AN: sorry I haven't updated since June. The summer is my busiest time of year by far and then I decided to add getting my real estate license to the insanity. #BrainTrust Thanks for sticking with me so far, guys. I hope we won't run into many more stalls like this one.

This chapter is for ALCzysz17. I hope she likes how I handled her prompt!

Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

They walked most of the day until the sun started to dip in the sky. I could feel Daryl reaching out to me, letting me know to stay close. I worried that the other men would know that I was following, but they were all super focused on Daryl. One man in particular watched him so closely, I could sense the tension from yards away.

Now, they've found an old train platform, lots of windows—it's a pretty stupid place to stay in my opinion, and Daryl doesn't seem too impressed, either. He nervously gauges the windows and my location outside the building. Just goes to show how dumb these guys are. Even if they do have six men to our two, their choice to bed down in such an exposed place gives me hope that Daryl and I have a better chance at overrunning them.

I set a few snares, because I'm starving, before finally climbing into a tree outside an open window to wait things out. There isn't a walker within earshot or line of sight, yet my skin continues to prickle with awareness. I quietly dig through my bag for the handful of berries I picked on our way here.

Seemingly out of nowhere, I'm dragged from my nibbling to the goings-on inside the building, when Daryl's main adversary shouts something about someone stealing—a rabbit?—I'm not sure. The man who's been acting as the leader steps in between Daryl and the other man, who is now waving said rabbit furiously and hurling accusations.

"Calm down, Len," the leader says, then reaches out and snatches the animal from Len's grip. "What makes ya so sure..." Their voices fade in and out as Len paces and argues, and Daryl stands still and silent—the anger and tension billowing around him like so much smoke. I'm terrified and my mind and heart are racing, my precious berries forgotten and scattered, as I pull myself closer to the window with my purple stained fingers.

Then Len pulls a knife and lunges at Daryl, missing him by an inch. It all happens so fast and Daryl barely flinches—only just enough to miss the glistening blade. I almost lose my balance to the ground beneath me.

"What in the Hell, Len?! Put that damn knife away, or I will!" the leader commands, crowding Len's space further.

"I'm done fuckin' around with this loser!" Len says, using his knife to punctuate his more adamant expressions, as the leader holds him back with one hand placed firmly against his sternum. "He stole that kill from my bag, Joe."

Joe turns his head to look Daryl in the eye, keeping Len at arm's length, and I shrink into the bark of the tree so that he doesn't see me. "Ya stealin', Daryl?" he asks, and I feel my blood go cold with the light and threatening tone in this man's voice. Daryl doesn't miss a beat, continues to face Len, as he slowly shakes his head from side to side in answer. I reckon the inside of his mouth is red and raw from all the gnawing he's surely doing. My heart races faster and I have to check myself—that I'm not making too much noise outside the window from my own anxiousness.

"Well, then, boys, y'all know what this means." Joe drops his hands to his sides and begins to back away. He walks around Len's panicked form toward Daryl. I don't know what Joe means, but the thought that Daryl is in serious trouble slowly dissipates as Joe hands him the rabbit.

Daryl graciously tilts his head so I can see the shift of expression on his face more clearly as he backs away from Len. Daryl is relieved, even as his lips form a hard, grim line, signaling to me that it isn't quite over. He pushes the feet of the rabbit into his back pocket and turns back to fully face Len, who looks distraught and betrayed. He begs the men or God or anyone who will listen to spare him, as the rest of the group are like a pack of rabid dogs, closing in.

##

Len's body is tossed outside, over the edge of the overgrown train platform, a bolt protruding from his skull to ensure that he doesn't turn. Joe's gesture—choosing Daryl over Len—didn't even faze the rest of the men, but I fear even more now for Daryl in spite of the momentary relief of eliminating Len. Any minute, one of these men could turn on him, and Daryl is visibly on high-alert. I shake off the horrible thought of living as these men have for an indeterminate amount of time when I notice one of the men straying from the group, headed in my direction.

He doesn't look up or see that I'm hiding in my tree, but I brace myself. He's heavy-set, which is quite the accomplishment these days, and balding; but the hair he does have is long and stringy. He seems to be missing several teeth, as he also seems to be grinning and even talking to himself. I think twice about what I'm considering because this guy might be a little farther outside the box than I'm ready to contend with. Then he turns his back, drops his pants, and squats as he hums a jaunty tune; and an idea takes shape in my mind.

I drop to the ground and take off on foot to the nearest snare, making just enough noise. He hears me, stands and fastens his pants, then moves hesitantly toward the subtle sounds that only he can hear. My feet shuffle through the grass and dirt. It's dark, though, so he can't see me in the shadows. Out of the corner of my eye, I make out that he's reaching into his jacket and pulling out a knife; it's nowhere near as nice as my knife. I wait as patiently as I ever have for anything, breathing slow and steady, while he inches into range. When he's close enough that I can hear his breath, I sink further into the darkness and round the trunk of the tree that separates us. Then I hear him trip the snare, and before he can call out for help, I'm behind him. While he's still confused and disoriented, I yank the back of his hair then slide my knife, swift and clean, in and out of his jugular before pushing him to the ground, where his feet are still tangled in my snare.

##

"Spread out, y'all!" Joe yells, once he's pulled his own knife from the animated corpse's skull. "We on a manhunt."

Womanhunt, I think with a grin, as I creep back up into my tree. The air is vibrated, or maybe it's me, but there's a hum in my ears and my heart is running a mile a minute. Thankfully, they won't be able to see me up this high, especially with the dark shirt wrapped around my hair and mud smeared on my face and arms. I stay completely silent as Joe and the two remaining members of his crew stomp toward the woods, Daryl trailing behind.

Stringy Hair had risen after a mere five minutes, then made his way inside to snack on the nearest warm body. Joe wasted no time in putting both of his men—one suffering and one dead—down forever.

Daryl takes less than five seconds to track me to my tree, where he hovers as the others wander and Joe swears in anger. In the filtered moonlight I can see a small smile tug at one corner of Daryl's mouth when he recognizes my snares. I don't know if he's smiling at the evidence that I've mastered the skills he's taught me, or the laughable way Joe's group is searching for me. I know I find it hilarious that that's the way they track or hunt anything. No wonder Len stole Daryl's rabbit; these guys don't know half of what he knows.

"Here's his knife, Joe," says the guy with the do-rag. "Maybe he did it to himself." He shrugs and kicks the weapon across the dirt before stooping to retrieve it. "Claimed." He wipes the blade on his pants before pocketing it.

Joe turns slowly, showing the man the withering expression that twists his dark features. "Did it to himself," Joe states, continuing to stare the man down.

"Yeah." Do-rag shrugs again, clearly intimidated by Joe's glare. "Tripped over the snare?"

Joe blinks and shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose—I shake my own head at Do Rag's comment, then I realize it may simply be that he just doesn't give a shit about his fallen brethren. "Pack it up," Joe mutters on a sigh, looking into the deep of the woods once more. His men head back to the station to pack up camp. Daryl stays beneath my tree until Joe joins him—and then Joe begins to talk.

Joe tells Daryl that this is the second time one of his men has been killed and left to turn. He doesn't think it's a coincidence. "First time, was choked out in the toilet of a place we was beddin' down. Didn't get a look at anyone, but it appeared there was a woman with 'em. This here," he continues, waving his hand across the scene. "Seems t'indicate the same." He looks back at Daryl, dipping his head to catch Daryl's gaze. "Wouldn't ya say, Daryl?"

Daryl doesn't reply with words, but however he's replied satisfies Joe in some capacity. Joe must be the only one with a brain cell in this group, since he's estimated that Stringy Hair was taken down by a woman.

Joe stands up straight and tall, puffed chest, posturing. "Whoever it is, they're headed to that sanctuary." Joe actually uses air-quotes. "No such thing, right?" Daryl remains quiet. "It's a trap or it's overrun long ago."

Daryl and I had thought the same thing about the signs, but neither of us said a word. We knew in our hearts that we'd find our family there, though, and come Hell or high water, that is in fact where I was headed—both of us were headed there.

"I'm glad ya stuck around, Daryl," Joe says, as he slings an arm around Daryl's shoulders and turns toward the platform. I really wish I had Daryl's crossbow because it would be so easy to take Joe out from here without alerting the others. All I have is my knife and a gun.

I don't have to fret about it for too long, though, because Daryl takes action, silently accepting Joe's arm around his shoulders and using it as leverage to literally gut Joe beneath my tree. Daryl keeps one hand over Joe's mouth as he lets him slip to the ground, bleeding out in record time. He looks up at my over his shoulder and motions to the platform. I join him on the ground and we both make quick work out of the two remaining men.

##

"I'm sorry." Daryl speaks succinctly as he retrieves a bolt from the skull of the last of Joe's men.

"Why're you sorry?" I ask, my heart rate slowing, if still skipping a beat now and then from the rush of events, as I comb through the scattered supplies for anything worth taking with us. He doesn't answer; he's silent for too long, so I stop what I'm doing and face him. The expression on his face is the same as Zack gave me the first time I wouldn't tell him goodbye before he left on a run—disbelief. "What?" I ask, slightly aggravated.

Daryl shakes his head, but doesn't break eye contact. "Ya killed two men today," he states.

Hearing his words out loud sounds foreign, like he's speaking another language that I don't understand. His meaning and intention aren't clear to me in that moment and all that remains is that I had to. I nod. "They were holdin' ya captive," I say. "Had no choice." Captive is a pretty broad definition, but they sure as Hell wouldn't have let him go.

Daryl bobs his head and gnaws at his lower lip, does all the things I should be used to by now, but instead those mannerisms further unnerve me. "What?" I demand, once again. There's something more than the fact that I rightfully killed two men in with the skills he's taught me and the instincts in my gut—something that Daryl is either unable or unwilling to put into words.

"Let's go," he says, effectively dismissing my question and ending our non-discussion. I let it go because I'd rather not dwell on it further—what's the point? Plus, I want to get out of there and we really need to locate food and water.

Out in the woods, Daryl follows close behind me as we approach a clear stream. It's been almost a day since I've had anything to drink. Before I stoop to fill my water bottle, I reassess our surroundings while unfastening the cap, and I find Daryl openly studying me. "Okay," I start, as I awkwardly kneel and dip my bottle into the light current to catch some water. "Let's try this again—ya gotta tell me why you're lookin' at me like that 'cause you're freakin' me out." I take a gentle pull from the bottle of cool water, my eyes nervously holding his.

His face pleasantly twists with the softness of his small smile and I relax. "Weren't kiddin' when ya said, pretty soon ya wouldn't even need me, was ya?" He's trying to pay me a compliment, for which I'm relieved. I couldn't fathom what he was thinking before, but if this is it—that he thinks I don't need him—then I have led him astray.

I return his smile and shake my head. "I may be all bad ass now, but I still need ya."

"Yeah?" he says, filling his own bottle, and I'm almost positive I see a blush creeping up the side of his neck as he averts his eyes from mine.

"Yeah," I answer, recapping my bottle and pushing it down into my bag. I survey the area once more before scooting along the bank of the stream on my hands and knees to close the distance between us. He's still pretending like he doesn't notice me, but he quickly caps his own bottle and slips it into his bag.

With my pack slung across my shoulders and resting against the small of my back, I straddle Daryl's lap and easily fit myself into place as he scoots back against a nearby tree. The adrenaline from the roller coaster of emotions I've felt these past 24-hours has me suddenly exhausted and raw-nerved and needy. There is no way that I would be without him at this point—for so many reasons.

Daryl's rests his head back against the rough trunk of the tree and slides his hands up my thighs to the low waist of my jeans. "Thank you," he says, his eyes fluttering and darkening, his fingers pressing into the small of my back under my pack and his thumbs teasing my hip bones. "'S what I meant. When I said I was sorry. Meant—thank ya."

I close my eyes and breath in and out, loving his warm hands. "You're welcome," I answer. "Always." I open my eyes and dip my head to kiss him. His breath is heavy and deep in his chest. He's thanking me for not hesitating, for helping him, for showing him that he taught me well. He's thanking me for being here with him. I know all of this because I didn't even have to think twice about doing any of it and I know he would've done the same—has done the same for me. "Thank you," I say between our lips and tongues.

We make out in the woods up against a tree like I'm sixteen again and back on the farm—like the world hasn't ended. I work my hand into the front of his pants and he does the same; he has to undo my jeans, though, and we both scan our surroundings again as he hooks his fingers into the leg opening of my undies. His knuckles brush me where I'm wet and swollen and I bite his lip when he pushes a finger inside me.

It's hot and fevered and everything is so, so tight. I'm barely able to focus on what I'm doing to him at all because the moment, the adrenaline dump, and what he's doing to me has me spinning in a haze, riding his hand and whimpering into his neck. Then I feel him spill warm and wet over my fist, just as I fly apart into the atmosphere surrounding us.

Bethyl rec: In the Pines by Rhanon Brodie. Not your garden variety Beth story arc—dark, dense, and intense. Trigger warnings are given and apply.