A/N: Apparently I write slash. Who knew. Let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead. No copyright infringement intended.

1.

In the months since the world ended with the rise of the dead, Daryl had faced violence and death daily. No hesitation, no true fear – just survival instinct and adrenaline carrying him through. And he realized, as time passed and the world limped along, he was surviving. He was built for this shit: living in the woods, fighting for his life, and hunting his own food. This was what he knew, what he'd grown up with.

For the first time ever, he felt free. Free from his brother and all his drug shit, and from the general shittiness of living poor. No more government or police bullshit, and here he was, thriving.

But this shit in Woodbury – this was something different.

Trapped with his arms tied behind his back, his ears rang with the screams and taunts of the crowd. The rope binding his hands together scratched at the skin of his wrists, and his mouth tasted bitter with adrenaline.

Heart pounding and breaths coming in pants, Daryl for once felt true fear. He'd never really feared death before – his life was shit anyway.

The angry mob pressed in, demanding his and Merle's death. The malice on the governor's sneering face and the shock of seeing his brother with him in this impossible situation – it was all too overwhelming; he couldn't concentrate.

Daryl stumbled, shuffling around looking frantically for some way out, to somehow avoid being torn to shreds by the psychos demanding their blood. Terrorists – that was pure bullshit. For once, Daryl was one of the good guys.

He couldn't help looking to Merle, his big brother, who could handle anything. Who'd never let anyone put one over on him. Anyone who'd tried had gotten a damn vicious beating.

This time, though, Merle's fell slack with uncertainty, even as he tried to maintain his defiant stance. When Merle looked at Daryl, fear and brotherly concern were written clear on his face. An old sense of kinship rose between them, throwing Daryl back to his childhood.

The governor's voice carried over the uproar in the arena. "Now, everyone, we all agree. These terrorists must pay for what they've done to us, to our home in Woodbury."

Dread coiled in Daryl's stomach, making him queasy as hell, but he'd be damned if he let those bastards see it.

"The way I see it, only one true punishment is fitting for these two. They deserve a special punishment, fitting only for brothers. Merle and his brother must feel the pain we've felt, the fear and the panic." The governor paused dramatically; the crowd quieted as they waited for his next words.

"Let me ask you all… What's worse? Merle, infiltrating our safe town and violating our trust, or his brother, who killed several of our best men – good men who died protecting us. Now, I ask you, who is worse?"

"That one!" Pointing at Daryl, twisted faces screaming. "The murderer!" One familiar, panicky voice rose above the others – Andrea pleading, begging for his life. The Governor backhanded her, knocking her to the ground.

Shit. Daryl knew what was coming, how he looked to these people, but fuck if he was gonna die like this.

"The town chooses the murderer? Then let his brother punish him for his sins. A fight to the death - the survivor will give us the answers we need."

A fight to the death? What the fuck? He struggled to keep his expression passive, when he really wanted to fight, to rage, and to hurt that bastard governor. He struggled against the ropes binding his wrists, burning and tearing into his skin.

Still, this wouldn't be any different from the rest of his life: Merle beating him down, showing him how to be a man, to be tough. Merle was hardly ever there, but when he was, he was a violent son of a bitch.

The crowd rumbled in anticipation as the Governor's men seized him roughly and dragged him to the center of the arena. He struggled against them, throwing his weight around, trying to break their grip. They threw him to the dirty ground and shoved a knee into his back, grinding it painfully against his spine. A heavy, booted foot ground down on his neck, and a warm knife cut the ropes binding him, nicking his wrists. He immediately lashed out.

"Fuck! Hold the little bastard down."

Daryl growled, hating the hands holding him down and the men crowding over him. His leather vest ripped loudly as they wrestled it off his shoulders.

Chains clanked as cold metal cuffs clamped onto his wrists. Pulled taught, the chains painfully outstretched Daryl's arms, and he couldn't help but panic.

Arms chained and scars exposed, Daryl tried to mask his fear and vulnerability. His breathing quickened, and he could feel sweat rolling down the small of his back.

From behind him, he heard Merle loudly protesting to the Governor. "No man, fuck this! You're wrong; we ain't done shit! He don't deserve this. Come, just let me have him – I can show him what real punishment is!" Merle's voice rose, become loud and panicky, like Daryl had never heard before.

Daryl couldn't tell what was coming – he was bound facing away from the center of the arena – but he knew it had to be bad if Merle was scared. Merle had never been scared in his whole damn life.

Footsteps shuffled behind him and the sound of a gun cocking put Daryl further on edge. The Governor hissed, malice in his voice: "Now, Merle, you punish your brother, or I'll kill you right now."

Merle's silence confirmed his acquiescence. Daryl tensed, anger and dread roiling in his stomach. The taunts and shouts of the crowd filled the arena.

Daryl had always known that Merle would only ever look after Merle, and when the crack of a whip echoed through the arena, he knew he was right.

The whip slashed at his back, shocking him with a sharp and stinging pain. Daryl jerked against his chains with the first blows, but he kept silent.

It wasn't the first time he'd felt this: his father's belt had hurt like a bitch.

The lashes kept on coming, sending pain screaming through his body, but he forced himself not to cry out. He gritted his teeth and scrunched his eyes shut, trying to ignore his pain and fear, remembering the quiet peacefulness of the forest, and the friendship and sense of belonging he'd discovered over the hard winter, Rick's trusting gaze, Carol's soft compassion and understanding, and the sweet innocence of the Li'l Asskicker – but each glancing blow threw him back to the present. A warm wetness dripped down his stinging back; he trembled as blood seeped from his wounds.

"Now, now, Merle," the Governor called out, reaching Daryl through his haze of pain and growing anger and injustice. "You've got to really mean it. You need to hurt him, to punish him for what he did to us. Sacrifice him for Woodbury."

Goddamn, a sacrifice? Would Merle do it? Could he kill his own brother? Daryl was sure Merle would kill anything to save his own ass… meaning Daryl was on his own.

A few moments of silence passed before he heard the Governor ask threateningly, "Do you want to die, Merle?"

Daryl swallowed painfully, grunting out with a cough, "Merle." He pulled at the chains, turning to look back over his shoulder toward his brother.

Merle's eyes hardened, shutting him out, no longer looking at Daryl like a brother, like his own kin – and that was when Daryl's hope died.

His older brother, his one protector, the only one who had ever cared about him, was about to kill Daryl to save himself.

Bile crawled up his throat with the betrayal, and he forced himself to look down at his feet, away from the vicious bastard Merle had become once again. He wouldn't beg his brother for mercy, knew it wouldn't help, and he would never give up his pride.

He knew he had grown into a different, better person since he'd lost Merle, shuttering his wariness and resentment, learning to trust and to open himself to the group. Over the winter, Daryl had grown much more confident, as a protector of the group and as a person.

Standing strong, head held high, he braced himself for the coming blows.

The whip cracked again and again, tearing into his back, the pain striking like lightning and burning in its aftermath.

The crowd's mindless screams and malicious cheers swallowed the echoing crack of the whip.

His brother's treachery floated through the back of his mind – he could no longer remember anything good with which to distract himself. His jaw ached from the tension and his legs trembled, threatening to give out.

The pain intensified, and he heard Merle grunting with increased effort behind him. With each blow, Daryl's anger grew, at Merle, at the Governor and the assholes of Woodbury, and eventually, at Rick and the others for leaving him there to be tortured.

Descending into his adrenaline-fueled rage and sadism, Merle taunted his brother, dehumanizing him. "Yeah, boy, you feel that? That's what you deserve, baby brother. You was askin' for it – leaving me on that rooftop to die like an animal." And with an especially violent, painful blow, "Yeah, fuck you!"

Daryl struggled even more at Merle's taunts, cussing and rattling his chains, trying in vain to free himself. Trembling, he shook his head to throw the sweat off his face.

The Governor's condescending, falsely caring voice stopped Merle's assault. "That's enough, son." The whip clattered to the ground as Merle breathed heavily.

Displeased shouts rang out through the arena, demanding more blood. Demanded the deaths of the terrorists. Daryl didn't for one second think this fucking nightmare was over.

"Now Merle, I'll give you one more chance, due to your service to Woodbury. If you help us defeat your terrorist group and bring your brother to his rightful end, then maybe we'll let you live… but you've got to earn your forgiveness." Malice colored the governor's voice. The crowd shouted and clamored in approval. "You and your brother will fight to the death."

Jesus fucking Christ.

Two men released Daryl's chains, unshackling him. With the pain, blood loss, and anxiety making him dizzy, he struggled to remain standing. His eyes constantly flickered around, looking for some sort of out, but to no avail.

He wondered how far this would go. What was the point? The Governor wanting to make Merle kill Daryl? Or to make them both suffer?

Was Merle's survival instinct stronger than his loyalty to his brother? Daryl knew it was - Merle had left him in Atlanta, not even trying to find his way back to the quarry.

His heart pounding, Daryl slowly turned back toward the center of the arena; the torches encircling them threw orange light and shadows over the scene, casting in a hellish glow over the night.

Merle stood a couple yards away, his face a mess of dark emotions. Next to him lay the whip, dark and wet with Daryl's blood.

When Daryl saw it, realized what it was and what Merle had done to him, he freaked the fuck out. Rage like he'd never felt before propelled him forward, and he threw a fist as hard as he could into Merle's jaw.

Around them, the crowd once more burst into cheers and shouts, urging Daryl on with violent slurs.

Merle reeled back, not expecting Daryl's sudden attack. He recovered quickly with a kick to his brother's stomach. Daryl fell back to the ground, landing hard on his side, his head hitting the dirt.

One of the governor's men slid a knife over to Daryl, and he fumbled to grab it as he stood. Merle called out, "You gonna take the pussy way out, boy?" He laughed derisively. "Go ahead 'n kill me – I know you've always wanted to."

Well, Merle was right about one thing. All Daryl's life, Merle had been doing shit to make Daryl want to hurt him – his drunken rages, his apathy to their father beating Daryl bloody when he was just a little kid. Merle had a mean streak a mile wide and constantly straddled the line of insanity.

Daryl remembered all of this, all the shit Merle had subjected him to, and in those moments, he hated his brother.

He blindly lashed out at Merle with the knife, firelight glinting off its edge as it slashed a red line across Merle's chest, but with each movement, Daryl felt weaker from blood loss and dizziness.

In the struggle, Merle wrestled him to the ground; his head hit the ground with an awful crack, and he lost his grip on the knife. Merle's metal stump dug into Daryl chest as his brother pinned him down, grinding the welts on his back into the dirt-covered ground.

Through his haze of confusion and pain, Daryl thought he smelled smoke. As Merle kept hitting him, Daryl began to fade, and black began narrowing his vision.

He struggled to focus, to push Merle off him and block his blows. In the background, he could hear women screaming and people running. The smell of smoke intensified until he could practically taste it.

His vision began to blur, when abruptly, Merle was ripped away from Daryl. He saw a blurry figure hit Merle in the face with the butt of a rifle and then drop to his knees next to Daryl. Daryl looked up in confusion, grimacing. A warm hand touched his face gingerly, ghosting over his bruises and welts.

He squinted upwards, and when he recognized Rick, he felt overwhelming relief. He brought his hand up to cover Rick's, wanting physical proof the man was actually there, and then relaxed, letting his head fall to the ground.

He could vaguely hear Rick shouting to him, the words lost in the ringing in his ears; he watched Rick's mouth move uncomprehendingly. On his other side, someone grabbed him by the shoulder, all soft hands and blond hair (Andrea?), and pulled him up to a sitting position.

Daryl tried to focus on Rick's face, his forehead creased with worry, and Daryl wondered if he was hallucinating as he and Andrea pulled him up. The smell of kerosene intensified as all around them flames encroached.

"Daryl!" Rick yelled, breaking into Daryl's confusion. "I need you to stay awake. We're going to get you out of here; don't worry."

Andrea and Rick hauled him to his feet, dizzying and momentarily blinding him in a head rush. They pulled his arms around their shoulders, and Daryl tried to walk, leaning heavily on Rick to keep himself upright. "Shit, man," he ground out, words slightly slurred. "Knew you'd come for me."

Rick huffed with exertion, replying in a firm voice. "Of course I'd come for you. It's what we do."

"Yer goddamn right it is," Daryl managed to mumble. Affection and gratitude warmed his chest as Rick navigated them out of the hellhole that was Woodbury.

Queasy and barely conscious, Daryl focused on stumbling forward with Rick steadying him, until they finally managed to return to the safety of the forest, losing themselves in the darkness between the trees and wildlife. Recognizing the safety of the forest, Daryl finally gave in to the darkness.

Outside the walls of Woodbury, with Glenn injured, Maggie shaking in fear next to him and Michonne looking to Rick for answers, Rick contemplated his options: get Maggie and Glenn safely back to the prison or risk everyone to go back for Daryl.

Rick thought about Daryl: their friendship, Daryl's role in the group (protector, provider), and how Rick would feel if he left Daryl behind. He would never be able to live with himself… wouldn't be able to deal with the new world without Daryl by his side. And he didn't even want to think about how Daryl would feel if he were left behind in Woodbury.

Rick couldn't lose Daryl – especially after suffering Lori's loss. He needed and trusted Daryl to look over his family. Daryl had saved Rick's daughter's life, looked after her and Carl while Rick broke down.

Rick deeply believed that despite his roughness and rough upbringing, and what had to be an awful childhood, Daryl was a good man, with a good heart. He'd come into his own these last few months, devoting himself to Rick and the group's safety, strong and reliable as Rick's right hand man, his closest friend and brother-in-arms. Daryl knew him, understood him.

Merle's absence had brought about change in Daryl, of that Rick was sure, and Rick couldn't shake the memory of Daryl's face that day when he pleaded to Rick to go find his brother, the almost childish hope and belief in his expression. Daryl hadn't met Rick's eyes when he acquiesced to Rick's requests. Perhaps Daryl had gone to find his brother.

Maybe Daryl would be fine when they found him, happily reunited with Merle… Rick's stomach turned at the thought of Merle back with the group. His return would be disastrous, for Daryl most of all.

From what Rick remembered, Merle had been a dumb-as-shit, mean, drug-addicted asshole when Rick had encountered him in Atlanta – and now, apparently, he tortured people in Woodbury as one of the Governor's henchmen. Seemed a perfectly fitting role for him.

Daryl, by the look on his face earlier that day, still held that foolish trust in his older brother. Daryl had never divulged any details of his life before the word ended and had never explained the scars Rick had seen while Hershel stitched up Daryl's wounds after he'd been shot on the farm.

Daryl was a hard man, given away by the lines of age and hurt marking his face.

Rick decided that they'd come to Woodbury to get their people back, and he'd be damned if they left one of their own behind (one of his own: a strange possessiveness welled within him at the thought of Daryl).

Decision made, Rick formed a plan: only Michonne and he were in any shape to re-infiltrate Woodbury, track down Daryl and get him out alive. They had limited ammunition and supplies; only two smoke bombs and few bullets remained. They'd have to rely mainly on stealth, luck and instinct.

"Michonne, you and I'll go back in. Maggie, you stay here with Glenn. Keep out of sight until get back. Be safe."

A serious look passed between him and Michonne. "Let's get moving." Michonne nodded grimly, brandishing her katana.

Rick and Michonne crept closer to the city's outer walls, noticing fewer guards than before. Rick knew some of the Governor's men were dead; others likely still searched for their group after the chaos they'd caused. Either way, Rick felt both grateful and suspicious – the lack of guards weakened the wall's defenses.

They climbed stealthily over the wall, finding an unwatched area deep in the shadows, away from the flickering streetlamps and shielded from the moonlight by the overhanging tree branches of the forest.

On dangerous runs like this one he felt every inch the police officer he'd been, through and through, before being shot and awakening into hell. His training gave him the skills and the instincts to accomplish tasks such as this, the rescue and recovery of the man closest to him.

Once inside the city walls, they hugged the walls of the buildings lining the street, desolate save for a few children being hurried along by an older woman.

"Where would they be going so late at night?" Rick commented to Michonne, voice low and suspicious.

"Follow them."

They crossed the street at a run and followed the group, hanging back to avoid detection.

As they progressed into the heart of Woodbury, tumult brewed in the distance. A clamorous mob's shouts and jeers echoed through the night. An ominous dread rose deep in Rick as they neared the source of the noise.

Rick gestured toward the building to Michonne. She stopped abruptly and caught his arm, expression grave. "They must have taken him to the arena."

At Rick questioning look, Michonne elaborated. "For the governor's games." She paused, and then continued. "Daryl may have been captured and taken to the arena to be… dealt with."

"What would they do to him?"

Michonne remained silent.

Without another word, he turned and ran toward the large building at the end of the street, where light spilled out from around the corner.

Hiding in the shadows with his back against the wall, Rick peeked into the arena to see a throng of townspeople grouped around something he couldn't make out. Then, through a break in the crowd, he saw into the center of the arena - and his heart stuttered at the sight.

Daryl, stripped of his shirt and shackled arms outstretched, bound in the middle of the arena. Bloody welts crisscrossed his back, and blood ran down his back, soaking into the back of his pants, darkening his leather belt and jeans. Still, Rick noted, Daryl stood tall and strong, back straight and head forward, head cocked slightly in defiance.

Merle stood behind him, whip in hand. The Governor and his men leered at the spectacle from the side. Horrified, Rick froze while the situation sank in. "Fuck," he breathed, and then reeled back to Michonne.

Breathing hard and fighting his growing anger, he forced out in a shaky voice, "We're getting him out of there. Now."

He surveyed the arena: almost a hundred hostile townspeople separated him from Daryl – too many for him and Michonne to take on their own. They had more smoke bombs, but that wouldn't be enough. They needed a major distraction. Looking around, desperate for ideas, he noticed the fire in the streetlamps. And then he had an idea.

Rick pulled Michonne back down the street where they wouldn't be seen. Quickly and quietly, he busted into a dark house with lanterns lit in the windows. After checking that the front rooms were empty, he grabbed the three lanterns in the house's front windows. He rushed back out to the street, and Michonne nodded in understanding when she saw the lanterns swinging in his hands. They quickly returned to the arena.

Rick checked on Daryl, only to see an awful change. Daryl was on the ground, getting a hell of a beating from Merle. Daryl struggled against his brother, but his movements seemed weak and sluggish.

Another struggle played out behind Merle: Andrea, of all people, being restrained by some men. Guilt struck Rick as he realized that she was alive and had made it off the farm all on her own, after they'd abandoned her. He'd forbidden Daryl from going back to look for her – it was Rick's own fault that she'd ended up in such a dangerous place.

Rick swallowed hard and began to form a plan: "We go to opposite sides of the arena. At the same time, we smash the lanterns and toss out the smoke bombs. If we're lucky, they'll all think the place is on fire and flee the area. We need to get in and out of there before they figure out what's going on. Can you make it over there without drawing any attention?"

Michonne nodded and without ceremony sneaked through the shadows to the other side of the arena, skirting the edge of the crowd. The angry townspeople were too focused on Daryl's torture to notice anything else. When Michonne was in place, she looked back at Rick. He lifted his hand and counted down with raised fingers: three, two, one.

The lanterns crashed into the ground and smoke bombs clattered towards the crowd. Fire spread immediately around the arena with the kerosene thrown everywhere. Smoke clogged the air, reducing all visibility. In all the mayhem, Rick ran through the crowd, avoiding the fleeing townspeople and the Governor's men racing to investigate the fire.

Rick spotted Daryl, still held down by Merle, and as Merle raised his fist to strike his brother, Rick reacted violently. He charged at Merle and hit him in the nose with the butt of his rifle, breaking his nose for sure. Blood gushed out of his noise, flying everywhere and adding to the chaos as Merle fell.

On the ground behind Rick, Daryl groaned and rolled to his side, wincing and bringing his hands to his face. Rushing to the barely conscious man, Rick knelt next to him and took in all Daryl's injuries – bruising and cuts to the face, wrists torn and bloody, and he could barely look at Daryl's back. The already-scarred skin was a mess of new bleeding gashes. Rick put a hand to Daryl's check and shouted his name, trying to get his attention.

Daryl's eyes opened halfway, and his eyes struggled to focus, but once they did, Rick could see they were full of pain, asking for help, trusting in Rick. Empathetic anguish tore through him, and he tried to pull Daryl up. Through the smoke, a woman approached: Andrea. She knelt and helped him lift Daryl to his feet.

Daryl groaned as they stood him up, and he immediately began to list. Rick held him upright, taking Daryl's arm across him shoulder to help him walk.

Rick yelled to Andrea over the tumult as she bent down to grab Daryl's discarded vest, "You got a gun?"

She raised the gun in her free hand, the other reaching out to steady Daryl, and smiled grimly. "Found one."

"Good girl," Rick's voice was gritty. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Andrea turned around, weapon raised, and immediately came face to face with the one person she never thought she'd see again: Michonne, fierce and sweaty and intense. Andrea laughed in relief, moving toward her friend, but Michonne only nodded at her coldly before turning to lead the group out of the arena, through the burning wreckage of the bleachers and buildings.

Ahead of Rick and Daryl, Andrea and Michonne deflected attacks by the Governor's men and angry villagers, all still trying to overtake the terrorists. Michonne brought her deadly blade to the throats of any oncoming threats.

Andrea, Michonne, and Rick guided Daryl (him stumbling, them steadying him and taking some of his weight) to the forest where Glenn and Maggie were hiding. Daryl leaned more heavily on Rick, his grip tightening on Rick's shoulder. When they entered the forest, the trees blocking out the moonlight and the ground soft beneath their feet, Daryl finally seemed to let go, passing out from all the pain, shock, and blood loss.