciate how truly insane what he was about to do was.

Then, he floored it.

* * *

Glenn was starting to think he had gambled very, very badly. It had been hours since he'd heard the gunshots--it felt like days, but he thought it was probably closer to two or three hours--and there had been no other sign of life in the streets. He was starting to think the gunshots had been his imagination...that or they had belonged to some other survivor; someone trapped in the city or scavenging for supplies. Someone who had no idea he was here. His friends had not come for him. He'd heard no other gunshots, no engines, nothing. He'd drunk the last of his water a little over an hour ago, and there was not even enough moisture left in his t-shirt to suck on.

He was screwed.

He was well and truly screwed.

The slow realization that he was going to die up here was starting to sink in. He was really going to die up here, all alone. Danny wouldn't be coming for him in time--there was a very real possibility that Danny had never even made it out of the city the day he'd left Glenn here.

Surely Danny would have come for him by now, if he was still alive? Wouldn't he?

The thought was like a sucker punch to the gut, and Glenn curled in on himself under the meager--useless--shade of the shelter. Even the soft, inner litany that had been whispering to him in his dead boyfriend's voice was silent.

He was going to die up here.

Silently, he rolled onto his side, his gaze drawing of its own accord to the backpack lying under the shelter with him--and the two guns laid neatly underneath it. He was going to die up here--a slow, broiling death from heatstroke, or a slower, agonizing death from dehydration.

Or the clean, instantaneous death of a gunshot.

He'd never considered it. Not even in his darkest moments, in the days right after Atlanta had fallen, when he'd woken every night with screams in his throat and Daryl's name on his lips. Not when the reality of Daryl's death had started to sink in, not when the realization that the entire world had fucking ended, had he ever considered it. But surely...surely if his only other choice was to suffer slowly? Wouldn't...wouldn't it be better?

Some part of him; some distant, exhausted part, recognized that he wasn't thinking clearly. That he still had a little time before his situation became irreversibly dire; that he could wait a little longer before giving up on Danny entirely. That part was so small, though, and he was so tired. He was tired, and sick, and there was something so, so tempting about the promise of release. It would be quick. It would be quick, and it would be over, and he could maybe see Daryl again.

He thought of it--thought of just upending the bottle of aftershave onto the hot concrete around him and putting the barrel of the handgun to his temple--thought of last moments surrounded by the scent of the person he'd loved instead of the stench of rot, and then flashhotquick...over. He thought of it. His hand twitched towards the weapon, almost of its own accord.

Ya' got some balls, for a Chinaman.

Ya' wanna grab dinner sometime? Fer real, I mean. Thought I oughta ask ya' proper.

Sure ya' want that one? That wallpaper's th'ugliest thing I ever seen.

Ya' wanna go t'Comicon, we'll go t'Comicon. Whatever makes ya' happy, kid. What the fuck's a Comicon?

I love ya'. Ya' know that, right? I'll always love ya'.

Yer gonna be fine, ya' hear me?

I'll always love ya'.

With a cry, Glenn rolled away from the handgun, scrambling out from under the shelter, breathing hard. He stared at the weapons with wide eyes, horrified at what he'd been about to do. His heart thudding in his chest, he drew his knees up, slinging his arms around them tightly. "Fine," he breathed. "I'm gonna be fine. I am. I'm gonna be fine." He pressed his forehead against his knees, murmuring to himself.

And so it took a few moments for the sound to intrude on his senses.

When it did though, his head snapped up. Was that... He scrambled to his knees, unable to really believe what he was hearing. The sound was growing louder, though, drawing closer. It echoed off the canyon of the city walls, louder and louder, and Glenn's heart started thudding in his chest. Someone was laying on a car horn.

Someone was laying on a car horn, and getting closer to where he was.

Gasping, Glenn scrambled up, hobbling to the edge of the roof and peering over. His knees nearly buckled at what he saw. Just as he stood, a single white pickup truck came barreling around the corner of the intersection just down the street from him, trailing a dozen or so geeks. Whoever was driving was blaring the car horn like there was no tomorrow, speeding halfway up the street before screeching to a halt. Glenn felt his jaw drop at the sheer audacity (or idiocy, if you wanted to look at it another way), and glanced down at the crowd of Walkers that had been his only companions for the past few days.

The things were definitely taking notice.

He held his breath as the geeks began slowly turning towards the truck, as more of them started appearing from around the corner. The driver of the truck--and God, Glenn prayed it was George or Andrew...Danny wasn't the best at spur-of-the-moment defensive driving--threw it into reverse and screeched backwards a few yards, still laying on the horn. The geeks underneath the pawn shop began stumbling forward, moving faster and faster, and Glenn's heart leapt into his throat. He craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of who was driving the truck...but he was too far away. He waved frantically anyway, hoping to give them a sign he was alive.

The truck revved backwards another few feet, and the crowd of Walkers was now well and truly fixated on it. Glenn gasped in relief as the things began to rush towards it, abandoning the pawn shop without a second thought. He watched for another few moments as the truck backed up again, before finally swinging around in a wide turn and screeching back towards the intersection. It jerked to one side of the street, expertly avoiding the debris that was scattered throughout, slowing down every few moments to allow the geeks to get a little closer before peeling off another few yards. He watched the stop-and-go, mesmerized...but it quickly dawned on him that if George or Andrew were risking their lives to distract the geeks, he'd damn well better start getting himself down to the ground.

There'd surely be another vehicle coming.

With a final glance at the truck that was now speeding through the intersection and farther down the road, with a crowd of at least sixty geeks following it, Glenn limped over to the shelter and shoved it aside. He bent over and scooped the backpack up, then the handgun and rifle. He made sure the safety was on, and then jammed the handgun into the back of his pants, slinging the rifle's carry strap over one shoulder.

As quickly as he could, he moved for the ladder for the first time in days, glancing over the edge of the roof a final time to make sure the alley below was clear.

He couldn't hold back a triumphant whoop as he realized it was. He sucked in a deep breath as he hit the release for the ladder to lower all the way to the ground and steadied himself as much as he could. Adrenaline was pumping through his body, pushing the nausea and the dizziness away somewhat, but he was still going to be pretty unsteady if he had to travel far on foot. Nonetheless, he wasn't going to hold his friends up anymore than he had to. Carefully, he swung his good leg over the edge of the roof, and started down the ladder.

It was still slow going--he didn't trust his ankle enough to scramble down full-tilt. He was quite a bit quicker than he had been going up, though, and so was only about ten feet off the ground when another sound intruded on his senses...one of the most welcome sounds he'd ever heard.

"G!"

He almost faltered on the ladder, stumbling a bit before he caught himself, and twisted towards the mouth of the alley. His grin threatened to split his face as Danny came careening around the corner, closely followed by an unfamiliar blonde woman. They were both dirty, and blood spattered across their arms, hands, and chests...but Danny was skidding to a halt underneath the ladder, staring up at Glenn with the widest smile he'd ever seen on his friend's features.

"Glenn! Jesus fuck, are you okay?" Danny called, and Glenn forced a little more speed out of his movements.

"Fine! I'm fine, dude!" he yelled back as the woman took up a guard position at the mouth of the alley with a pistol. Glenn paused on the ladder, letting the rifle's carry strap slide down his arm. "Here...take this," he ordered, waiting for Danny's nod before he let the gun drop. His friend caught it easily, slinging it over his own shoulder as he braced his hands on the bottom of the ladder, staring up at Glenn in worry.

He stumbled the last few feet down, his bad ankle throbbing angrily, though it held his weight. Danny's large hands closed on his waist as soon as he was within reaching distance, helping him down the last rungs and practically plucking him off of the ladder as soon as he could.

"G...Jesus Christ, I thought we'd be too late," Danny muttered thickly, his hands moving to Glenn's biceps. His friend held him at arm's length for a moment, before abruptly pulling him close, throwing his arms around Glenn's neck and pounding his back. "Fucking hell."

"I'm okay, man," Glenn said softly, squeezing the other boy just as tightly. "It's gonna be fine."

For the first time in four days, Glenn truly believed it.

He stumbled a little as Danny finally let go, the dizziness that had been threatening since the night before coming back with a vengeance. Instantly, Danny's arm went around his shoulders again. "Glenn?" he asked frantically. Glenn licked his lips slightly, shaking his head.

"I'm okay...I just need some more water. And holy cow, please tell me we don't have to walk out of here." Danny's arm tightened around his shoulder, and he glanced towards the woman at the mouth of the alley. She was glancing back and forth between them and the street, a strange look settling on her face every time she looked at Glenn.

"No...walking is not the plan," she called back to them, before turning back to the street. Evidently, she saw something she was looking for, for she suddenly stepped out of the alley entirely, raising one hand and waving frantically.

Glenn had barely opened his mouth to ask what the hell was going on when a large, white van with a UHaul logo painted on the sides came to a screeching halt right in front of them. Glenn felt his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline as the woman raced forward and flung the van's sliding door open, even as a man as unfamiliar as the woman rolled down the driver's window, leaning out and gesturing for them to hurry.

"C'mon," Danny said, slinging one of Glenn's arms over his shoulders and half-helping, half-carrying him towards the vehicle. The woman had already scrambled inside and was leaning out, reaching for them. Danny slid his own satchel--into which a large, strangely shaped box had been crammed--off his shoulder and tossed it to her, followed by the rifle. Clumsily, Glenn stripped off the backpack and handed it over, before Danny bundled him up into the van and clambered in after him.

The man was already throwing the van around in a wide arc as the blonde woman slammed the door shut, and Glenn realized why they were in such a hurry when a female geek flung itself at the side of the van, her rotted face pressing up against the glass of the window Glenn was slumped against. The man driving cursed violently, and pressed the accelerator to the floor, speeding down the street in the same direction the truck had gone. The street was mostly deserted, with only about a dozen geeks still dragging themselves slowly in the direction the larger crowd had vanished. They followed the street for a little ways before the man peeled off onto a new intersection, a street Glenn vaguely recognized as one of the routes he and Danny often used when they were moving through the city.

Slowly, he turned toward the woman seated next to him, blinking rather stupidly as she flashed him a reassuring smile. "How you doing?" she asked, rummaging around in Danny's satchel until she produced a bottle of water. She held it out to him with another smile.

"I'll be fine," he said automatically, taking the water gratefully and forcing himself to go slowly with it. In truth, the pounding in his head was starting to make itself known again, and his stomach was roiling as the adrenaline that had flooded his system at the sight of the truck started to settle again. His ankle was still throbbing dully--not as bad as it had after he first hurt it, but it wasn't near healed yet.

But Danny had come for him.

He was safe.

He was safe.

"Rick, does this thing have air conditioning? We need to get him cooled down," the woman said. The man--Rick, apparently--nodded distractedly, and (oh blessed God, yes) reached out with one hand to flick the AC onto high.

Danny gently maneuvered him so that he was sitting a little forward, closer to the front part of the van and the blessedly cool air that was starting to stream from the vents.

Glenn thought he might cry.

"We'll have you back with your folks in no time, son," Rick said kindly, never taking his eyes from the road. Like Danny and the woman, his clothes and arms were crusted with dried blood and gore. Glenn didn't want to think about what they all smelled like right now...but then, he'd been sweating like a pig in the same clothes for four days now, so he didn't exactly have any room to judge, now did he?

"Thanks," he mumbled tiredly, slumping sideways against Danny as--for the first time in days--his body began cooling down. "Just one question."

The woman tilted her head, one eyebrow arching in inquiry. Glenn reached up to rub at his eyes with one hand.

"Who the hell are you people?"

*

Their names were Andrea and Rick, and apparently Glenn was going to have plenty of opportunity to get to know them better, seeing as Andrew had decided to throw in with Rick's group or a while.

Glenn may have missed one or two important details.

The story had come out of Danny in a rushed jumble--running into Rick and his group on his frantic flight back from Atlanta the day he'd left Glenn on the roof; the attack on and subsequent dissolution of the camp; Rick's volunteering to go into Atlanta with Danny to rescue Glenn; and the decision Rick and Andrew had come to the night before they left that their groups could possibly benefit from throwing in together for a while. Glenn kind of drifted in and out during Danny's explanation--the heat exhaustion and stress of his ordeal making themselves known with a vengeance. He thought he got enough of the big picture.

He was sorry (and more than a little hurt) to hear that no one had been willing to go down into the city with Danny to try and help rescue him...though he wasn't sure he could really blame anyone. He was sorrier still to hear that most of the people at the KOA grounds had struck out on their own, and left the rest of them behind. The people he was closest to, though--the Royce's, George, and Jenny and her son, had all stayed, though. Would be traveling with Rick's group.

He hadn't lost any of his strange new family.

And maybe, just maybe, they would find new family in this bunch of people. Glenn certainly thought it boded well that Rick's people had been willing to help come after him.

He kind of lost the plot after that, slumping against Danny and letting his eyes close as Rick and Andrea whispered quietly about the third member of their group--the guy who'd been driving the truck--and where they were going to meet him. They eventually decided to drop Andrea off with Jenny's Outback to wait, while Rick drove him and Danny to the meeting place Rick and Andrew had agreed on. Glenn thought he should probably protest just on general principle...but the thought of food and somewhere to lie down (even if it was just a sleeping bag) stilled his tongue. He didn't think Danny would have stood for it, anyway. Glenn didn't quite catch the other guy's name, but he made a mental note to thank him for the risk he'd taken, just before he fell asleep against Danny's shoulder.

He was dimly aware of the van stopping briefly, of Andrea crawling out and murmuring quietly to Rick before the door slammed again, but he just didn't have the energy to focus on anything at the moment. The interior of the van was pleasantly cool--God, it felt like years since he'd actually been cool--and Danny's solid presence beside him was reassuring in the extreme. He drifted lazily between asleep and awake as Rick drove, occasionally saying something to Danny in a low voice, but mostly staying silent.

He didn't wake up fully until Danny lightly shook him, just as the van finally pulled to a halt. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but the sun was starting to sink in the west, and they had obviously been on the highway for a while. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes hazily and trying to get his thoughts in order. Danny was grinning at him--sheer relief in his face, as though it was just now sinking in that they'd actually made it. Glenn couldn't help but return the smile as Rick opened the driver door and slid out of the van.

Glenn could hear happy cries of relief, as a tall, thin woman and a young boy suddenly appeared in his field of vision, racing for Rick, who had his arms thrown wide open. Glenn leaned forward a little, peering out of the van's windows to see they had stopped at an open rest area along the highway. It wasn't much...mostly just a map station and a couple of outhouse stalls...but there was a wide, flat area with excellent line of sight in all directions. Several cars and a large, old-looking RV were grouped in a loose circle, and Glenn could see tents set up in the center of the ring, as well as low campfires burning. He could also see--

"Danny?! Glenn?! Where are you?" Jill Royce was hurrying towards the van, her hair pulled back in its customary frizzy ponytail and her face pale and worried. Andrew was only a few steps behind her.

"C'mon, man, she's been worried sick," Danny murmured tiredly, at last sliding the side door of the van open. They spilled out of the van and Jill broke into a run, rushing for them with her arms outstretched towards them. She fell on them with a choked, gasping sob, flinging one arm round each of their necks.

"Boys," she gasped softly. "Oh God, my boys. Thank you, Jesus. Oh, Lord, thank you Jesus!" She clutched them tightly, pressing her face into Glenn's neck as she cried. A moment later, Andrew wrapped his arms around them from behind, and though he wasn't crying, Glenn could feel shudders wracking through the man's body. They stood that way for several minutes, just holding each other as Jill gasped and trembled, crying quietly against Glenn's neck. From the corner of his eye, Glenn saw George and Jenny slip out from between the cars, wide, relieved smiles on their faces, though they didn't try and intrude on the small reunion.

There were other people, as well...the members of Rick's group. Glenn had no idea who any of them were apart from Rick. He glanced around from over Jill's shoulder, taking them in. There was a man about George's age who had a kindly look about him, as well as a blonde teenager who bore more than a passing resemblance to Andrea. The thin woman and the boy were obiviously Rick's family, and he saw another woman with graying hair standing by the RV with a small, blonde girl. There were other people moving around the camp, and a large man sitting on top of the RV with a rifle across his lap.

EventuallyJill pulled back, letting go of Danny to take Glenn's face in her hands. "Are you all right, Glenn?" she asked softly. "Danny told us you were hurt."

Glenn grinned softly. "I'll be fine, Jill. I promise." Already, he felt light years better just from being able to be in the air conditioning for a bit, and the sleep. His ankle still hurt, but he knew he'd be okay eventually.

He was broken out of his thoughts by the sound of another engine behind him, and he turned slightly to see Jenny's Outback and the white truck he'd spotted from the roof pulling into the rest area. He relaxed slightly at the sight. Good...Andrea and the other guy had made it back safely.

"C'mon," Jill said, stepping back and letting Danny sidle in closer so that one of them was on each of his sides. "Let's get you all something to eat, and then you can lie down. I wanna take a look at that ankle." Glenn smiled again, warmth spreading in his chest at her loving, motherly tone. He let them start helping him towards the encampment as the sounds of car doors opening came from behind them.

He still needed to thank the guy in the truck, but he figured it could wait until Jill had assured herself that they were both okay. He let his eyes roam over the vehicles circled around the camp as he limped closer, taking stock of the models and conditions automatically. Until his eyes lit on a pickup truck that had been parked just beside a large Honda.

Glenn froze.

He absolutely froze, his jaw dropping.

He knew that truck.

Knew every inch of it--knew every rust stain and small dent in the fenders; knew the cracked dashboard and the worn seats. He knew that truck.

And that was impossible.

It was impossible because that truck was still in Atlanta somewhere. Was still parked on the street in front of their apartment, or stalled out on a street in the city, or--oh God--crashed and flipped like so many other vehicles in the city. It had to be. That truck could not be here.

"Glenn?" Danny asked worriedly, and Glenn could barely hear over the rushing that had started up in his ears. It was impossible. It was impossible, and--

"Goddamn it, woman, I said I was fine!"

Glenn squeezed his eyes shut, an honest-to-God whimper trying to claw its way out of his throat. The words came from behind them, carrying loudly. They were spoken in a raspy, thick accent, irritation practically dripping off the syllables. And that was impossible, too.

"Honey?" Jill asked, and Glenn just shook his head. Back and forth, again and again. It was impossible. That truck could not be here, and that voice could not have just spoken. It wasn't real, and he couldn't open his eyes, couldn't turn around to look. It couldn't be real, and yet he could feel the question rising in his throat, clawing its way to his tongue. It couldn't be real, but...but he had to see--had to call out.

"Dar-Daryl?"

*

There had been some harrowing moments, but he was ultimately able to leave the Walkers in a cloud of dust once he'd led them a few blocks away from the pawn shop. He'd tried not to worry about the others as he'd driven a winding path through the streets of Atlanta, having to backtrack a few times when the roads proved impassable. There was nothing he could do to help them...not with a goddamn herd of sixty-plus Walkers between him and them. He'd done his part---the rest was up to Rick, Royce, and Andrea.

He'd tried not to worry, but he couldn't deny the relief that had welled up inside of him when he'd finally managed to make his way back to the industrial complex and found Andrea leaning against the bumper of the Outback, watching the small gravel road that led into the lot intently. The woman's face had split into a smile as soon as he'd appeared, and she'd shot him an enthusiastic thumbs-up as he'd circled around to park beside the Outback.

They hadn't wasted time hanging around. Rick had taken the two boys on ahead to the rest area they'd agreed to set up camp for a day or two--an action Daryl wholeheartedly approved of. Boys' mama had to be worrying herself sick over them. Andrea had only been waiting for about ten minutes, and so they had immediately set out after Rick, hoping to get to the camp before nightfall.

It was a close thing, but Daryl sighed in relief when he at last spotted the exit for the rest area they were staying at, pulling in behind Andrea and turning off the truck. He closed his eyes for a moment, just leaning back in the seat with his hands resting on the steering wheel. They'd survived.

Holy shit, they had survived.

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. He needed to get out of these clothes and burn them as soon as possible, his knife and his crossbow needed a thorough cleaning or six, and he'd need to seriously clean and bandage his arm (and probably pop some antibiotics out of the stash the Royces had promised in exchange or helping to rescue their son)...but they had survived. He was startled out of his thoughts when Andrea knocked lightly on the driver's side window, her brow creased in concern.

He waved her off, opening the truck door and climbing out with a sigh. He wanted clean(ish) clothes, food, and a bed, and not necessarily in that order. Well, no, that was a lie...he wanted out of these clothes ASAP.

"Are you okay?" Andrea asked in concern as he stepped out of the truck. He nodded shortly, pursing his lips in distaste as he glanced down at the gore-encrusted ruin of his shirt. Oh, hell with it...not like he was going to try to save the thing. Silently, he began yanking at the material, pulling until the buttons started popping off and he was able to pull the whole mess off. Andrea wrinkled her nose and stepped back as...bits...spattered off of the blood-stiffened fabric. Daryl let the remains of the shirt drop, leaving him in just a dirt-stained undershirt. His arms and neck were still streaked here and there with remnants of Walker, and his jeans were still a mess, but the worst of it had been smeared on the shirt. "Are you sure?" Andrea asked again.

He turned and grabbed the crossbow off the seat of the truck, slamming the door. "I'm fine," he said, appreciative of her concern, but not really wanting it. He began making his way towards the camp, Andrea following close behind.

"Will you let someone take a look at that arm?" she pressed, and Daryl shot her an irritated glare.

"Goddamn it, woman, I said I was fine!" he snapped, a bit louder than he'd intended. Andrea immediately took a step back, raising her hands in exaggerated surrender.

"Fine, fine, I get it," she said, shaking her head. Daryl huffed out a sigh, opened his mouth to apologize or something--

"Dar-Daryl?"

Daryl froze.

The voice barely carried to them--as though the word had been croaked out with barely enough air to form the syllables, but Daryl heard it. He heard it...but he couldn't have heard it. He had to be mistaken. He stood frozen in place, eyes locked ahead, to where Rick had parked the UHaul van. It couldn't have been...it was impossible.

He would know that voice anywhere...but he could not have heard that voice.

*

He stood stock-still, unable to make himself move, unable to make himself turn to look. He couldn't. He couldn't turn around--

--and see that he'd been mistaken, that he'd been hallucinating, that he was just flat out wrong, because he couldn't have heard what he thought he'd just heard. He couldn't take those final few steps to peer around the van, couldn't make himself--

--look and see, and realize that it wasn't real. That he'd hit his head, or was suffering from worse heat sickness than he'd thought, or God help him, that he was still stuck on that roof in Atlanta, and he'd only dreamed that he had been rescued. His hands were shaking, his knees growing weak, and he couldn't look because--

--it would be a miracle. It would be a goddamn miracle, and people like him didn't getthings like that. Didn't get happy endings like that. Not in any world, but most especially not in this one. He couldn't make himself walk those final few feet to go look. He wouldn't be able to take it, if he was wrong--

--it would kill him. It would absolutely kill him to open his eyes and see that he'd been mistaken about the truck, that he'd been mistaken about the voice, that he hadn't really--

--just heard his boy. Glenn. HisGlenn. It would destroy him, it would absolutely destroy him and he wasn't strong enough to come back from that. He could not take those steps, could not let himself feel the treacherous, impossible hope that was trying to blossom in his chest. He didn't get to have something like that and he needed--

-- to just open his eyes and accept that. He needed to look and see that he'd been wrong. Daryl was dead. Daryl was dead. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead, and he was never--

--coming back to him. His boy was gone and he'd heard wrong. It was Rick calling him, or the Royce kid, or someone from the camp and he just had to take those final steps forward and get it over with. Had to--

--turn around. He had to--

--just take those steps--

--and--

--see.

He made himself do it. He made himself walk forward, ignoring Andrea's surprised question, ignoring the way his heart was pounding and his throat had gone dry. He took the final few steps, coming around the side of the van and bracing himself--though he knew if he had a hundred years, he could never prepare himself for how much this was going to hurt--to see whoever it was had sounded so much like his boy. He stepped around the van numbly, raising tired, hollow eyes...

And felt the crossbow drop from suddenly nerveless fingers.

It hit the ground with a muffled thud, but Daryl couldn't hear it, couldn't hear anything over the sudden thunder of his own pulse. He stared. Jaw hanging open, eyes gone so wide the white were showing all around, he knew.

"Glenn..." His own voice sounded alien to his ears, choked and hoarse, and barely more than a whisper. He didn't care. He couldn't.

It was Glenn.

It was Glenn--standing in front of him, supported between Jill Royce and her son; it was his boy, half-turned to face him, his eyes gone just as wide and shocked as Daryl's. It was his boy. "Glenn?" he whispered again, and some dim part of him registered that the others were gathering around them, that eyes were darting between him and Glenn, but they were only shadows on the edge of his world. "Yer dead," he mumbled, the words tearing themselves from his throat without his permission, and he shook his head.

But Glenn was still there. His boy was still standing in front of him.

"Daryl?" Glenn said, and his words were just as hesitant, just as full of devastated disbelief as Daryl's, and for some reason, that was what broke his paralysis.

Something that was half a gasp and half a sob wrenched itself from his chest and suddenly he was darting forward. There was an answering cry from his boy as he took a stumbling step away from Danny and Jill Royce. The awkward angle proved too much for his bad ankle, but it didn't matter because Daryl was there to catch him as he stumbled, was there to sink down onto his knees with him, and Glenn was real. Was real and warm and alive in his arms and Daryl could do nothing but clutch him as tightly as he could.

"Daryl," Glenn breathed, winding his arms around Daryl's neck and shoulders, and it was real. Glenn was really here, unsteady gasps against his neck, pulse pounding in his chest so hard Daryl could feel it in his own body, singing alive, alive, alive with every beat. "You're alive," his boy said wonderingly, and Daryl could only laugh, wild and on the edge of hysteria, but even that didn't matter.

His boy was here. Whole and real and here.

"I'm alive," he agreed, and pressed his lips to Glenn's, kissing him hard enough to steal his breath, hard enough that they could both feel it. They were alive.

And they were together.

Chapter 20

Notes:

Hello!

Well, here it is...one more chapter to go. I should be posting the end tomorrow or Saturday :D. Thank you so, so much to those who have commented or left kudos, and special thanks to my wonderful beta Suze (fastest beta in the West!) and The Walking Bread, who has made such beautiful art for this story.

Please enjoy :)

Daryl wasn't sure how long they sat there on the ground, wrapped around each other with barely enough room for air between them. He didn't care. He kissed his boy until the need for breath became absolutely impossible to ignore, and then he pulled back only far enough to press his face into the crook of Glenn's neck. He couldn't have let go if his life depended on it, wasn't sure he would ever be able to let go.

Glenn was alive.

He was alive, alive, alive, and he was here, warm and real and solid againsts Daryl's chest, and Daryl could not understand how it could be so. Didn't understand how his boy could still be alive, didn't understand how God, or Fate, or whatever could have led them back to each other when he couldn't even comprehend the odds against it. He didn't understand what he could have ever possibly done to deserve this; to deserve a second chance with the person he loved. But it didn't matter. He had that chance.

Glenn was alive.

Maybe if he kept saying it to himself, he would be able to fully believe it.

Glenn was clutching him just as tightly, his hands wrapped around Daryl's shoulders to the point of pain--pain he'd gladly, gladly bear for the little bit more proof it offered that this wasn't a dream--a small, choked gasp working its way out of his throat every now and again. They didn't try to talk, didn't try to ask the hundreds of questions that Daryl knew were burning in both their minds--there would be time for that later. There would be time.

Of all the things that had become precious commodities in this world, time was the most important, the rarest. Time was what they all lived and scraped and fought for. Just a little more time--another day, another week, hell, another hour was more valuable than anything, and what time Daryl had left would be spent with his boy. He had been given more time with Glenn. It was impossible. It was miraculous. It was the last thing Daryl had ever expected, and he was going to hold onto it with everything in him.

Seconds or minutes or hours later, Glenn finally shifted in his arms. Just barely, just enough to sit back slightly so that they were eye to eye.

"Tell me you're real," Glenn said softly. His voice was shaking slightly, still rough around the edges, but the steel that Daryl had always associated with his boy was threaded through the words. He smiled crookedly, pure joy coursing through him in a way he'd thought he'd never feel again.

"I'm real," he assured. He shook his head, leaning forward slightly to press his forehead against Glenn's briefly. "This is real."

"Uh...G?" Danny Royce's voice finally broke through their absolute focus on each other, and Glenn turned slightly to look up over his shoulder at the kid. Daryl took the opportunity to glance around them, realizing with a start that they the entire camp--with the exception of Walsh, who was camped out on top of the RV for watch--had gathered in a loose circle around them.

"What's---uh, what's..." Royce's eyes darted between him and Glenn for a moment, and then Daryl could almost see him mentally throwing his hands up in surrender. "You know this guy?"

Daryl couldn't help a derisive snort at the statement...and a burst of laughter escaped his boy's mouth. Glenn turned back to him, a fiercely joyous light in his eyes.

"This is Daryl, Danny," he said simply. He leaned in briefly to press another kiss to Daryl's mouth, just as uncaring of the audience as Daryl was. "It's Daryl."

Daryl smiled warmly at him. The Royces were staring at them in shock, and Jill Royce's eyes had gone teary again, her hands raised to clap over her mouth. Her son's eyebrows had shot up at Glenn's words, but a bright, happy grin was playing about his mouth. A quick glance around the circle of people surrounding them revealed similar expressions of surprise, curiosity, and disbelief. Andrea and her sister were standing just to the side, their arms wound around each other's waists...and Andrea's grin was every bit as happy as Danny Royce's. There was confusion in her eyes, yes, but he could tell she was happy for him.

"Something you wanna tell us, Daryl?" Rick said wryly, startling Daryl slightly with the use of his first name. Even more surprising was the edge of friendly teasing to his words...hesitant, yes, as though Rick wasn't really sure of the reception such teasing would get...but it was there. He felt his lips twitch slightly in the beginnings of a smile, and shrugged one shoulder at the man.

"Oh...oh my. Glenn," Jill Royce said, her voice choked again, though clearly she was pleased for Glenn. Gently, Daryl started to disentangle himself from his boy (his boy...alive. Alive, alive, alive!) levering himself to his feet and reaching down to help Glenn up as well. He slipped his arm around Glenn's waist as soon as he was standing, taking most of his weight, and Danny moved to Glenn's other side to help.

"C'mon," Daryl said, "let's get that ankle taken care of."

"You too," Glenn said immediately, one hand sliding down to trail significantly over the tape still wrapped around his forearm.

"George was a medic in the Army...you let him clean that and bandage it." The words were said lightly, but the sudden clutch of Glenn's fingers on his shoulder told Daryl exactly how afraid his boy was to let him out of his sight right now.

Almost as afraid as Daryl was to take his eyes off Glenn.

"All right--let's get you seen to and then I think you boys have a hell of a story for us," Andrew Royce said suddenly, glancing significantly around the gathered group. Daryl followed the man's eyes, realizing that except for Rick, Andrea, and Amy, every member of the group from the quarry was staring at him as though he'd sprouted a second head. There were varying degrees of shock or outright disbelief on their expressions--and Daryl knew supper around the fire tonight was going to be damn uncomfortable.

Except Glenn would be sitting beside him at supper tonight. What was discomfort compared to that?

Slowly, he and Danny started helping Glenn towards the vehicles, the old man from the Royce's camp detaching himself from the group to follow. As they moved, he heard a rustle of movement behind him; the murmur of voices. It was T-Dog's voice, though, that rose above all the others.

"Wait a minute," the man said incredulously. "You tellin' me that racist-ass cracker got himself a Chinese boyfriend?"

And Daryl couldn't resist. He really couldn't.

"He's Korean!" he called back over his shoulder.

* * *

It took less than five minutes for George to pronounce Glenn's ankle badly sprained-but-on-the-mend and re-wrap it in a fresh ACE bandage. It also took him less than five minutes to declare that Daryl's arm needed stitches, and hell if he was doing it by firelight. A man about George's age who introduced himself as Dale immediately offered up use of the table in his RV, with a functioning lamp overhead. So, Daryl was bundled off into the vehicle--grumbling all the way, but not protesting--while George sent Danny scurrying off to raid their medical supplies for gauze, antibiotic ointment, and surgical thread. Fortunately, medical supplies were not something they'd be hurting for for a while.

Jill tried to make Glenn go sit by the fire they had going in the center of the camp...but he flatly refused, hobbling after George and Daryl and squeezing into the vehicle after them. He just...

He couldn't bear the thought of letting Daryl out of his sight right now.

He was still halfway certain that any moment now, he'd be waking up back on that roof in Atlanta, finding this all to be just another dream. Hell, he wasn't entirely certain he hadn't died.

But...but if this was all a dream, or the afterlife, or whatever, then Glenn was perfectly happy to remain in it forever.

Daryl was alive.

Alive.

Streaked with gore and dirt, thinner than Glenn had ever seen him, and with shadows in his eyes that Glenn knew were in his own, also...but alive. When Glenn swung himself up into the interior of the RV, Daryl had already slid into the booth that made up the 'dining' area, and was staring fixedly at Glenn, holding out his good arm in invitation. The other was laid flat out on the table while George looked at the jagged, nasty-looking cut under the better light. Daryl was ignoring the injury, though, just staring at Glenn as though he was afraid Glenn was going to disappear if he blinked.

It was a feeling Glenn understood. Perfectly well.

Silently, he slid into the booth beside his boyfriend, pressing up against Daryl's side as tightly as he could, ignoring the smell of rot that clung to Daryl's body, ignoring the dried blood and other, thicker things that dotted Daryl's skin. Daryl was warm. And here. And alive. Nothing else mattered. Glenn had questions, of course. He had so many questions, and he wanted to know so many things about how Daryl had gotten out of Atlanta, and what had happened to him in the past months. It could wait, though.

For now, he wanted to just lean against Daryl's solid weight, warm and so familiar it ached and revel in the simple, impossible, miraculous fact that Daryl was alive.

He closed his eyes as Danny clattered up into the RV with the requested supplies, smiling when his friend reached over and squeezed his shoulder affectionately before leaving to go help Jill with something. George immediately set to work cleaning Daryl's arm from the elbow down, before cleaning and stitching the cut, extracting a promise from Daryl that he'd go clean the rest of himself off ASAP. Glenn reached over to take Daryl's free hand in his own, rubbing his thumb over familiar callouses, and just listening to Daryl breathe.

George was quick and competent, and within twenty minutes, he was satisfied with the results. He tied off the final stitch and bandaged the limb tightly. making a tisking noise in the back of his throat.

"There's plenty of soap and a couple of buckets over by the spigot next t'them latrines. Spigot's still working for the moment, so I suggest you take advantage of both, boy," he said kindly, gathering the medical detritus together. He stood up and began making his way toward the door, pausing as he passed Glenn. The old man just stared at the two of them a moment, a soft smile wreathing his wrinkled features.

"I'm glad you're okay, son," he said, reaching out with his free hand to squeeze Glenn's shoulder the way Danny had. "And we're so happy for you. So happy." He darted his gaze over to Daryl.

"You two take care of each other," he continued gravely.

Daryl's hand tightened around Glenn's, and Glenn smiled up at his friend.

"Intend to," Daryl said shortly.

"Thanks for the stitch job," he added. George dipped his chin in acknowledgement.

"Any time," he said, and continued out of the RV, leaving the two of them alone.

They sat there for a moment, just listening to the sounds of people moving around outside. There was an occasional thump above them as the man on watch shifted around. Glenn would have to try and learn everyone's names tonight. For the moment, though, new names were the least of his concerns. Silently, Glenn shifted a little, pressing himself closer to his boyfriend. Daryl leaned back in the booth a bit to accommodate him, wrapping his newly-bandaged arm around Glenn's shoulders. Glenn leaned forward to press his forehead against Daryl's, the way Daryl had done earlier, just breathing.

"I thought you were dead," he said, his voice so small and low that the words just barely carried. A small shudder wracked through Daryl, and he heard the other man take a harsh breath.

"Thought you was, too," Daryl said in a rough voice. Glenn swallowed thickly.

"I love you," he murmured, and felt as though something inside him that had been cracked, and broken, and hurting since he'd fled Atlanta shift and settle back into place. Daryl sighed, his arm going tighter around Glenn's shoulders.

"Love ya' too, kid. God, I love ya', too."

*

It was hard to separate even long enough for Glenn to limp over to Andrew's car to go through his bags for cleaner clothes, and Daryl to go scrub the rest of the gore from his body and find his own change of clothes. Glenn couldn't shake the godawful fear that this was all some cruel, cruel hallucination. He suspected it would be a while before he could truly let himself believe that it was real.

He stuck close to Jill and a woman named Carol, stoking the fire for them while they got a meager supper together, but mostly just resting his ankle at Jill's insistence. He eyed their food supplies dubiously, making a mental note that he and Danny would probably have to go on a supply run as soon as he was healed up more. Maybe not all the way into Atlanta--but there were a few places on the outskirts that hadn't been picked completely clean, yet. He'd need to talk with Andrew later, get the details of what, exactly their plan was.

Supper that night was...awkward.

Glenn wasn't even sure why...the two groups seemed to be getting along okay. The big guy who'd been on watch--Shane--kind of made him uneasy (there was something about him that seemed wound just a little too tight for Glenn's tastes), but everyone else had seemed really nice. He could already tell he was going to like Dale, and Andrea and Amy had been nothing but sweet to him. Rick was clearly every bit as much of a leader as Andrew was...between the two of them, Glenn thought that their chances of survival might have gone up quite a bit.

Still, there was a palpable sense of tension from Rick's group around the fire as they sat and ate a dinner of pork n' beans and canned peaches, and most of it seemed to be centered on him and Daryl. The two of them had staked out a place a little way from the fire, between Andrea and her sister, and George. They had just plopped down on the ground, Daryl stretching his legs out in front of him, ankles crossed, while Glenn casually hooked his good leg over Daryl's knees so that they could lean against each other while they ate. Despite Rick's earlier promise of demanding a story from him and Daryl, no one pestered them for details of how they knew each other, or had ended up together. The people in Rick's group were shooting the strangest glances at them--wary, disbelieving, concerned glances, and it was starting to set Glenn's teeth on edge. Rick, Andrea, and Amy were the only ones who weren't looking at him and his boyfriend the way you might watch a big dog approaching a baby, and Glenn didn't like the picture these peoples' reactions to him and Daryl was painting.

Because he wasn't an idiot. And he knew Daryl.

More importantly, he knew how Daryl tended to deal with things when he was hurting.

After the fifth time he caught Dale frowning at them concernedly, he sighed softly and leaned closer, pitching his voice so that only Daryl could hear, "Okay...so on a scale of one to, like, Stalin, exactly how much of an asshat have you been?"

Daryl didn't answer at first, chewing slowly on a mouthful of peaches, before looking up and twitching one shoulder minutely. Glenn pressed his lips together, arching one eyebrow.

"Walsh deserved it," Daryl grumbled at last, and Glenn couldn't help snorting.

"What are you, five?"

Daryl paused for a moment, staring out at the people ringing the fire. His eyes lingered on Andrea longer than the others, an expression on his face even Glenn couldn't name.

"I'll make it right," he said finally, the muscles in his jaw working a moment.

"I'll make it right," he repeated, and Glenn heard the promise in his voice. He nodded gratefully, nudging Daryl's knees with his foot affectionately.

And marveling a bit that he had the opportunity to do so.

They ate the rest of their food in companionable silence, listening to the low murmur of conversation going on as their two groups took the time to get to know each other better. Almost as soon as he was done eating, though, Glenn felt his eyelids start to droop, the events of the day finally catching up with him. Daryl noticed immediately, and quietly went about gathering their dishes together to go dump them in the large plastic bucket set aside for that purpose. Apparently, the two children (three now, with Jenny's son) would be handling KP. Glenn watched the other man through half-lidded eyes, smiling softly to himself. After a few moments, Daryl reappeared by his side and offered him a hand up.

"My tent's still in th'truck bed," he said as Glenn stumbled awkwardly to his feet.

"Only take a couple minutes ta' put up...less ya' wanna stay with yer friends t'night or somethin'--" He trailed off, and Glenn shook his head fondly.

"I'm sleeping wherever you're sleeping," he said firmly.

"Always." Daryl's shoulders relaxed a little, and Glenn let his smile turn teasing, "Sure you can get it up by yourself in the dark? I mean, I don't wanna wake up tonight with the whole thing coming down on us."

"That was one time!" Daryl protested, chuckling a little, "An' shut up, you was the one distractin' me."

Glenn laughed brightly, and leaned over to kiss the corner of Daryl's mouth, "Go on, I'll be right behind you."

There was no question of whether Daryl would be turning in with him. None of the people who had gone into Atlanta after him were scheduled for a watch shift, and Daryl was no more willing to spend unnecessary time apart than he was. Maybe that would change, eventually. Glenn doubted it would be for a while, though.

Daryl inclined his head slightly, tangling their fingers together for a moment and squeezing, before he turned and jogged off towards his truck. Glenn watched him go, then turned around to head over to where Jill, Andrew, and Danny were sitting, intent on saying his good-nights. A few members of Rick's group shifted restlessly as he passed them, and so he wasn't entirely surprised when the big guy who had been giving Glenn a bad feeling all night suddenly rose from where he'd been crouching by the fire.

"Hey kid, slow up a minute, there" the man--Shane, he'd said his name was Shane--said. Glenn stopped, turning towards him with a raised eyebrow. Shane scrubbed his hand over the lower part of his face a moment, before tucking his hands into the back pockets of his pants.

"Listen...there ain't no delicate way to put this," he began, and immediately, Andrea's head snapped up from the conversation she'd been having with her sister.

"Shane!" she called, her eyes wide with what looked like indignation.

Rick's attention snapped to them as well, and the man started to get to his feet, "Shane, I don't think now's the time to..."

"What?" Shane interrupted. "I'm not sayin' anything the rest of you aren't thinkin'. I don't care what kind of mystical bonding experience or whatever you two had with him down there, that man ain't been nothing but trouble from day one."

"Oh for God's sake," Andrea said disgustedly.

Glenn exchanged startled looks with Danny and Andrew, and then looked around to find the rest of Rick's group were mostly staring at the ground uncomfortably. Glenn sighed, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"What exactly are you trying to say?" he asked neutrally. Shane looked away from him momentarily, glaring at Rick, before turning back with a huff.

"You two obviously have some history, and believe me, we get that...but we just want you to be sure you know what you're gettin' into, taking up with him again. He's...look, kid, he's volatile. "

For a bare moment, Glenn could only stare at the man in confusion. Then, the full extent of what Shane was implying sunk in, and the tiredness he had been feeling was chased away in a flood of hot anger. He drew himself up to his full height, glaring at the man in front of him furiously.

He got it. He did. He was pretty sure Shane thought he was just looking out for Glenn, and he supposed that given the man's background (he thought Jill had mentioned that both Rick and Shane had been cops, before), it wasn't all that surprising. Particularly if Daryl had been acting the way Glenn thought he'd been acting.

Still. Like hell he was going to let that stand.

He took a deep breath. "Well. You guys obviously have some problems with Daryl, and believe me, I get that. And I'm not gonna make excuses, or apologize for him...I don't know what's happened, but I can promise, he's gonna make it right. As for me...yeah, Daryl can be volatile. He's got a temper."

He took a limping step closer to Shane, staring him down. "But don't you dare talk about him like he's dangerous to me. Don't you dare. He'd never hurt me...not for anything. So thank you for your concern, but I don't need it."

He looked around at them again, meeting everyone's eyes squarely. "And I won't ever need it. Not because of Daryl."

No one said anything for several long moments. Then Rick cleared his throat loudly, stepping forward a little so that he was in the center of the group along with Shane and Glenn.

"All right, everyone just calm down a minute," he said loudly, shooting Shane a warning glance. "We're all gonna have to get along if this is gonna work...and I know Daryl's been--a problem, but none of you saw him down in the city. Andrea trusts him. I trust him. And I think it goes without saying that Glenn here trusts him. So if he's willing to try and make amends and be a real part of this group now, I say we can afford to meet him halfway. We all need each other, now. Okay?"

He shot a significant look at Shane, who looked as though he wanted to argue further, before reluctantly backing down.

Rick ran a hand back through his hair tiredly, before raising an eyebrow at Glenn in a silent question. Glenn nodded tightly, willing to accept the olive branch, for the moment. The matter wasn't settled...he knew that. Time was the only thing that would fix it totally.

But he had faith that he and Daryl could make it work.

He stared at Shane a moment more, before breaking off to continue over to where Jill, Andrew, and Danny were seated. The members of his own group had all been watching the confrontation silently, willing to let Glenn fight his own battle. He knew Andrew would want to talk to him later, but he was confident none of his friends would let the opinions of Rick's people unfairly color their own opinions of his boyfriend. They knew Glenn loved Daryl--that would be enough for them.

Hopefully, it would eventually be enough for the others. Daryl already had a friend in Andrea, and probably her sister. Rick was evidently not far behind in that department. They just had to be patient.

To his relief, none of his friends tried to ask him about what had just happened, or insert their own opinions. Jill just stood up and kissed his cheek, pulling him into her arms for one last, tight hug. Andrew patted his back affectionately as George and Jenny murmured their good-nights.

Danny thumped him on the back, and then tried to shove a strip of lubricated condoms into his jeans pocket.

"Dude!" Glenn sputtered, flailing backwards and blushing so hard it almost hurt when the condoms slipped out of Danny's grasp and fell to the ground right in front of Jill and Andrew. "Seriously?!"

"What, we're supposed to believe you two are just gonna hold hands all night?" Danny said impishly, leaning over to pick up the strip with not an ounce of shame. Jill and Andrew burst into laughter, shaking their heads in fond amusement.

"You--I---where did you eve get those?" Glenn asked helplessly as Danny tried again, this time succeeding in stuffing the condoms halfway into Glenn's pocket.

"Grabbed a couple boxes in the CVS," Danny said brightly. "Few folks were askin' for 'em...but whatever, their loss." His eyes darkened momentarily at the reminder of all the other people they had been banding together with over the past months...but there was no point in dwelling. The others had made their choice. And tensions aside, Glenn was pretty sure it was going to work out just fine with Rick's group.

Time. It all came down to time.

Shaking his head, he punched his friend in the shoulder lightly, and then began making his way slowly to the other side of the camp, where people had been setting up their tents.

He found Daryl's easily enough--the same one they always used when they had gone camping. It was set up a bit closer to the cars than the other tents, but still easily within sight of the RV, where their watch was stationed. There was a dim glow coming from inside it, the pale blue light of a camping lantern, and it threw the shadow of his boyfriend up on the walls of the tent in stark relief. Daryl was rustling around on his knees, probably arranging whatever bedrolls and blankets he had. Glenn entertained the momentary notion of going back to Andrew's car to grab his own sleeping bag...but the pain in his ankle was starting to get distracting. It wasn't like staying warm in the middle of Georgia's summer had ever been a problem.

He watched the outline of Daryl's movements for a moment longer, his throat tightening unexpectedly at the thought that Daryl had been doing the same things alone since the outbreak. Had been arranging the things they had used together and laying down on top of the sleeping bag they'd curled up on together and going to sleep every night in the tent they used to make love in with the flaps unzipped so they could see the stars...all the while thinking that Glenn was dead.

It hurt. It hurt so much to think of Daryl suffering the way Glenn had suffered these past months--worse, maybe, because at least Glenn had had his friends. He was beginning to understand that Daryl hadn't had anyone. Even his friendship with Andrea seemed new.

Slowly, he limped up to the tent's opening, ducking down to step inside. Daryl looked up as he entered, the light from the lantern making his face look ghostly pale. He had, indeed, been arranging his bedroll and sleeping bag into a decent-looking nest...though Glenn was grabbing his own pillow from Andrew's car first thing in the morning. He'd always hated the one Daryl used when they were camping.

"Hey," he said softly, stooping awkwardly to kneel in front of Daryl. The other man smiled at him warmly.

"Hey," he replied. "You wanna go ahead an' turn in?" There were dark circles under Daryl's eyes, and the stubble on his face had another day, tops, before it could be classed as an actual beard. Glenn knew he didn't look much better. They were both exhausted, worn down by the ordeal in the city.

Worn down by the life they'd been living for the past months.

That was over now, though. It was really over. They were here, they were together, and Glenn suddenly wanted to touch Daryl more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

So he did.

He scooted forward, closing the distance between them and wrapping his hand around the back of Daryl's neck, pulling him close enough to seal their mouths together. He smiled against Daryl's lips when he felt the other man wrap an arm around his waist, dragging him closer so that they were flush against each other. Lightly, he pushed at Daryl's chest, nipping at the man's lower lip as they fell back onto the sleeping bag. Glenn shifted his weight until he was lying comfortably over top of him, one hand threaded through the hair at the nape of Daryl's neck, the other braced lightly on his shoulder. They lay like that for a time, legs tangled together, mouths relearning each other after so long apart. Daryl's free hand came up to stroke in long, sweeping arcs over Glenn's back, stopping every so often to clutch, as though Daryl needed to reassure himself over and over that Glenn was solid.

They pulled back from each other when the need for air became to great, breaking apart and gasping softly. Blindly, Glenn reached over beside them and flailed around with one hand until he found the switch on the lantern, plunging the tent into darkness. He was about to slyly suggest that he and Daryl try out one of the condoms Danny had oh so graciously gifted them with, when Daryl's breath suddenly hitched. Glenn froze above him, tilting his head curiously.

"You okay?" he asked, squinting down to see Daryl's face in the shadows that had enveloped the tent. Daryl didn't reply, just shook his head minutely and shifted to press his face into the juncture between Glenn's neck and shoulder. His hand tightened again on Glenn's back, pulling him closer, and a minute tremble began running through his shoulders. His breath hitched again...and Glenn was startled to feel a hot wetness on the side of his neck.

And oh. Oh.

"I'm here," he whispered immediately, rolling them over so that they were lying on their sides, with Daryl's face still pressed into his neck.

"I'm here. We're both here...we're okay." Daryl's hand tightened on his back hard enough to hurt, but Glenn didn't say anything, just pulled his boyfriend closer and turning his head so that his lips grazed Daryl's ear every time he spoke.

"We're together. We're okay, and we're together," he whispered again, and did not stop whispering for a very long time that night.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Oh my God, it's done!

It's really really done....I can't believe it. Thank you so much to everyone who has stuck with this story, left comments and kudos, and drawn art for this.

Special, special thanks must go to my wonderful beta, Suze, for her amazing skills and ability to get chapters back to me incredibly fast.

Special thanks also to The Walking Bread, who has done and continues to do amazing art for this story.

Her latest can be found at http://www.imgur.com/4BeeD5C :)

On a final note, I'm not sure I'm entirely done with this story. There are other flashbacks to the pre-ZA life of Daryl and Glenn that I wanted to write. I may put some standalones up on my tumblr (neversaysdie, natch) if anyone is interested. Apart from that, if anyone else wants to play around in this sandbox, you are more than welcome to...just let me know!

I left home a long, long time ago
In a tin can for the road, with a suitcase and some songs
Chasing miles through the night time, making tracks
With no time for looking back to the place where I belong

Glenn dodged around the open cardboard box that was currently housing most of his shirts and underwear, making a mental note (for about the fiftieth time) that he and Daryl really needed to put that new dresser together. He'd damn near tripped over the box five times now, and the dresser was doing nobody any good stacked in pieces out in the living room.

In fact, he'd tripped over that this morning when he was shuffling into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on.

Muttering to himself under his breath, he reached into the box, digging around for the clean dress shirt he knew was somewhere in the bottom. After a few moments, he let out a triumphant yell and pulled the plain white dress shirt out by one sleeve. Immediately, his triumph turned to dismay when he realized that the shirt was hopelessly wrinkled, the collar and cuffs both crumpled messes.

"Well, crap," he said succinctly. Throwing the shirt over one arm, he padded out of the bedroom and down the short hallway that led to the combination living/dining/kitchen area, pausing in front of the doorway to the only other room in the apartment. He could hear the shower still running, along with the tinny strains of come country station playing on the shower radio that had been his friend Kirsten's housewarming gift to them last week.

Daryl was singing along...poorly. Glenn smiled softly to himself, shaking his head a little as he shouldered the bathroom door open. His boyfriend had many, many talents--some of which Glenn was still learning--but his singing voice was about as pleasing as nails on a chalkboard. Probably less so.

"Hey, have we unpacked the ironing board, yet?" he called as he stepped into the cramped, steam-filled room. The singing died off and Daryl poked his head out from behind the shower curtain, his hair still wreathed in shampoo suds, poking up every which way in ridiculous whorls.

"We have an ironin' board?" he asked doubtfully. Glenn thought a moment, his brow wrinkling.

"Okay, probably not. But we should! Everyone needs an ironing board." Daryl snorted.

"Laundry place down the block'll press anythin' ya' need pressed for three bucks," he said dismissively. "I ain't messin' with no damn iron." At Glenn's surprised look, Daryl let out a bark of laughter. "What, ya' think I got that jacket collar all starched up on m'own?"

"Actually, I thought you went out and rented a suit for the night," Glenn muttered, looking forlornly at the wrinkled mess in his arms. Great. He didn't have time to go down to the laundromat now. Daryl shook his head with another snort of laughter, ducking back into the shower.

"Jus' hang yer shirt on the door in here for 'bout ten minutes...the steam'll get the worst a' the wrinkles out," he called over the rush of the water, turning the music up a couple more notches. Glenn perked up, a grin breaking out on his face.

"Oh, good idea! Knew I kept you around for a reason," he said brightly, hanging the shirt on the hook he usually left his towel on on the back of the bathroom door.

"Glad ta' be of service," Daryl replied dryly as Glenn slipped back out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him.

Twenty minutes later, he was hastily shoving his feet into the only pair of black dress shoes he owned, silently debating with himself over whether he wanted to wear a blazer over the dress shirt. On the one hand, it would hide the wrinkles that hadn't quite fallen out with the impromptu steam bath. On the other hand, he kind of thought the blazer made him look like a douchebag. He hadn't worn it in months...wasn't even sure if it still fit properly. He'd filled out a bit in the past year or so...mostly due to the fact that dating Daryl Dixon had turned out to include a lot more outdoor activity than Glenn had been anticipating.

Not that he was particularly complaining--if he'd known how much fun hiking could be, he might have started it up earlier.

Ultimately, he decided against the blazer. The restaurant they were going to was nice, but it wasn't so nice that he'd be out of place if he didn't have a jacket and tie. He grabbed his wallet off the table by his side of the bed, before jogging out of the bedroom and down the hallway. As he entered the living room (nearly tripping again over the pieces of their new dresser...damn it, they really did have to put that thing together!), he paused a moment, tilting his head slightly as he noticed Daryl.

His boyfriend was just sitting on the couch they'd nearly killed themselves wrestling through the doorway, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, one leg bouncing up and down rapidly. Unlike Glenn, Daryl had gone the jacket and tie route in various shades of gray (and whoa...if Daryl looked this good in a suit jacket, Glenn was going to have to find more opportunities for them to get a little dressed up), and had even gone so far as to shave his face clean of its customary scruff. He reached up and smoothed the tie down the front of his shirt, lips pressed into a thin, colorless line and his brow furrowed in a way that Glenn had come to know meant he was worrying about something.

Something warm bloomed in his chest as he realized Daryl was nervous. He was nervous about tonight, and had dressed up in a suit and tie he no doubt hated, and had shaved when Glenn knew most of the time he couldn't be bothered, and he was nervous. In the year and a half they'd been dating, he'd never known Daryl to give a flying fuck what anyone thought of him...but he was worried about making a good impression tonight.

Silently, he slipped into the living room, smile quirking wider when Daryl looked up immediately anyway. Try as he might, Glenn had never yet been able to sneak up on his boyfriend.

"Hey," he said softly, closing the distance between them to crouch down in front of the other man. He rested his hands lightly on Daryl's knees, stilling the bouncing leg. "Don't be so nervous."

"Ain't nervous," Daryl replied defensively, but only managed to hold the facade for a moment before sighing heavily, dropping his hands down over top of Glenn's.

"It'll be fine," Glenn said.

Glenn's parents knew about Daryl, of course. Glenn had told them about him about six months into the relationship. His mom and dad lived all the way up in Michigan, though, and his father's arthritis made traveling difficult. Usually, Glenn was the one doing the visiting when they got together. Daryl rarely got time off during holidays and such, though, and so Glenn's parents had finally decreed that if Glenn's 'young man' wasn't able to come to Michigan to meet them properly, they were coming to Georgia.

Hence, dinner at the upscale steakhouse he and Daryl were supposed to meet his parents at in half an hour.

"Sure 'bout that?" Daryl muttered with a self-deprecating smile. "I ain't exactly the type a' man ya' bring home ta' Mama."

"Daryl. They're gonna love you," Glenn said firmly. He leaned in and pecked a quick kiss to Daryl's mouth.

"They're gonna love you because you're a great person, and they're gonna love you because you make me happy, and most importantly...they're gonna love you because I love you. Okay?" He sat back on his heels slightly, arching one eyebrow challengingly. Daryl was quiet for a moment, and then he laughed softly, shaking his head.

"Okay," he said.

How these days grow long, but I'm on my way back home
It's been hard to be away
How I miss you and I just want to kiss you
And I'm gonna love you 'til my dying day
How these days grow long

Glenn woke with the sun shining into his face. He squinted in displeasure, rolling over to curl against Daryl's solid warmth. His questing hand encountered nothing but empty blanket. Glenn's heart clenched in his chest.

"No. No, no, no, no." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, taking a deep, shuddering breath. It hadn't been another dream. It hadn't. He'd found Daryl yesterday...his friend had come for him, and he'd been rescued from the hell of Atlanta, and he'd found Daryl. He was going to open his eyes, and he would be lying in the worn blue and gray tent that they'd taken out on a dozen camping trips, wrapped up in blankets that would smell of his boyfriend if he brought them up to his face, because Daryl was alive. He was alive, no matter how impossible that was, and Glenn just had to open his eyes so that he could see, and his heart could stop its sudden racing.

He couldn't bring himself to do it.

Not when there was even the slightest chance that he would open his eyes and find himself back on his bed at the KOA camp, or tucked away in the bed of George's truck--rescued off the roof, but not by Daryl. He couldn't take it, he couldn't---

His rapid-fire thoughts were interrupted by a soft rustling down by the foot of the sleeping bag he was laying on. There was the barely there clicking of a zipper being undone, the whisper of nylon brushing against nylon, and then he felt the sleeping bag shift slightly as new weight landed on it.

And Glenn knew he should be kicking out, or reaching for a weapon, or at least opening his goddamn eyes. You couldn't ever let your guard down in this world...you just couldn't, unless you had someone watching your back damn closely. Glenn didn't do any of those things, though.

The movement was too carefully quiet and deliberate to be a geek.

The fingertips that gently skated along his cheek in a barely-there touch were as familiar as his own.

And Glenn would always, always be safest with the person that touch belonged to.

"I know yer awake," Daryl said in the quiet of the tent, and Glenn felt his heartbeat start to smooth out immediately.

He opened his eyes.

Blinked up into Daryl's face, where his boyfriend was hovering over him, one hand braced on the sleeping bag next to Glenn's hip, the other still gently stroking his face. Glenn swallowed roughly, a soft sigh of sheer relief escaping him as he reached up and curled his fingers around Daryl's wrist. Silently, Daryl stretched out to lay down beside him, propping his head up in his free hand as the other one slipped from Glenn's face to trail down his chest, resting right over his heart. Glenn could read the understanding in those flinty blue eyes, and wondered if Daryl had had a moment that morning where he was afraid to open his eyes.

There were things to do, responsibilities that they had to see to. The rest stop, although a passable camp for a couple days, was nowhere near safe for the long-term. They would have to be moving on, and quickly. Glenn needed to track Rick and Andrew down and find out just what the plans were, how he could help. He was sure Daryl would try to get some hunting done while they were stationary--shore up their food supplies a bit until a supply run could be made. Or hell, maybe they were just going to get on the road immediately. Whatever the plans were, Glenn and Daryl needed to find out...needed to find out what part they'd be playing.

Daryl leaned down to kiss him gently, though, almost reverently...as if he still couldn't believe that Glenn was there for him to kiss. And Glenn understood that, because he felt the same way.

When you're sad, you know I wish I could be there
To make your sorrows disappear, and set your troubles free
It's not fair for me to be this far from you, but I promise to stay true
Wherever I might be

The realization hit him out of the blue, when they were doing nothing more spectacular than sitting at a red light on the way to a movie they had both wanted to see. Glenn was reading something on his phone, head bobbing along to the music on the radio. He glanced up at Daryl and smiled for no apparent reason other than he was happy, and the thought hit Daryl like a sledgehammer to the gut.

He didn't know what he was doing.

He hadn't really been sure what he was doing from the onset. It wasn't like he had a lot of relationship experience to draw on. There had been Molly Campbell in eighth grade, and Lynne Barrett his junior year in high school (right before he dropped out). He'd taken up with Claire Nichols when he was twenty, and they'd had an on-again, off-again thing for the next three years. Granted, the grand total of "on" was something like six months, all told. After that, it had been nothing but a string of one-night stands.

He had no idea how to go about being in a real relationship. Hell, he was counting Molly fucking Campbell as 'experience' and all they'd done was ditch seventh period to go smoke behind the school for three months, and catch a couple of movies in town. Most people didn't count people they'd gone with in fucking middle school as relationships, did they?

The point was, he was in over his fucking head. He honestly wasn't sure what he had been expecting when he'd agreed to go out for breakfast with Glenn that morning eight months ago, but it sure wasn't this.

Glenn was...Glenn was becoming important. Fast. And Daryl wasn't sure he knew how to deal with someone becoming that important to him. The only people who had ever mattered this much to him were Merle and his Mama--and that hadn't worked out so well for Daryl in either case. Lo--caring about someone this much was dangerous. It just meant it would hurt more when that person inevitably disappointed you. Or left you because you disappointed them. Daryl hadn't needed anyone in his whole life the way he was starting to need Glenn, hadn't needed his brother the way he was starting to need Glenn, and it scared the shit out of him.

It scared him, the way just seeing Glenn happy made him more content than he could ever remember being. It scared him, the way he found himself wanting to be more, wanting to be better for Glenn's sake. It scared him, the way this kid who was thirteen years his junior was starting to become the point around which his world revolved.

And it fucking terrified him that he didn't think he wanted it any other way.

He could get out now, before he got in any deeper with Glenn. Before he got any more dependent on the kid than he already was. But that would mean giving Glenn up. It would mean not being a part of Glenn's life; it would mean his boy possibly moving on and finding someone else. And that? That was unacceptable.

"What'cha thinking about?" Glenn asked suddenly, not looking up from his phone. Daryl watched him for a moment, just drinking in the sight of him and thinking about how much his life had changed in the past eight months...how he was pretty sure it was all for the better.

How he was starting to think that he might just love this man, even if he knew he was nowhere near ready to actually say that.

"Just things," he muttered, turning his attention back to the street. "I'll tell ya' later."

He didn't know what he was doing. But damned if his boy wasn't worth it.

Time keeps burning, the wheels keep on turning
Sometimes I feel I'm wasting my days
How I miss you and I just want to kiss you
And I'm gonna love you 'til my dying day
How these days grow long
Time keeps burning on
How these days grow long

They left the tent eventually, once the sounds of people moving around outside became too loud to ignore. Most of the others were gathered around a small fire, where Carol was busily stirring a pan of reconstituted powdered eggs. Glenn groaned internally, though he knew better than to turn his nose up at food. Just...God, he hated powdered eggs. He slipped his hand into Daryl's as they walked.

"Man," he groused as they walked, "Danny and I are gonna have to go on a run ASAP."

Daryl ground to a halt, his hand tightening around Glenn's fingers convulsively.

"You ain't goin' nowhere on that ankle," he said intently. Glenn huffed, shaking his head.

"Of course not...but it'll be better in a few days." Daryl's face crumpled into a frown, and Glenn could tell he wanted to protest Glenn going on any supply runs at all. He also knew that Daryl would never actually dream of trying to tell him what to do, though.

"Hey," he said softly. "I don't like it either...but we're good at it. No one's gonna make it very far if we don't use everyone's skills--and that's mine."

Daryl closed his eyes briefly.

"I know," he admitted in a low voice. He stepped closer to Glenn, sliding one arm around his waist and drawing him close. "I ain't gonna try an' stop ya'...but I'm comin' with ya' when you do those runs."

"Daryl--" Glenn started, but Daryl interrupted calmly.

"I'll follow yer lead, an' I'll listen t'yer plans...an' I'll cover ya' when ya' go into a place. But don't ya' ask me ta' stay behind when you're doin' that. Don't ask that." He took a deep, steadying breath, "I can't...I can't be without ya' again, kid. Can't do it. Wherever we go, it's gotta be together--if we live or we die, it's gotta be together. I can't do it any other way. So please...just, please..." Daryl trailed off helplessly, hunching in on himself a little.

And what could Glenn say to that?

In truth, he couldn't do it any other way, either. Having Daryl back...having Daryl with him, alive and well--it was a gift. It was a gift and a miracle, and Glenn wasn't going to waste a single second of it. Daryl was right--live or die, it had to be together. He nodded silently, leaning forward to kiss his boyfriend lightly.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, I promise. Together. No matter what happens, we go together."

Now I'm lost in a sea of sunken dreams
While the sound of drunken screams echoes in the night
But I know all of this will come to pass, and I'll be with you at last
Forever by your side

"Pretty sure the smoke alarm ain't supposed ta' be used as a timer," Daryl said wryly, chuckling in amusement as Glenn frantically clambered up onto a chair so he could fan a dishtowel in front of said shrieking alarm.

"Oh my God, shut up! I only missed the timer 'cause you wanted a quickie in the shower!" he snapped. Daryl snorted.

"Y'act like I was the only one gettin' off in there," he said, poking the charred lump of blackened mess sitting on their kitchen counter with clinical curiosity. The charred lump of blackened mess that was supposed to be the chicken that would feed the guests that were supposed to be arriving in a little less than twenty minutes.

Not for the first time in the past few days, Glenn wondered what in the hell had possessed him to think their apartment was in any way, shape, or form an appropriate place to try and have a dinner party. It was the size of a postage stamp! He'd had to ask Kirsten and Zia to bring card tables along with their respective boyfriends when they came, just so there would be enough room for everyone to sit. Daryl's friend from the garage and his wife were bringing folding chairs.

So great, they would have places for everyone to sit, but the only thing they had to offer was a salad and the beers Daryl had chilling in an ice-filled bucket in the bathroom.

"We could tell 'em it's Cajun-style," Daryl offered, the impish smile on his face belying his helpful tone.

"I could also tell Kir I'm crashing on her couch for the next week," Glenn replied testily.

"Yer mad at me, so you're gonna go sleep on a couch?" Daryl asked in confusion. Glenn paused in his frantic motions, brow wrinkling.

"Shut up," he said again, petulantly. Daryl burst out laughing, giving the sad chicken carcass a final poke before swinging around and coming to stand by the chair. Silently, he wrapped his arms around Glenn's hips, resting his chin against Glenn's chest and looking up at him with false innocence. Glenn gave the dishtowel another wave before giving up and just yanking the thing off the wall, flipping it over in his hands to pop the batteries out. The piercing shriek silenced immediately, and he shoved the batteries into his pocket, before putting the alarm back on its mount and resting his hands on Daryl's shoulders.

"Jus' order a pizza. Mike an' Sally ain't gonna give a fuck...an' them girls ya' work with never turn down free food."

"That's not the point," Glenn said miserably. Daryl shook his head, then abruptly shifted his grip to the tops of Glenn's thighs and heaved, lifting him right off the chair with a startled squawk. Daryl swung back around, stepping over to the small counter (that also served as a breakfast bar) and setting Glenn down on top of it, pushing himself close in the vee of Glenn's legs.

"No," he said agreeably. "The point is for 'em ta' come over, hang out, maybe watch the game, an' have a good time. Who cares what they're eatin'?"

Despite himself, Glenn felt his lips twitch. His boyfriend had a point. Daryl tilted his head slightly, the grin that had been playing about his mouth the whole time turning sly.

"'Sides...if we order pizza, we got time fer another quickie in the shower."

How these days grow long, but I'm on my way back home
It's been hard to be away
How I miss you, and I just want to kiss you
And I'm gonna love you 'til my dying day
How these days grow long

They broke camp after breakfast.

There was no reason to stay--the rest stop was not safe or sheltered enough to make it a viable long-term option, and with their food supplies as low as they were, they really needed to be on the move again. Apparently, they were going to try for the CDC.

Glenn wasn't sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, he agreed with Rick that if there was anything like an answer, if there was anything left of the government or the military, it would probably be there. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that if there was something there, they would have somehow heard about it by now. He could tell Daryl felt the same way, but his boyfriend was being silent on the matter--apparently willing to follow Rick's lead.

And if Andrew was, as well, then that was good enough for Glenn.

They packed almost silently, collapsing the tents and stowing most of the big items in the RV. Daryl and Dale took on the job of replacing the thing's radiator hose while everyone else began divvying up supplies and fuel, deciding which vehicles would be left behind in the name of conserving gas. Daryl's truck was voted in for its cargo capacity, as was Jenny's Outback. The RV was a given. Andrew and Rick were deciding between the rest of them, looking at how many people each car could carry, and what the trunk space was like.

Glenn busied himself helping Danny bundle all the tents, blankets, and sleeping bags together into the smallest packages that could be managed, piling most of them into the bed of Daryl's truck. When they were done, Danny insisted on Glenn getting off his ankle, pointing not-so-subtly in the direction of a folding chair that had been set up by where Daryl and Dale were working on the RV.

"Enjoy it while you can," Danny said blithely. "Once you're back in fightin' shape, you and I are gonna be running ragged. Gotta say, though, won't be near as hard to find enough food to feed this bunch."

Glenn nodded thoughtfully as Danny helped him limp over to the chair.

"Reckon your boy'll be coming with us when we go on a run?" his friend added. Glenn glanced over at him in surprise. Danny just shrugged. Glenn let out a bark of laughter at that, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I reckon Daryl'll be coming along. You mind?"

"Hell no!" Danny said immediately. "You shoulda seen him when we went down to get you! Dude's like a redneck Jedi or somethin', man!"

Glenn nearly choked at that, the mental image popping into his head almost instantaneously. Yeah. He could see that.

"But seriously...he'll be a help. And I'm not gonna tell that guy he can't come along with you." It was Danny's turn to shake his head. "The way he looks at you, dude...well. We're happy for you, G. We really, really are."

Glenn smiled softly as they reached their destination, settling into the chair as Daryl all but climbed into the RV's engine, cursing a blue streak.

"Thanks," he said quietly, sincerely. Danny patted him on the shoulder before wandering off to see if Jill needed any help with anything.

Repairing the RV took another two hours, during which the car debate was settled--they were abandoning George's old truck in favor of the more spacious (and reliable) Honda, and Carol and her daughter would be switching back and forth riding with Jenny and her son, and Rick's family--and a route down into the CDC was picked. The route itself made Glenn a little nervous...they would be cutting it awfully close to sundown, and he didn't like the idea of being that far into the city after dark. There was no help for it, though...no one liked the idea of camping on a random section of the highway for the night any better. Not with the swarms of geeks they were starting to see.

It didn't take them long at all to get the rest of their gear stowed into the various vehicles, and soon enough there was nothing left to do but pile into the cars and be on their way. Whether it was towards a possible bit of hope in the wasteland the world had become, or just another dangerous disappointment remained to be seen. He watched the others separate to their cars--Andrea and Amy pausing to speak with Daryl for a moment before climbing into the RV, while Rick and Shane had a quiet conversation beside the Honda. Jenny swept by him with her son in her arms, pausing to drop a sisterly kiss on Glenn's cheek, while George slipped into the passenger side of the Outback. He bumped fists with Danny as his friend made his way to his car, and accepted Jill's tight embrace and Andrew's affectionate handshake.

Finally, Daryl seemed satisfied with whatever last-minute adjustments he was making to the patch job on the RV. His boyfriend nodded gravely to Rick before glancing over at Glenn, jerking his chin toward the truck. Glenn grinned at him as he limped over to the passenger side, sliding into the familiar seat with a soft sigh. Daryl passed the crossbow over to him as he climbed in as well, and Glenn carefully lowered the weapon to sit on the floor between his legs...not the most comfortable arrangement, but like hell either of them were going anywhere without a weapon close at hand. Daryl's rifle was carefully mounted on the rack in the window behind them, in easy reach for Glenn.

"Ya' ready for this?" Daryl asked as he turned the key, and then immediately slid his hand over the bit of seat that separated them, palm up. Glenn took his boyfriend's hand, raising it to his mouth to brush a kiss across scarred, dirt-stained knuckles.

"As I'll ever be," he replied. Daryl watched him silently for a moment, as the others began pulling out of the rest stop in the order they had all decided on. He and Daryl were to bring up the rear.

"I love ya'," Daryl said suddenly, tightening his hand around Glenn's. "Ya' know that, right? No matter what happens, I'll always love ya'. More n' anything."

The world as they knew it was gone. The life they'd built together, the friends they'd had, the home they'd made together--it was all gone. Nothing would ever bring it back. And Glenn didn't know what they were heading into...if it would somehow be better, or worse, than what they had now. He didn't know if Rick's gamble with the CDC would pay off, or if it would turn out to be a terrible, terrible mistake.

The only guarantee in this world was the one that Daryl had just offered him--that no matter what, he would always have Daryl. He would always have Daryl's love. He nodded fractionally, smiling at his boyfriend lopsidedly.

"I know," he said seriously. "I love you, too. No matter what happens."

They both leaned forward at the same time, closing the small distance between them with a short, sweet kiss. Then Daryl let go of his hand long enough to put the truck in gear, and they pulled out after the RV, following their caravan out onto the highway. Their hands found each other again as soon as Daryl turned onto the blacktop, and Glenn settled back into the seat.

He didn't know what they would find at the CDC. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring them, or what their fate would ultimately be. All he knew was that whatever happened, they would face it together. That was all anyone could offer in this world.

It was all either of them needed.

Time keeps burning, the wheels keep on turning
Sometimes I feel I'm wasting my days
How I miss you, and I just want to kiss you
And I'm gonna love you 'til my dying day
How these days grow long
Time keeps burning on
How these days grow long!

Notes:

And that's all she wrote :)

This story was very much inspired by Brandi Carlile's 'Dying Day' if anyone is curious.

Also, I'm kind of interested in doing a soundtrack to this story...but fanmixes have changed a lot since the last time I did one. If any of you do such Fannish things and would be inclined to help me out, could you shoot me a line? :)