Summary: During a supply run, Jesus finds himself at the mercy of an intimidating stranger. He never imagined striking a deal for ammo would lead to so much more. And Zora… Zora never thought she'd belong anywhere again. Especially not caught between two groups with a madman on her trail. Pre-Negan. Slow burn Jesus/OC. Daryl-OC friendship (I think).

A/N: Yep, I know Jesus is gay. But this is fanfiction and all make-believe. So we're going to make-believe, people. Also… I started writing this before I knew that.

One.

Jesus kept his distance… watched her from afar. Something about the way the woman walked, confidently, her shoulders pulled back and strong, her stance balanced, warned him that this was a wise decision. It wasn't just the stranger's manner that kept him at a distance – it was her garb. A black, tactical looking vest was strapped tightly over her chest, seemingly made to fit her. Perhaps it had been, before the world had gone to shit. She wore it like a second skin. Three daggers were sheathed at the front of it, another at the side. A thigh holster wrapped around what appeared to be lean, agile legs, holding a mean looking Glock. As if she weren't armed enough, a sword swung at her back, glinting in the dying sunlight, sharp and deadly and, oddly, beautiful.

He'd been searching the small town for supplies to bring back to Hilltop when he had spotted her. Lucky she hadn't seen him first, something told him. The woman looked like a walking machine; cold, calculating. Smart.

Fortune had bestowed Jesus with the ability to sneak about. He was crafty, resourceful, and a damn good fighter, but he knew when to remain disengaged and when to step up. This was one of those moments when some primal knowledge, deep within the recesses of his mind, told Jesus to stay away. But to watch. Keep an eye on the predatory woman. Observe and take note.

She was paranoid – rightly so. Keeping a sharp, hard eye over her shoulder every which way she went, dispatching every walker she passed with a merciless, efficient swing of her sword. If Jesus weren't so wary of her, he would have been in awe. The world had ended almost two years ago, and still he'd never seen someone so… ruthless.

There was certainly no one comparable to her at Hilltop. The lot there – they weren't fighters. Hadn't been outside the wall since it all began, lucky bastards. That wasn't on them. They were fortunate, or as fortunate as anyone could be given the circumstances. But they weren't prepared.

He watched silently as the woman disappeared into a shop – an apothecary, of all places – the heavy entrance door sliding shut behind her. His skin crawled. Some part of him wanted to follow her in there. It didn't feel right, not keeping a careful watch on her. He had every intention of returning to Hilltop that evening… but something about this woman told him that, should they cross paths, he might not have that option.

Crouched atop the stout building across the street, covered by the waist-high stone wall that encircled the building's rooftop, Jesus waited. Eyes glued to the storefront, breath caught in his throat, sweat trickling down his spine from the heat of the sun. Goosebumps crawled up his arms. Primal instinct kicked in.

He suddenly felt like prey.

Behind him, he could feel the air shift. His thoughts came and went fast – someone was there, with him; turn around, Jesus, take the upper hand, disarm them and –

"Stay still."

A woman's voice – her voice. Light but low, gravelly in a way that would've made any man melt Before. That was a voice used to seduce, to talk her prey into obeying. It was commanding and rich and… fuck. He was fucked.

Jesus did as she said, muscles vibrating with how still he tried to be. His hands slowly came up, forming the universal sign of please don't shoot me, but he didn't turn around. Something told him she didn't want him to, yet.

"You've been watching me for the past half hour," the woman stated matter-of-factly. There was no accusation in her tone, no malevolence. Just logic. Reason. "Wanna tell me why?"

Jesus swallowed thickly. His heart raced in his chest, going so far as to thump all the way to his very fingertips, but he kept a cool head. He'd been in worse situations. This was manageable. He could salvage this…

"I was scavenging," Jesus finally answered, clearing his throat, his tone coming out scratchy, muffled by the bandana wrapped over his face. "Saw you take down a mob of the dead. Didn't want to…" He trailed off. Didn't want to what? Get caught seeing something that looked so personal? The way she'd killed them… that was passion. There was something behind that. A damn good story.

"Didn't want to what?" the woman echoed his thoughts. He couldn't be sure, but amusement seemed to line her words. "Not good at making friends, are you?"

"Are we friends?" he found himself asking immediately. No thought, just words. There was an edge – both literal and figurative – lying just before him, and the next few moments would determine if he'd stay on the right side of it or not.

The woman shifted on her feet. He could hear it in the crunch of the gravel on the rooftop – a sound she had managed to subdue upon sieging him. "You tell me."

He smiled to himself, both bitter and darkly amused. "I'm sure we've both heard this a million times, but I wasn't planning on hurting you. Just wanted to keep my distance."

The air between them tensed – it thickened as if a fog had descended on the pair. Jesus still remained crouched, his hands in the air, his legs aching from lack of movement.

"Are you armed?" came her next question.

He wondered what his chances were of getting away from her. The rooftop was only one story tall… he could jump, brace the landing well enough, try to get away. But he had a feeling she'd swing down after him. Just a feeling. And if he didn't land it right… that was a messed up ankle, for sure.

The woman clucked her tongue lightly, reading his thoughts. "Don't try to run. I don't want to shoot a man in the back," she warned, genuinely sounding averse to the idea. "Just answer my question. Are you armed?"

He nodded. "Two hunting knives – one in my boot, the other on my belt. Got a handgun in my jacket for emergencies."

Was that a scoff? "That's all?" She almost laughed. "You are severely under equipped for these parts." Then a pause – she was thinking. "You alone?"

If he said 'yes' she might just shoot him then and there and be done with it. No loose ends. No lingering threat. If he said no, the situation would either escalate, or she'd vanish.

Inexplicably, he answered, "Yes."

She 'hmmed'. "I believe you. I would've noticed someone else lurking around." Another pause, and the tension in the air lifted, if only somewhat. "You can turn around. Keep your hands up though – don't try anything."

He did as he was told for the second time that day. This wasn't usually how things went. Jesus was something of a thief, a damn good one at that – he was typically the one maintaining an air of authority, control over a situation. But he'd been bested. He'd admit that.

Slowly turning around, rising to his feet in order to give reprieve to his aching legs, Jesus kept his hands up, parallel, palms out in a non-threatening gesture.

He'd be lying if he said he wasn't fucking desperate to get a glimpse of her face. A woman who moved like that, talked like that…

When he was finally facing her, his eyes darted over her hungrily. She was surprisingly petite, a jarring contrast to the strong woman he'd seen down below, but still tall, lined with lean muscle, a small frame but a commanding presence. Nearly coming to his 6' height, her nose probably at his chin, should they stand face to face, but half his size, in terms of bone structure and muscle mass. Her rich dark hair, cut short and sloppily to sit just above her shoulders, ruffled in the breeze; a reddish hue glinted off the strands, taking on the fiery play of the sunset.

Yeah. He was fucked.

She was gorgeous, deadly – he couldn't look away. Couldn't even tell how long he'd been staring, memorizing her face, glancing over her scars, her big green eyes, the scowl on her pink, pursed lips. She could shoot him between the eyes and he likely wouldn't notice. Wouldn't even flinch. Jesus was rarely taken off guard, due to his attentive nature – but this was something else. Something… tantalizing.

The woman blinked at him, likely unimpressed with his long hair, the black bandana covering his lips, his overall roughed-up appearance. The gun he had earlier seen strapped to her thigh was now in her hand, pointed directly at him. She was unwavering, simultaneously sizing him up and clearly debating the merits of killing him outright.

He ventured to help sway her judgement. "Are you alone?"

Another blink. Deep green eyes stared at him, blankly, but her mouth gave her thoughts away. She bit her lip. "I guess so."

Not the answer he was expecting. "You guess so?"

She shrugged. The daggers strapped to the front of her vest rose and fell with the movement, drawing his eye, before his gaze flitted back up to hers. She studied him again – eyes hard, probing, almost all-seeing, he thought – before she finally lowered her gun.

Relief flooded Jesus's stomach, so strong, so powerful that he nearly laughed out loud. Another life-and-death situation avoided. He'd have to start making a tally. Slowly, he lowered his hands to his sides, but continued to keep them in sight. Satisfied, the woman holstered her weapon, but her stance was no less firm. She was ready for a fight, should the need arise.

Instead of answering his question, she came back with another. "Got any medicine?"

Dark eyebrows rose on Jesus's face. "What kind do you need?"

Pushing a strand of hair out of her face – and thereby drawing attention to the sweat that had accumulated on her forehead, her cheeks, the dark blush, almost unhealthy, that washed over her face– the woman sighed. "Antibiotics, I think."

"Fever?"

"Yeah."

Jesus's light eyes turned cautious. "Have you been bit?"

"No. Infection." She considered her next words, whether to mince them or not. Finally, she added, "Week old knife would. I ran out of antibiotics about three days ago. It was healing just fine until yesterday."

Jesus nodded, considering the situation. Hilltop's doctor could take a look at her, get her some help. But that involved risk. She was an unknown – and worse than that, she was dangerous. He had a duty to his people. Could he really risk their lives for a stranger?

"No antibiotics in that apothecary?" he asked, eyes turning towards the store.

The woman snorted. "No. Mostly fish oils. Don't think that'll help."

"No, I suppose not."

The way she looked at him, eyes open for once, reading him up and down and inside out – he could tell she was dissecting his thoughts, his intentions. She could see he was hesitant to help her.

"I can offer you something in exchange," she said suddenly. One hand disappeared into the jacket hanging over her tactical vest and rummaged around. Jesus tensed, fingers seeking out his knife, but the woman put up a hand. "No worries." Slowly, to prove to him she wasn't attacking, she produced another handgun, grip facing him. Looking him over, she barely restrained a smirk. "You don't have a gun on you. I can tell. You need one?"

Clever woman. He simultaneously wanted to run from her and step towards her… she was a fucking magnet. But Jesus wasn't happy his ruse had so easily been rooted out. No one had ever questioned any of his variations of the truth before. Not ever.

But the gun she was proffering – it was almost too good to pass up. He wanted it, bad. Hilltop had run out of bullets months ago, leaving them with rudimentary spears for their sole protection. And the gun meant that this woman had ammo, and he was itching to get his hands on it.

But at what cost?

"I need ammo more than the gun," Jesus broached the topic carefully, watching her sharply.

A spark of something – recognition? – lit up the woman's green eyes, and she seemed to nod to herself. "You're from Hilltop." Again, she stated this matter of factly. It wasn't a question. Not an accusation. Just the truth. "Makes sense."

Jesus's hands clenched at the mention of his safe haven. She knew about it? How many others knew? Where did she come from?

"Don't worry," the stranger was quick to reassure. "I only know because it's my job to know." Whatever the fuck that means. "Your secret's safe with me."

"Because we're friends?" Jesus asked sardonically, referring to the earlier phrase.

The woman smiled. He hadn't expected that – not from someone who seemed to breathe seriousness, gauntness, somberness. But the smile was bright – filled with actual amusement – and she chuckled. "Yeah," she said, that gravelly tone sinking down into his belly. "'Cause we're friends."

Several minutes passed in a contemplative silence; Jesus was slowly running through his options for what to do with the woman, and the stranger seemed content enough to allow him to. He pulled his bandana down and rubbed at his beard, the sweat accumulating on his chin. It wasn't an easy decision. Hilltop was vulnerable, and this odd woman before him – she was dangerous. But she was also sick, and hadn't shot him outright. Crossing paths with a stranger was merit enough to kill someone, in this new world. And hell, she'd even offered an exchange of goods.

She could be valuable to his group.

He studied the graceful, yet tired, movement of her body as she shifted about and sat against the rooftop's balustrade, exhaustion lining her every move. One foot splayed out in front of her, the other knee propped up, hands resting at her sides. She watched him, their eyes meeting, lingering, neither looking away. She was patient, collected – he'd give her that.

Running a hand through his hair, Jesus sighed. He glanced at his feet before meeting her green gaze again. "Hilltop isn't far from here. We have a doctor."

The woman seemed immediately against this train of thought, to his surprise. "No," she stated firmly, voice hoarse. "I'm not going with you anywhere."

"I really won't hurt you," Jesus reaffirmed.

Puckering her lips, the woman looked away. "Nonnegotiable," she said. "Could you bring them to me? Not the doctor – the antibiotics? I've got a decent stash of ammo at my camp in return."

"Your camp? You got other people?"

When she shook her head, Jesus was inclined to believe her. "Like I said, just me."

"Why's that?"

The woman's previously open gaze shut itself off. She didn't frown, but she looked none too pleased at his curiosity. "Hard to find reasonable people in this new world, especially when you don't have a place like Hilltop to rely on."

Jesus shook his head. "Hard to find reasonable people there, sometimes, too."

The woman ignored his shared sentiment and got down to business. "You need ammo. I can give you some."

"I'm not especially inclined to leave you here while I grab meds. No offense, sweetheart, but I could be walking into an ambush."

To her credit, she didn't look offended at his distrust. "I get your hesitance. If you don't wanna help me, that's fine. I need to get going then. This fever will eat me up if I don't find something to quell it soon. I hear dying of infection really bites."

She made to stand, shoving her hands beneath her, but Jesus held up his palm, silently telling her to stop. His eyebrows pulled together as he studied her once more, the sweat on her brow, the ruddy color of her face. Definitely sick. She was right about one thing – if she didn't get antibiotics soon, she'd be dead to the world in a matter of days.

It seemed absurd to him, that someone so strange and rare should merely die. Of infection, of all things. The thought didn't sit well with him.

"Okay," he finally agreed. "I'll go. Bring you the meds." He glanced towards the dying light of the sun. It was dipping below the tree line, casting the world in shades of violet and orange. "It'll take about two hours, round trip. Think you'll be good here for that long?"

The woman smiled weakly and patted her weaponry. "I'm sure I'll manage."

Grabbing his pack, he slung it over his shoulder and turned away from her, determined to make a quick trip. Before he descended the rooftop, he heard her call out.

"Wait up – what's your name?"

Jesus grinned. People were always surprised at this part. He turned and faced her, arms out, palms up. "Name's Paul." Then he motioned towards his beard. "But my friends call me Jesus."

He watched her eyebrows shoot up in amusement. Instead of remarking on his nickname, she merely said, "I'm Zora."

The others had been confused when Jesus arrived back at Hilltop, moving quickly in his determination, darting towards the doctor's trailer for the supplies, then to the main house for some food and a pair of radios, before returning to the gate. He heard them talk, their whispers. People trusted him here, but they were still wary of him, how he'd come and go. Always.

He didn't blame them. People had been wary of him even before the world ended. Rightly so.

Bypassing informing Gregory of his encounter in order to save time, he yelled at Wesley, the nighttime gatekeeper, to let him back out. The young man did as he was told with a befuddled expression, watching Jesus lope back out into the night like a specter.

The town he'd met Zora in – Springfield – was an hour's walk away from Hilltop. Not terribly far, in his experience, but it seemed to drag on. There were countless dead on the way, distracting him, pulling him from his mission. No mobs, luckily, but enough to be pesky.

He was fifteen minutes out from Springfield when he heard the chortle of a truck engine. Jesus had been trailing on the side of a road, pace increased at his proximity to the small town, when he noticed the sound. Also from experience, he knew that was never a good sign. Headlights flashed over the foliage around a bend some 100 meters in front of him, so he darted into the brush, laying low to the ground.

The truck passed him without trouble, its passengers lethargic, hardly paying any mind to the details of their surroundings. He counted five men – three in the bed of the truck, assault rifles strapped to them, two in the cabin. Whatever group they belonged too might not be far from Hilltop. That was a problem.

Once they'd drifted from sight and the sound of the truck engine had dispelled, Jesus stood again, brushing dirt and leaves from his pants. He hefted his pack and started walking, faster, towards his destination. The woman – Zora – didn't seem to be in a dire situation just yet, but he didn't want to take chances. If she died before he reached her, he'd never know where her cache of ammo was.

And more than that – he'd never learn anything else about her. It nagged him, more than he cared to admit.

He nearly sprinted when the building he'd left her atop of came in sight. Inexplicably, his heart pounded away in his ribcage, as if part of him expected her to be gone when he climbed up. He was half-convinced she wasn't even real, but a strange figment of his imagination, conjured to wake him up, cerebrally, to pay attention. He hadn't done that in so long – just… paid attention. To the world, the people still in it. But this woman…

Thankfully, she was still there when he climbed up the ladder.

For a brief moment, he thought she might've been sleeping. She had arranged her pack in such a way that it served as a temporary pillow, softening the bite of the concrete behind her. One hand rested over her abdomen protectively – where he assumed her wound must be. Her eyes were closed, her breathing measured, but as soon as he was in full sight, those green eyes flickered open. She was exhausted, but entirely alert.

"Took you long enough," she remarked, some sarcasm in her gravelly tone. She shivered, huddling further into her jacket. "Thought I was gonna die here, in the middle of fucking nowhere."

"Not today," Jesus replied, pulling off his pack. He opened it and foraged about for the bottle of antibiotics. Finding it, he held it up, showing it off in the moonlight, before stepping closer and handing it to her. "Two now, one for every day after."

Zora accepted the bottle as if it were some grand gift. "Thank you," she uttered while she quickly unscrewed the cap and shook two pills out into her palm. Grabbing a water bottle, she knocked them back and swallowed them, closing her eyes in relief. "Fuck." Then she looked at him, skin milky under the moonlight, eyes dark and tired. "Honestly, I didn't think you'd come back."

His legs ached from his journey. Setting his pack off to the side, Jesus joined her on the ground, settling up against the low wall, propping his elbows on his knees. "You don't have a lot of trust for people, do you?"

The woman chuckled. "Not an ounce." She took a conservative swig of her water again, capping it, placing it back into her pack. Letting her head rest back against the wall, she shut her eyes. "I know my body is a metaphorical inferno right now, but I'm fucking freezing. Last I felt this cold was in Russia."

He considered her, the shivers, the frown on her lips. After a moment, he turned to his bag and pulled out a blanket. It was meager, thin enough to be stuffed into the bag and not take up too much space, but it was something. He offered it to her, which she accepted with another quiet thank you, and draped it over herself, huddling underneath.

"Are you Russian?" Small talk. He wasn't heading back to Hilltop tonight, that was for sure. Not without the ammo. But she wasn't in any condition to travel, and it'd be better to travel during the day tomorrow. They'd camp here together for the night.

The woman scoffed. "No. Worked there, some time ago." She left it at that. Shivers began to wrack her small frame, and Jesus pitied her momentarily. It was shit luck to have an infection during the end of the world. Not a lot of options, there.

"You want my jacket?"

Now she laughed – a genuine, sparkling sound he didn't quite expect. Her eyes were all lit up when she glanced at him, smile on her lips. "Are you some kind of gentleman or something? First the antibiotics, then the blanket, now your jacket?"

Rolling his light-colored eyes, Jesus shrugged. Then he pulled his jacket off, since she hadn't answered anyway, and tucked it around her body, taking care not to touch her too much. "I figure I'd want some help if I were on my own, sick, and screwed."

"So you're a bleeding heart, then? A true Jesus wannabe. How charming."

He scoffed, glare turned on her. "Doesn't sound charming when you put it like that."

Silence overcame the pair. They sat in it for several minutes; Jesus watched the moon, Zora listened intently – for what, he wasn't sure.

Finally: "A truck passed by here, maybe thirty minutes ago." Her tone was cautious, as if she were reluctant to share this information with him, but her eyes were hungry and dark. This was important to her.

Jesus turned to her, jaw set. "Yeah, passed right by me. You recognize it?"

Again, hesitance shaded her expression. She rolled her lip between her teeth and fidgeted one of the daggers on her vest. "Yeah," she admitted reluctantly. Heavy pause. "I think they're looking for me."

Brows furrowed, Jesus ran his eyes over the woman once more, as if he could find something on her that would explain why. But perhaps it was obvious – she was a walking menace, a danger, a woman determined to survive and unparalleled in her will to do so, without equal in her ability. Someone like that had to turn heads. Hell, it had turned his, and he didn't even know her.

"You do something to someone?"

Zora glared at him. "That your roundabout way of asking if I killed anyone?"

When she put it like that… "Yeah, pretty much."

Frowning again, Zora turned her attention to her hands. In the faint light of the moon, Jesus could just barely make out markings on them. Scars. Etched all over the backs of her hands, all in different shapes and sizes. Grizzly. He stared at them, too, both awed and disgruntled by their obvious cruelty.

"Yeah," Zora said. "I killed someone." She paused, letting those words sink into the night air. Noting Jesus's immediate stiffening, she continued. "To be fair, he tried to kill me first."

That was better, at least. He wasn't sitting next to a cold-blooded killer. "Why?"

She ran a slim finger over her palm. "Can't be sure. I guess there are all kinds of reasons to kill someone, nowadays."

Jesus hmmed in acknowledgement.

Closing herself off to him, Zora turned on her side, seemingly preparing to sleep. "We'll get up at first light tomorrow. I'll take you to the ammo." And that was that.

Though he had been cold throughout most of the night, Jesus awoke warm, huddled under something, clutching it tightly to his chest. At first, he assumed the rising sun had done its work – rays rested comfortably on his face, making him feel… content. But as he flickered his eyes open, he realized that the meager blanket he'd offered Zora the previous night was now wrapped around himself, imbued with his body heat and the heat of the sun, and over that, his jacket.

He sat upright, immediately alert. Had she left? He needed that ammo. If she was gone, he'd wasted medications and time –

"Hey."

His gaze darted towards her voice. She was across the rooftop, crouched, Glock in her hands, as if she'd been keeping lookout. In a tired manner, she rose and crossed towards him, setting the safety on the weapon. She grabbed at her abdomen on occasion, as if experiencing pain.

"You good?" she asked him, noting the bleariness in his gaze, the fear.

Her pallor was better than the previous day – had more color to it, more vitality. Though her green eyes looked washed out with fatigue, they were sharp as ever, looking him over for… what, he didn't know.

"You were mumbling in your sleep," she finally said, when he had yet to answer her.

Oh. "It's nothing," Jesus reassured, though his brows puckered. Nightmares had been plaguing him all too often, lately. "How long have you been up?"

The woman shrugged. "An hour, maybe. Thought you could use more rest. You looked cold."

Hence the blanket. He pulled it from his body, trying hard not to imagine this woman draping it over him, and began folding it up. "Yeah. Thanks."

A pause settled over them as he packed up his things. Finally, he glanced up at her, only to find her eyes wandering the horizon, her shoulders tense. "Something wrong?"

She sighed. "Truck came by again. About fifteen minutes ago. We'll have to be careful when we head to my camp."

His lips pursed. "Who are they?"

Not a question she wanted asked, as evidenced by the scowl on her face. "No one you need to worry about."

He nearly scoffed. "Doesn't sound that way."

"Just trust me."

Now he did scoff. "Hard to trust someone you don't know." He made a point to glance at her hands, the scars wrapped around them, dotting them, like some gruesome artwork. "What's up with those?"

Following his gaze, she flexed her hands, tucked them into her jacket pocket as if she were ashamed of them. "Don't ask. You ready to go?"

Although they'd gotten along well enough the previous night, the woman had closed herself off yet again. He wasn't terribly surprised. She seemed like the type: locked up, independent, headstrong… secretive. Tough to crack. Someone he would have been enticed by even before the end of the world. Guess that hadn't changed about him.

But there was something he needed to remember, and remember well – he didn't need to crack her. Didn't need to know her. All he needed was the ammo she had, and then he'd be on his way back to Hilltop. She didn't want to go with him, so that was that.

Watching as she pulled her bag over her shoulders, situated her sword, and checked the chamber of her Glock, Jesus tried to reinforce this thought in his mind.

You don't need to know her. You just need to use her.

But, as he considered himself a self-actualized man, he at least recognized that this was easier said than done.

The Georgia heat was oppressive, pounding down upon the pair of travelers like a physical presence, slowing their movements for the sake of health. When possible, they traveled under the shade of a forest canopy, taking relief in the cool air that filtered through the trees. But more often than not, they were crossing fields, barren of trees and all life, or a stretch of hot, black-topped highway. Zora's camp was a good two hours away from Springfield, three from Hilltop. And the further the sun rose in the sky, the thicker the air grew.

She walked ahead of him, serving the dual purpose of leading the way and allowing him some sense of safety, in that he could keep an eye on her. He had to give her credit – she was unnervingly observant. Having caught on to his distrust – not only in regards to the men out looking for her or the scars on her hands – she allowed him space to feel comfortable.

It also served to further embitter him to the idea of leaving her behind. Dark past or not, this woman was decent. The part of Jesus that retained his sense of humanity reared at the thought of not sparing a look back as he would eventually leave again for Hilltop. It just seemed wrong.

"We aren't too far," Zora said, breaking up their hours-long silence. She had opted out of conversation after his remarks on her scars, a dark mood settling over her. He hadn't bothered to budge her in any way. "Maybe half an hour away."

"You certainly went out of your way to go to Springfield," he commented casually, though there was an underlying question in his tone.

She chuckled whilst stepping over a fallen tree. They had entered an old forest, now, completely free of the overbearing sun, heading further into the heart of the underbrush. "Your unspoken question is warranted, I suppose. Yeah – I was looking to avoid someone."

He smiled at her snark. "Anyone in particular?"

She glanced over her shoulder at him, expression unreadable. "You are unusually adept at slow interrogations. Is that what you do at Hilltop? Interrogate people?"

Jesus saw this as an opening. If he told her more about himself, maybe she'd open up in the same way. "Not necessarily. I scavenge for them. Sometimes seek out other communities like ours to trade with."

"So you deal with people. Strangers."

"Only on occasion. Normally I just come across small groups of travelers. They don't have much to offer."

Throwing him another look, she asked, "So is that what you're looking for? People who can offer you things? Goods?"

He pursed his lips. "Sometimes."

"And other times?"

"I don't know. Just good people. People who can help build a better community."

They trekked on for a few more minutes, his words settling over the stranger. She walked with undeniable power in her step, though now that he was aware she was sick, he could see the fatigue lining her shoulders, her arms. She wasn't good for much more travel. But when she was back to full health, he could only imagine the way she might carry herself. The true strength she had. Who had she been, before all this happened?

"I wouldn't belong in your community," Zora finally said, but a tremor in her tone bespoke something deeper about her, another layer she was keeping under wraps.

Jesus knew he should tread carefully. She was like a feral animal – ready to attack or run at any moment. "I think you would."

"You have the unfortunate disadvantage of not knowing me," she merely replied. "Or perhaps the very fortunate advantage. If you did, you wouldn't feel the same."

"I disagree."

That halted her, unexpectedly. She didn't turn to face him yet, but she did linger. Her head was canted, as if she were looking about the canopy. Eventually, she turned to him. He was startled by the clear emotion in her gaze. It seemed uncharacteristic of the cold, logical woman he had initially met. "You seem like a good man. A decent one. There aren't many of those left. So allow me to deliver you a warning – you don't want to keep me around. I bring trouble everywhere I go."

Those words would haunt him, whenever he thought of her. But in that moment, he thought them hollow. A fancy warning for a scared woman to hide behind.

He took a measured step towards her. She didn't back away. "There's trouble everywhere in this world, now." Holding her gaze, his light eyes boring into her, he stated, "I'd rather deal with your trouble, knowing you can handle yourself and protect other people. You're valuable. A fighter."

His words must've struck a nerve with her, for she turned about and began walking again, though this time with more purpose. "You're wrong."

"I haven't seen anything yet to prove that," he countered, knowing his argument held on good footing. This woman was just scared, distrustful. If she could just overcome that…

Suddenly, Zora dropped to the ground, darting towards a massive, hollowed out tree to their right. She dragged Jesus along with her, forcing him along, before shoving him up against the rough bark, pressing herself closely to his side. Confused, he searched her face for answers, finding her eyes burning and bright, alert.

"Stay quiet," she ordered him, green gaze turning about. She kept a hand on him, as if to ensure he'd remain in place, and that hand distracted him more than he cared to admit. "Someone's here."

He hadn't heard anything, but that didn't mean she was wrong. They sat for several moments in silence, allowing the natural sounds of the forest to build up around them. Her body was pressed against his, warm still with fever, firm with muscle, steady. He blinked, forcing the thoughts from his mind, and instead tried to pinpoint the source of her anxiety.

A tree branch snapped some yards away from them, making him flinch. She was right – there was someone else here. Holding his breath, he looked to her to take the lead. This was an area she knew, so she probably had a clue as to who was out there.

The deep frown marring her features told Jesus that it was no one good. She unholstered her Glock and quietly pulled back the hammer, chambering a bullet.

Another branch snapped. Someone was walking towards them. Silently. Not one of the dead, then. Too big to be an animal. Not accustomed to the forest. Couldn't keep their footsteps light enough.

When a twig snapped startlingly close to the pair, Zora finally darted out, standing upright in one swift movement and firing off her weapon.

Blood spattered on the ground, on her vest, her face. Jesus hovered behind her and got a good look at the mess.

A man, who'd been holding a hunting rifle, now had his head blown off. He lay haphazardly at Zora's feet, blood trickling thickly from his neck. Zora stared down at the body with a clenched jaw. She recognized this man, Jesus could tell. She was tense, coiled tight like a snake about to lash out. Whatever had overcome her, whatever recognition she had, put the pair at a disadvantage. They didn't see the other man step out from behind a tree.

"Hands up," he ordered, making Jesus flinch. His hand instinctively went for his hunting knife on his belt, the but man saw this. He focused his weapon on Jesus, now, and said in a growl, "Don't do that, my friend. S'not you we want."

"No," Zora spoke up calmly, stepping in front of Jesus, shielding him. "It's not. You shouldn't be out here, Franco. I hear there's a monster lurking in these woods."

The way she said that, that one little phrase, sent shivers up Jesus's spine.

But the man, Franco, laughed at Zora. "You think we're scared of you, little girl?"

Zora smiled coldly. "I think your man Samuel was, when he realized I wasn't so easy to kill. But I guess he can't be scared anymore, considering he's dead." Glancing at the dead man at her feet, Zora added, "And now Jonathan. Two men in two weeks. Still feel like you have the upper hand?"

Franco stiffened, hiking his gun up, pointing it at Zora's face. Inexplicably, Jesus wanted to step forth, to put himself between the weapon and her, but he knew better. Zora had taken up her position for a reason. He remained behind her, deferring to her judgement.

"I think there's a real pretty price on your head," Franco informed her harshly. "Athol sent a horde of hunters out for you – wants you brought back alive." He whistled at her, cruelty burning bright in his lecherous gaze. "Guess there are some things worse than death, huh, darlin'?"

Zora shifted, pushed her jacket back a bit, as if she were uncomfortable. It took Jesus a moment to realize what she did.

There was another handgun strapped to her lower back, ready for him to grab. He did so, slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, and flicked off the safety.

"Now I must say," Zora began casually, as if a gun weren't pointed in her face, "I'm a little hurt. Was it just you and Jonathan sent over this way? Didn't anyone realize you weren't enough?"

Franco bared his yellow teeth at her. "You won't be singin' that song when I drag you to Athol's feet myself, sweetheart. Better tell your boy there to head off. Wouldn't want him to get caught in the crossfire, would ya?"

"No," Zora allowed, glancing over at Jesus. She gave him a look; one that said now.

Jesus didn't hesitate. It'd been a while since he'd fired a gun, but it was like riding a bike... sort of. He sidestepped Zora, raised the weapon, and shot Franco between the eyes. The man fell to his knees before crumpling to the forest floor, his blood mixing into the dirt.

Panting heavy, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Jesus turned to Zora. "What the fuck was that?"

The woman frowned at the two bodies littering the forest. "That," she said, tone low and dark, "is why you don't want to stick around me much longer." She sighed. "Evidently, there's a bounty on my head."

After pocketing the ammo they'd found on the bodies of Jonathan and Franco and relieving them of their weapons, Zora and Jesus finally approached her camp, just a half an hour away from the site.

Her 'camp' wasn't a camp at all. It was a room in a stout apartment building, surprisingly tidy. Normal looking. The bed was half unmade, but aside from that, there was hardly any dust in the place, hardly an item out of place.

"You call this a camp?" Jesus asked, incredulous.

"Not sure what else to call it," she shrugged. Tossing the two hunting rifles she'd confiscated on the couch in the living room, Zora sighed and sunk into a chair, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against it. "Can you grab my water?"

Jesus did as she asked, handing her the bottle of lukewarm water from her pack. She accepted it gratefully and took another swig, careful not to drink too much. "Fuck. My head's pounding."

"You're still sick," he told her, searching around her bag for the bottle of antibiotics. Once he found them, he shook one out. "Here. Take this. You should lay down."

She took the pill, but objected. "No. I'll get the ammo. You should be on your way."

"It can wait," he found himself telling her. "I'm not gonna leave when you look like you can barely stand on your feet. Especially not when some sick fucks are out there looking for you." He grabbed her elbow, lightly, and lead her to the bed. "Lay down."

Zora's tired eyes brightened at his order, as if she were amused. "Yes, sir," she commented sarcastically, sinking into the bed. She groaned, allowing her body to relax, before blinking up at him. "You can't stay. It's too dangerous."

"It's dangerous to leave, too," he pointed out. He started looking around for food – she needed to eat something. They both did. Finding a can of soup, he popped it open and filled two bowls he found in the cupboards. "More men could be out there. He said a horde of hunters were out looking for you."

Accepting the bowl of soup, Zora considered this. "I'm not sure how much truth there is to that story. Athol's a tricky bastard. Can make ten men seem like one hundred."

Sitting beside her on the bed, Jesus appraised her. "Who is he?"

The question she'd been avoiding for the past day. She couldn't put it off any longer – she seemed to recognize that. Huffing, she laid back against a pillow, eyes closing again. "A real piece of work. His people – they capture small groups of travelers. And they sell them. There are a few communities in the region that value human commodity." She paused, thinking over her next words. "Sometimes for labor. Sometimes to act as human shields. Sometimes… for food."

"Fuck," Jesus said, glancing at her hands again, the scars that peppered them. "And they caught you?" That was hard for him to imagine. He'd seen her fight, take down a mob of the dead. She was ruthless and efficient.

"After several attempts, yes. The first two men who approached me managed to wound me." She gestured towards her abdomen, where Jesus assumed her infected knife wound was. "Made it easier to track me. The second group of men they sent… I killed them all. The third – well, there was about fifty men total. Guess they wanted me, and I was in bad shape. Nothing I could do."

He studied her silently, the lack of grief on her face, lack of fear or emotion. This woman was… odd, to say the least. She spoke about being held captive by a group that takes people as slaves as if it were just another day. As if it hadn't happened to her, but someone else.

He couldn't make sense of that. Her hands, those marks… they bespoke a certain cruelty he had never known himself. Not to that degree, anyway. They spoke of torture.

"How old are you?" he decided to ask, to shift the topic.

Opening one eye to give him an irritated look, she replied, "You know, I'm not a big fan of talking about myself."

He couldn't help it. He snorted. "No shit," he muttered to himself, busying his hands with sipping the bowl of soup.

They remained in silence again – a thing he was beginning to understand that this woman preferred – before Zora rolled her eyes and sat up, finishing her soup. "I'm twenty-five."

Jesus's light turquois eyes glanced over at her, surprised. She was so young. The way she carried herself, the way she spoke… he hadn't guessed at her age before, but he certainly wasn't expecting her to be younger than him.

"Twenty-seven," he told her. Tit for tat.

Zora merely nodded, though he could tell she was stashing that piece of information away. "Aren't your people going to come looking for you when you don't return for two days?" she suddenly questioned him, eyes shaded but curious. Suspicious.

Having both finished their soup, Jesus stood to place the bowls in the sink. He lingered, several feet away from her on the bed. "No. They're used to me taking off. Sometimes for weeks."

"You don't run the place, then?"

Jesus laughed. "No. That's a burden that doesn't rest on my shoulders." Though it also shouldn't rest on Gregory's, if he was being honest with himself. But the devil you know…

"So you're not gonna just take the ammo and go?" she asked, though by the flat tone of her voice, Jesus concluded that she already knew the answer to her own question.

"No," he said anyway. Fixing her with a firm look, he was unsurprised to find her staring right back. She seemed like the challenging type, the dominant personality in a room. But he was dumbfounded when her gaze shifted, looking him up and down from head to toe, oddly wary yet again.

Edging over on the queen-sized bed, Zora kept her arms tucked close to herself, but nodded to the space beside her. "You should rest, then. We might need to duck out of here sometime soon. I'm not stupid enough to think that someone won't come looking for Franco and Jonathan."

Jesus nodded. That was logical. But for some reason, his feet remained planted to the floor. He didn't accept the proffered space beside her… he couldn't. It seemed personal. And the way she'd just looked at him… he had a feeling she was probably tense around men. Doubtless tense around men. Clearly, the ones who'd captured her had hurt her.

Smiling weakly at her kindness, Jesus shrugged and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. "I'll take the couch."

Jesus woke feeling heavy, as if he'd slept for several hours too long. Blinking his eyes open, he noted the early, shifting rays of sunlight twinkling inside the apartment, hovering over the floorboards beside the couch. They'd gone to sleep at, what – eight o'clock last night? It looked like it was around six, six-thirty AM. He hadn't slept so long in what felt like years.

A sound in the kitchen caught his attention. Glancing over, instinctively lying still in case there was an intruder, he spotted Zora sifting through cabinets quickly, placing things out on the counter. Preparing a pack.

He also noticed her change of clothes. The body-hugging tactical vest she had been wearing was gone, stripped away, laying forgotten on the dining table. Her knives were spread around it methodically, as if she'd straightened out each one to be a perfect distance away from one another. So she was a perfectionist, a neat freak. He tucked that information away.

Now she wore only a thin tank top, likely due to the heat of the morning, and a pair of shorts. Her long legs were lean, muscled… endless. Blinking, he shoved the thought away. Fuck, she was messing with his mind.

It didn't take long for Zora to notice he was awake, even though he hadn't shifted. Glancing at him, her green eyes bright even from the distance, she merely said, "Morning."

"Morning," he replied. Finally, he sat up. His muscles ached from their trek yesterday and from sleeping on the couch. Perhaps the bed would have been better, after all. "You going somewhere?"

"Just getting some stuff together." She opened her pack and shoved a few things in. "We shouldn't stay here much longer. Too dangerous."

"Where are you gonna go?"

Pausing her movement at the question, Zora tried hiding a frown. Clearly she was a planner by nature, but had yet to develop a strategy for the next couple of days. "Away from here," was all she said, at last.

He already anticipated her reaction, but he tried anyway. "You can come back with me."

"I can't," she said, giving him an obstinate look.

Jesus stood, stretching his legs out, his arms. He shook his head, annoyance prickling at him. This woman was too stubborn for her own good. If she'd just trust him… "What have you got to lose?" Probably not the best line of persuasion ever muttered before, but it was a start. "You said it yourself – you're on your own. You intend to stay that way?"

She didn't even look at him. "If it keeps me alive and free, then yes. I do."

Free. So that was her problem. She wanted to feel free. "You'd still have all the freedom you want at Hilltop. Hell, you can come and go as you please. But you need a base – somewhere to come back to. Somewhere to have supplies… shelter. You can't just pick a direction and start walking. There are people everywhere – alive and undead. People like the ones you already ran into. That sound like a good strategy to you?"

Her movements became jerky, irritated. Clenching her jaw, Zora finally looked at Jesus, her eyes roving over his face. "Why are you trying so hard?" It sounded like this was a question she'd wanted to ask for some time. "You held up your end of the bargain. I'll hold up mine. I can give you a decent stash of ammo and you can go on your way. Why… why complicate things?"

Jesus's mouth snapped shut. He looked away from her, muscle in his jaw ticking while he thought this over. She was right. He was pushing too hard. She was a stranger, for fuck's sake. Just some woman who'd ambushed him on a rooftop. What did he care if they parted ways?

Returning his turquois eyes to her, he found the answer to his own stupid question. It was in the way she stood – her shoulders back, strong, hands firmly at her side, head up. It was her gaze, challenging and dark and hard to penetrate. He liked the way she bit her lip when she was thinking. He liked that she was tough.

Fuck. Now wasn't the time for a fucking crush. Especially when the woman he crushed on clearly didn't feel the same for him.

"Fine," he said, tone harsher than he intended. For a moment, he thought she looked… hurt? "I'll take the ammo and leave. But on one condition."

Zora raised a prim eyebrow at him. "Which is?"

Crossing over to his pack, he reached in and pulled an old police radio out. Looking at it for a moment, a frown still settled on his lips, he stepped towards her and held it out. "This thing has a radius of one hundred miles. I have another. You need anything, you contact me on that. You keep it on you. Always."

Zora's gaze softened. She stared at the radio, still resting in his hands, looking like she wanted to simultaneously protest and agree. He was afraid she'd refuse him, call him foolhardy for even trying. But she didn't.

One scarred hand reached out, petite yet strong, and took the radio. Their fingers brushed, making Jesus hold his breath. Zora pulled her lip between her teeth and looked up at him from under thick lashes.

Fucking hell, she was going to kill him.

"All right," she said, voice softer than he'd yet heard it. "Let me give you some ammo."

An hour away from Hilltop, and Jesus still couldn't stop thinking about her. She was out there, alone, with a healing infection and wound, limited supplies, and only half of the ammo she'd had before. It was fucked up, since Hilltop desperately needed it, but he even felt bad about filching some of the ammo. She was on her own. He was in a group. She needed it more – didn't she?

But no – he'd seen her fight. With just that fucking sword, those daggers, she was a real menace. He had to take some assurance from that. She was a survivor. One of the best ones he'd met.

So why the fuck couldn't he let it go? Let her go? Stop thinking of her and start thinking about what to tell Gregory, how to explain where the ammo came from?

Zora would be a name that would haunt him. That, he felt with absolute conviction.