This takes place in the early days, before Rick comes on the scene. This is my first Walking Dead fic, and to be honest I'm just kind of throwing rocks at a pond. I'm a newbie - I come with little knowledge, have only seen the first two seasons so far, and haven't read the books. There's no plot to be found anywhere in this. Just a couple crappy days for Daryl Dixon. And a good excuse for me to make him sick. I'm really sorry.

Also, I want to make a quick mention of Merle's language in the show. He uses a racial slur in particular that I do not personally feel comfortable with using, so you won't see that in here. There are, however, a couple pejorative terms in here that he does use in the interest of keeping him in character. It's not my intention to offend anyone, and I want to warn that there is a fair bit of swearing in here. If anyone finds the language superfluous, I apologize in advance.

Unbeta'd. Again, apologies.

Title of story taken from Future of the Left's "Beneath the Waves an Ocean."

Rating: MA for violence, swearing, and other offensive language.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Daryl Dixon used to have a simple way of cataloguing his life. He'd given it two major time periods: the time before his mom died, and the time after. The dividing line was sharp, consisting of only one memory, left clear and untarnished by time. It was a memory of his mom holding him in her arms, nothing more. He remembered that she smelled like Ivory soap and shampoo. It was beautiful; she was beautiful. Even when she was sad. But today wasn't a sad day, because she smelled like soap, and that only happened when she was happy. It's the only memory Daryl has of feeling loved and warm. Safe.

These days, feeling safe is a luxury no one can afford. Now, when Daryl thinks about his childhood, he has a new demarcation in the sand, signalling the first time he realized he was really and truly alone.

When Daryl was eight, he fell out of a tree.

It wasn't particularly high up, and he'd climbed worse before. It was a misstep that did it, a stupid mistake. One second, he was stretching overhead, trusting the branch under his foot as he leaned. The snap was muted, and the air that rushed in his ears as he fell was much louder in comparison.

The impact made an internal sound as he slammed into the ground, or his body absorbed the noise. It was hard to tell which. Either way, Daryl could only lie there and wait for his spinning brain to comprehend what had just happened. He didn't feel the bloom of bruises and abrasions across his back and limbs from the branches he'd struck on the way down. Didn't feel the dirt under his cheek, or the way his arm was bent the wrong way underneath him.

That changed when he sat up. All at once, his pain receptors were overwhelmed and he looked down, half suspecting to find his arm torn off. It was little comfort to him when he saw the limb attached, despite the surreal white gleam of bone that poked through his skin. Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again he was staring at a fresh puddle of vomit on the ground.

The walk through the edge of the woods and then the field afterwards had been a shambling process of quiet sobbing and leaden footsteps. Daryl held his arm close to his chest and did his best not to look down at it, at the grotesque spectacle it had become. It hurt; it hurt so bad that he had actually wanted someone to come find him. He'd never wanted that before.

It was dusk when he finally made it home. His father's dingy yellow pickup sat cold and broken under the big oak. Merle's friend Jerry had his El Camino parked behind it; its glossy paint winked at him in the near dark.

Merle and Jerry were there, on the stoop. Merle had his feet propped up and he was knocking back a can of beer. If Merle had Dad's beer, that meant their old man was either out screwing some skank or was too drunk to notice or care what they were doing. The porch light was burnt out, but there'd been enough light spilling through the screen door for Daryl to make out Merle's slow grin as he caught sight of his younger brother.

"Wha' cha up to, bro?" Merle asked around a belch. He leaned forward and squinted. "You little pussy. You been cryin'?"

Daryl could only stand there and hug his arm to himself as he shivered.

"This is going to be fucking easy."

Daryl rests his crossbow on his shoulder and spits. He grunts and shrugs a noncommittal shoulder, and Merle bumps his arm roughly.

"Somethin' on your mind, baby brother?"

Daryl watches distantly as the group, whatever their names are, start to unpack and spread their gear around. Tents are going up and people are starting to talk amongst each other. Goddamn chatting, like it ain't the end of the world. Someone laughs, and his lip curls in a sneer. He watches as a woman with long dark hair walks up to another tent. She's holding a Coleman lantern and has a boy trailing with her. There's some movement near the entrance of the tent, and another woman with closely cropped hair emerges. The lantern exchanges hands, and they briefly grasp each other's wrists in a wordless gesture of – what? Kindness? Friendship? Like they know each other, actually give a damn about each other, these two complete strangers.

Daryl's nose wrinkles. Stupid bitches.

He looks back at Merle and gives him a shove back. It's a halfhearted effort.

"Ain't nothing on my mind. When you wanna do this?"

Merle looks back again at the group, scratching under his chin. His fingertips make a rough bristling sound against his stubble. "I don't see nobody locking their shit down," he says lazily. "No sense rushin' when we can stick around for a few meals. Hell, maybe we'll take the rations, too."

He drops his voice when two blonde haired women walk by within earshot of them. Merle watches them coming and going, and when one of them looks over with a disgusted expression he makes no effort at averting his eyes. Instead, he emits a low whistle and continues to stare after them as they move away.

Merle looks over at Daryl, a wolfish smile splitting his craggy face. "There's more than just canned beans to eat around here, bro."

Daryl turns away and spits again. There's a bad taste in his mouth he can't get rid of.

Merle got himself sent to juvie not long after Daryl broke his arm, and his Dad had been pissed. He went on another bender that night, and Daryl spent most of his brother's subsequent absence ducking low and fast.

That fall, when Merle was back, Daryl learned how to throw a punch.

"Not like that, Darlena. Jesus, you're like the sister I never had."

Merle had laid back and watched Daryl fend off Jerry and Bernard with great amusement. Daryl tried his hardest but they were much older and bigger than he was. It was unfair from the start, and Daryl may as well have been throwing pebbles at Goliath. Bernard laughed as Jerry pretended to throw a punch with his right, and then cuffed Daryl with his left. Daryl slapped a hand to his stinging ear and stumbled back.

Merle dragged himself up off the grass and flicked his cigarette. He grinned at Daryl and held up his fists, and took an exaggerated stance. Daryl straightened immediately.

"Well?" Merle drawled. "Wha' cha got, baby brother? Come on, then. Stop bein' a goddamn chicken shit."

Daryl had been so focused on keeping his brother's fists in his line of sight that he never noticed anyone behind him until it was too late and Bernard had already pushed him. He stumbled forward, arms windmilling crazily. He couldn't correct himself, though, and Merle moved forward.

The punch across Daryl's jaw was hard enough to make him see stars, and his knees turned to water instantly. He hit the ground in a dazed heap.

It took him a good minute or two to get his wits back, and when he finally opened his eyes and picked himself off the ground he did it without any help.

Fucking Bernard. Daryl swiped a hand across his eyes and the treacherous moisture that leaked out of them.

He stomped off in the opposite direction. The laughter of Merle and his friends chased his heels every step of the way.

He doesn't know why he does it. Shit, it's not like he gives a crap about other people's business. But damn, that little girl of theirs won't stop crying, and it's getting bothersome.

So Daryl follows the sound of the woman's voice. It's getting increasingly more shrill with each step. When he comes across them, he sees that it's a family of three. He recognizes the husband, Ed. He's the douchebag that smirked at Daryl's crossbow and called him a hick yesterday. Ed's got his wife by the wrist, holding it high and twisting it at a painful angle. The wife is pleading in a near hysterical voice while their daughter looks on and sobs.

It only takes Daryl about three steps before Ed hears his approach. He jerks around, startled, and meets Daryl's stare. A moment later, he drops his wife's wrist like it burned him.

It's Ed's wife's turn that night to dole out everyone's portion at dinner. When Daryl steps up she hands him his plate. If his serving is a little bigger than all the rest he doesn't acknowledge it, and she certainly doesn't meet his eye.

"Son, I thought you said that you told your father."

Daryl slouched further in his chair with a disdainful sniff.

"I did. And don't call me that shit. I ain't your son."

Principal Reid sighed and folded his hands placidly on his desk and simply looked at Daryl. The benign calmness was infuriating to him, and he grunted irritably.

"What're you looking at, old man?"

Reid pushed his glasses up higher on his nose with one hand as he opened his desk drawer with the other. He pulled out a thin folder and let it flop onto his desk. He glanced up at Daryl mildly.

"Curious?"

Daryl dropped his head back and heaved an impatient exhale.

But Reid was obviously undeterred by obstinacy. He laced his fingers together overtop of the file and sat patiently. Daryl counted the seconds that ticked off the wall clock and waited for the other man to start talking. When the silence stretched on and on, he finally lifted his head.

"What the fuck's taking so long?"

Reid blinked. "I thought we were waiting for your father."

Daryl groaned.

"He ain't gonna show."

"How can you be so certain, Daryl?"

"Cuz he ain't coming."

"Because you didn't tell him?"

There's no accusation, no reproach in the man's voice, but Daryl exploded anyway.

"I fucking told you already, I told him to come! He knows, okay?" He had shouted it, hollered at the top of his, lungs but he didn't care. He wasn't setting foot in this shithole school again after today, anyway. "So say what you gotta say, and let's be done with this shit!" And he really wouldn't have left until that happened, either, because he'd never been one to back down from whatever was coming to him.

Principal Reid didn't move an inch; he just watched Daryl with dim eyes and some kind of look on his face. The son of a bitch looked sad, and it made Daryl angrier.

"Why don't you think your father will come to hear about your expulsion from school, Daryl?"

Daryl barked a laugh, quick and sharp, before he snapped his jaw shut.

"He ain't coming," Daryl spoke in a slow, condescending voice, "because he don't give a shit about any of this, alright? It ain't like you're the only school around, you know."

Reid sighed, a gentle sound that was unutterably disheartened. He glanced down at his hands as he pulled them apart and flattened his fingers over the file, closed and innocuous. He seemed to consider his next words carefully, picking them out and mulling them over with great complexity of thought. When he finally looked up at Daryl, it looked as though he were trying to work out a puzzle before him.

"I remember when you came here last year," Reid began, a touch of wistfulness tugging at his voice. "I'd heard about how you'd lost your mother in that terrible fire all those years ago, and I can recall having such a hard time reconciling the horror of that story with the boy that walked in my school's doors." He paused to chuckle. "Insolent, baleful, rude. A few more colourful adjectives could be tossed in there, I'm sure." Reid smiled. "Everything about you screamed that you were a fighter. That you wouldn't let yourself go quietly into that good night, no matter what. That first day, you came out of the gate swinging. And you haven't stopped since." The man's face had lost its mirth, and that goddamned sad look was back again. Daryl gritted his teeth. "In fact, that's exactly what's brought us to this point. I'm sorry, Daryl, but you've been warned repeatedly. It truly saddens me to have to do this."

At that, Daryl snorted in outright contempt.

"I don't need your fucking pity, and I don't need your shitty school neither."

"Maybe we should just phone your father and remind him."

Daryl waved a hand derisively. "Go ahead; be my guest." He sat back and glared, watching as Reid picked up his phone and dialed. Moments later, the principal was met with a voice recording that told him blandly that this number was out of service, so please hang up his phone and try again. Reid could hear the subtext of what the voice was really telling him, that this was just another checkmark in the long list of all the ways Daryl's father had failed him. Maybe just as accurately, all the ways the world had failed him.

And God help him, unless Daryl let him, Reid couldn't do anything for the boy, either.

He hung up the phone with a slightly shaking hand. When he looked up, Daryl Dixon was smirking.

"I told you it's not worth the bother."

In response, Reid opened the file in front of him. He rifled through a few pages, thumbed each sheet with deliberate care. He handled the papers as if the information on them was precious and could be smudged away with an errant touch. He found what he'd been looking for after a few moments and glanced up at the boy.

"Do you know what this is, Daryl?"

"I'm supposed to care?"

"It's your file." Reid leaned forward to hand over the pages he was holding. "Well, go on."

So Daryl did. He started skimming it briefly, half interested, half reluctant to discover the file's contents, but it only took a few lines before he started reading closer.

…At eleven thirty this morning in class, Daryl Dixon verbally attacked another classmate, Timothy Paxton, and threatened to "kick his skull in." The dispute arose after a disparaging comment Mr. Paxton had made regarding the state of Mr. Dixon's clothes. Although the comment was needlessly callous and uncalled for, I believe that Mr. Dixon's response was out of proportion. Had I not intervened, I am certain that Daryl would have followed up his threats with physical violence…

…I have repeatedly found Daryl Dixon's behavior in class to be uncooperative, sullen, and offensive. He uses foul language and refuses to respect both his peers and the authority of his teachers…

…Daryl was caught smoking marijuana at lunch today. When I informed him that I would have to confiscate the remains of his joint, his response to me was, "Fuck you, bitch." When I told him to report immediately to the principal's office, he laughed. I find Daryl to be continually obstinate and disrespectful, with little to no regard for the feelings of others…

…Mr. Dixon attacked John Granger, a classmate, who was verbally abrasive with him in English class today. He managed to jump across a row of desks to get to John, and pinned him against the wall as he struck him several times in the face before I could separate the two. Daryl was enraged by my interference, and called me a "fucking prick." During the altercation, John had ripped open Daryl's shirtfront, and I was alarmed to notice a number of bruises across Mr. Dixon's midriff…

…Daryl Dixon talked back to me today during class; I excused him to the principal's office for his rude behavior. As Daryl exited the room, I noticed a limp that was not present the day previous…

…Daryl remains uncommunicative and closed off in class. He is surly to his peers and avoids interaction…

…Daryl came to class with a bruise on his forehead today…

Daryl's head snapped up, eyes narrowed.

"What the fuck is this? What are you showing me this for?"

Principal Reid took off his glasses; that same carefulness coloured his timbre when he spoke again.

"I'm showing you the incident reports from your teachers from your previous…altercations. If you keep reading, Daryl, you'll see there's a pattern."

Daryl didn't reply; he didn't notice how his hands had convulsively tightened their grip on the reports.

Reid drew in a long, even breath. He looked so damn sorrowful that Daryl wanted to punch the look right off his face, the fucker.

"You said that this isn't worth the bother. But all of these teachers that wrote these reports? They would disagree. I disagree. Daryl, we're talking about you, here. This is your life, and it's certainly worth the bother. I don't think you understand –" He stopped abruptly, cutting himself off. He looked frazzled for the first time since this whole conversation started. "What you're going through, you don't have to do it alone. Son…I can help you. I could-"

But Daryl didn't –wouldn't- hear it. His blood started to roar his ears, and when he threw himself up with enough force to send his chair skidding backwards, the wooden legs made a godawful screeching noise against the floor.

"SHUT UP!" He screamed. "I don't need this shit! Not from you!"

He whirled with one last, "Fuck this shit!"

The door slammed behind him, and Reid buried his weary head in his hands.

The one called Shane, he seems like he's more or less got the group held together at the seams. He's got people organized into groups with different responsibilities. Some people keep watch, others deal with rations and the women do the domestic shit. The Chinaman seems to be their errand boy or something. Daryl's more than content to stay on the fringes of things. He throws them a stray squirrel when he goes out and bags his and Merle's dinner to keep up good appearances. He doesn't back down from anyone's eye contact but he doesn't offer any suggestions when the floor is open to everyone. Merle hangs back with him, sniggering. It gets on Shane's nerves by the third night the brothers have saddled with them.

"Is something about all this funny to you, Merle?" Shane gestures around him from where he's crouched, putting his head together with a handful of people about what to do next.

Merle's lips peel back from his teeth. "And what're you gonna do if I say yes, officer?"

Next thing, Shane's right up in Merle's face. Son of a bitch can probably smell his breath. Merle's smiling his smile, relaxed, but Daryl knows he's a snake in the grass. He's heard that Shane's a cop and he seems like a pretty tough guy, but Merle's a fucking pitbull. And he hasn't invested three days of this bullshit already to just get thrown out of camp, all because of Merle pulling his usual crap.

So Daryl makes a feeble attempt at peacekeeping. He sets his crossbow down and stands up, edging himself slightly between his brother and Shane. "It's nothing."

"He wasn't talking to you, Robin Hood."

Merle immediately swivels his attention to the new voice that's chimed in. A black guy has come forward, dislodging from the group of onlookers. Daryl's older brother sneers, then takes a long moment to clear his sinuses and bring up a large globule of phlegm. He spits in the man's direction.

"You talk like that again to my brother, darkie, and I'll slit your throat and truss you up like a pig. Understand?"

The man's eyes widen at the slur, and he moves to step forward. His fists are clenched.

Shane doesn't tear his eyes away from Merle. "I got this, T-Dog," he calls over his shoulder, thrusting a hand out in the approaching man's direction.

Merle snorts. "Yeah, T-Dog, Shane here's got this." He takes another step closer.

It's then that Daryl catches a scuffling movement off to the side. It's Lori's boy, Carl. They're with Shane, he knows. Carl looks frightened, wide-eyed and rooted to the spot he's standing on. Lori's got her arms wrapped around him, whispering something, but she looks more than a little alarmed, also.

Daryl puts his hand on Shane's shoulder, because if he did that to Merle he'd only get punched for his efforts. He gives the man a shove – not hard, but just enough to get him to take a step back.

"It's nothing, I told you. Best leave us be."

Shane looks at Daryl, a hard and flat stare. Any other day, and Daryl wouldn't hesitate to rise to the challenge. As it is, he just manages to keep a calm enough head to nod once in the lady and the kid's direction. Shane gets his meaning and takes a slow, unhurried step away from the brothers.

"It better be nothing," he tells Daryl. He raises a finger, pointing. "Keep your brother in line."

...

Hours later, someone is shouting frantically in the pitch darkness.

"Geeks! They're here! They're here!"

Daryl shoots up in his bedroll. Moments later he's outside of his tent and running towards the commotion, crossbow in hand. He sees T-Dog, and one of the sisters – Amy, he thinks- is tearing around screaming for the other. Another tent further down, and he sees Ed. His wife and his kid are scrambling out of the tent's entrance, crying, and the useless son of bitch has left them behind, already off running in the opposite direction of the screaming. Daryl stops and grabs the little girl's elbow, dragging her up to her feet.

"Stay clear, but don't leave camp," he tells her as he reaches down and helps her mother to her feet. He doesn't give them a second glance before he's off again.

There are three of them, he sees as he gets near enough. He can actually hear them breathing, hear the sounds of their organs sloshing around in shredded cavities. The Chinaman is there, so are the old man with the RV and Shane. Shane's gripping a wrench and his jaw is clenched. T-Dog comes to a halt beside Daryl. "Shit," he breathes, staring.

"You got a weapon?"

T-Dog's eyes slide over to Daryl, and he shakes his head numbly. "No."

Daryl snorts. "Figures." He steps forward and raises his crossbow, neatly burying an arrow in the closest thing's head. It crumbles to the ground and twitches once, twice.

Shane bulldozers another one of the things over, straddling it and somehow keeping its limbs trapped. He raises the wrench high over his head and brings it down with bone crushing force. He hits it again and again, and then suddenly Merle is there, whooping like a kid at play as he swings a bat at the remaining thing. The bat connects with the back of its head and it goes down like it's a boneless fish. Merle laughs and brings the bat down repeatedly until the head is pulp and jelly.

"Hoo! Ugly fucking things! D'ya see this, little brother?"

Daryl wrinkles his nose as he retrieves his arrow out of the skull of the thing he dropped.

Merle comes over to inspect Daryl and Shane's handiwork. He shakes his head, chuckling.

"Goddamn dead people, up and walking. That's a good name for 'em. Walkers." He laughs again, maniacally gleeful.

Shane wipes a blood splatter off his cheek with the back of his wrist and locks eyes with Daryl. He gives the younger Dixon a nod of thanks. Daryl turns his back and wipes his arrow clean on his pants.

Yvette's mom had a new boyfriend. Daryl saw it, plain as day.

Long sleeves, blouses buttoned high up the neck and down to the wrist. Skirts with long socks. But more than the clothing, Yvette looked haunted. One look, and Daryl knew.

Even if all of the fuckwads in his new school were too stupid to see it, Daryl could.

That Tuesday after school, Daryl hung back instead of leaving right away like he normally did. Yvette never saw him watching her as she stood by the road. When the truck pulled up alongside her, she hung her head as she climbed in. The man behind the wheel, some balding son of a bitch with a jowly profile, stretched out an arm along the back of the bucket seat and there was a reluctant pause before she sidled over to sit right up beside him.

The curtain of her hair fell forward and the truck pulled away.

Merle laughed at him later that evening.

"So what if he is? Bitch probably has it coming. You ever consider that?"

Daryl chewed a hangnail on his thumb and scowled. "I'm telling you, Merle. I know what I saw."

Merle shrugged as he squinted down at the dirt. He looked up after a moment, brows furrowed.

"Why do you even give a shit about this bitch anyway, bro? You want this guy off her so you can have a crack, that it?"

If Daryl hadn't holding the rifle he'd have taken a swing. He briefly considered dropping it but gave the idea up. Merle would have taken him down, anyway. Always did, and anyway he had one thing right. The bitch wasn't worth it.

The group is up and ready to move at first light, vehicles packed and ready to go. The engine in Dale's RV is making ominous clunking sounds but he seems to be accustomed to it. Everyone is quiet and set in their tasks, faces grim.

The only one who seems to be enjoying himself is Merle. Daryl climbs into his pickup while his brother pulls up beside him on his motorbike, revving the engine loudly. The action earns a glare from Shane, and Merle smiles broadly.

"Where we off to, great leader?"

Shane's eyes grow cold, but he ignores the jab and carries on with what he's doing. Lori glances at Merle over her shoulder as Shane's hand gently guides her elbow, and Merle blows her a kiss.

She sat off by herself at lunch. Eyes downcast, she'd been too absorbed with picking at food she wasn't really looking at to notice his approach. Daryl slid in across the table from her.

Yvette looked up listlessly, and Daryl smiled at her. It felt forced, though, and it failed to spark a response from Yvette. She looked back down at her plate.

"Something you want, Daryl?"

Sitting there, it occurred to Daryl that he didn't have the slightest idea what to say to her.

"Just saying hi."

Yvette looked back at him sharply, suspicious. She studied him before she opened her mouth with a frown.

"Then…hi, I guess."

"Hey."

Her forehead creased as she waited for more, but Daryl's mouth had gone dry.

"Okay," she said slowly, dubiously. "Well…bye."

Daryl walked away, disgusted with himself. Why should he even care? Fuck this shit, anyway.

Except that he was positive he saw a hickey hidden behind her long hair, on her neck.

You want this guy off her so you can have a crack, that it?

"Fuck you, Merle," Daryl muttered as he hurtled into the bathroom door with excessive force. It swung shut behind him, and moments later a loud crashing could be heard from within as one of the toilet stalls was violently ripped out of its hinges.

They have their first casualty later that afternoon, when the group stops for a break. They've been moving further and further away from the city, and there's been less walker sightings. There's a more relaxed feeling amongst everyone, and the huddles are looser, friendlier. Daryl and Merle aren't having any of it, though, and it's not like Daryl's anyone's fucking babysitter.

When the guy wanders too far off to take a piss no one thinks to keep an eye out.

One minute Daryl's sitting back against a tree, sullenly watching Merle uncap his flask, and then the next he's jerking upright as a scream rends the air.

They find his body, ripped open and macabre, about eighty yards away in a thick copse of trees. The walker is hunching over the body, eating ravenously with both hands deep in the poor bastard's innards.

It's a quick kill; Daryl could have made the shot with his eyes closed. He rolls the walker off the dead guy's body and grimaces. This walker must have had its face torn off when it died as a person. Shane runs up behind him and swears as he comes to a dead stop, running a hand down his face. The Chinaman and someone else Daryl doesn't recognize are right behind him, panting from the exertion.

Shane looks at all of them in turn. "Anyone know his name?"

The Chinaman anxiously fidgets with his cap, shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously. He's blinking rapidly and rubbing his eyes, trying to force back the tears that are swelling at the corners. He can't look at the either corpses for too long. "Nick…Nick, I think."

Shane looks at Nick's body with a focused expression, thinking.

"He with anyone?"

A shrug from the Chinaman before he hangs his head, staring morosely at his feet. "I've only seen him alone."

Shane takes a second before nodding. "Probably for the best."

Daryl glances up sharply, squinting. "Yeah, sure. For the best." The best for you – ain't no family to have to tell. "I'm sure Nick thinks so, too."

Shane's face is cold stone. "Go to hell, Dixon."

Daryl shrugs it off and walks back the way he came. Better men have spoken to him worse.

He's sure they're probably talking about what to do with Nick's body, because these people like to try to fool each other into thinking that they care, or that they give a shit about who lives or dies beside themselves. He wants none of their bullshit.

...

Daryl is antsy the next morning, and more than ready to hurry up and get it over and done with. He finds his brother is less than enthusiastic about the prospect, all of a sudden.

"Why the rush, baby brother?" Merle asks. He's eating his morning rations outside their tent. "Things is good right now." He pokes his fork in the direction of a small group of women. Daryl recognizes Lori and Ed's wife – Carol, he learned her name was – among the cluster. "We got them coozes looking after our laundry, preparing our meals."

"Doing your laundry, maybe," Daryl grumbles. No way is he letting anyone near his things - the idea of a stranger pawing through his clothing makes his skin crawl. He notices Carol's head prick up and she starts looking over the heads of the group, probably searching for her daughter. Her eyes briefly light on Daryl and their gazes meet. He turns his back, breaking off the contact first.

Merle cocks his head. "What's crawled up your skirt, Darlena? There some sort of problem here?" He forks in another bite of beans into his mouth before stabbing it in Daryl's direction. "You wanna scrub your own dainties, fine. But don't forget whose idea this whole thing was, else you're more'n welcome to light out."

"I ain't the one forgettin' why we're here," Daryl mutters. In response, Merle leans back with his hands behind his head. He lets out a belch and closes his eyes, putting an end to the conversation.

Daryl shakes his head and stalks off, unsurprised.

Later on that day Daryl's sitting cross-legged and checking his arrows, getting himself ready to go on a hunt out of boredom when Shane's shadow blocks out the sun. He's starting to get to be a real pain in the ass.

"What?" Daryl grunts, not looking up from what he's doing.

"We need to talk, Dixon."

"Knock yourself out. I got nothin' to say."

"We need to talk about Merle's contribution to the group."

This gets Daryl's attention; he glances up and squints at Shane. "Merle ain't done anything to you people," he says, defensive.

Shane flicks a meaningful glance over Daryl's shoulder. He looks behind him and sees Merle some thirty paces away, snoring. He hasn't moved since he and Daryl spoke at breakfast.

"It ain't what he's done to us," Shane tells him. "It's what he's done for us. And that's exactly nothing." Daryl turns away from the sight of his brother but says nothing. There's nothing to say, because it's true. This is exactly what Daryl didn't want. This is why he wanted them to hurry up and rob these idiots blind and be on their way by now. If they were going to do it, they were fast losing their opportunity.

Shane's watching him, waiting for him to say something. Daryl knows that whatever he says next is going to come under heavy scrutiny. Neither of them will admit it, but they rub each other the wrong way.

"I'll go on longer hunts," he finally says. "Start bringing more back for the group. I'm a better shot than Merle." He knows that his skills as a hunter make him valuable, and in truth he's more than happy to hunt if it means getting away from them.

Shane rubs the back of his neck. "We'd appreciate that, Daryl," he tells him sincerely. "But your brother still needs to contribute. The only way this group is going to make it is if we all pitch in."

Fuck your group, Daryl wants to say. He can't stand this fake camaraderie, all the we're-all-in-it-together bullshit. If they want to carry on like that then that's their business. But he's not playing along.

Still, he was the one ready to call Merle out on pulling his same old crap earlier. He can't be the hypocrite.

"And?" he grunts, going back to his work. He finishes sorting his arrows and gets to his feet, checking to make sure he's got everything on him one last time.

Shane moves with Daryl, walking the short distance with him to the edge of camp. "And we're low on fuel, and if we want to bring our vehicles we need to double back to the road and start siphoning whatever we can find. Me and Glenn are heading out in half an hour."

"Glenn?"

Shane scans the group, and points to someone. Daryl squints against the sun and picks out a familiar ball cap.

"The Chinaman?" he groans. "That ain't gonna go over well."

"Your brother can keep his redneck shit to himself," Shane growls. "I'm warning you right now-"

"Then tell him yourself," Daryl all but spits in his face. "I ain't your fuckin' messenger boy."

He stalks away before Shane can say anything else. Daryl's had enough of his shit for one day.

Daryl Dixon, you fucking idiot. This is a really bad fucking idea. What are you doing here?

He didn't really know, except he did. He knew exactly why, but it took him a fifth of whiskey to get this far. He figured he'd have needed another bottle if he wanted to start getting that honest with himself.

This ain't your business; Merle's right for laughing at you. You're going to get your ass beat for this, for sure.

Too late, though. He'd already pitched the first pebble. It pinged harmlessly off the glass. He waited, half frozen in the bushes like a goddamned scared deer, or a stalker. He couldn't decide which made him a bigger pussy, so he straightened up and walked right out onto the backyard. He threw another pebble, then another, getting bolder each time. By the fourth pebble, a light turned on dimly from within, followed by a rustling at the curtains before the window was opened with a wooden squeak.

Yvette's head poked out the window, timidly at first, but when she saw Daryl standing there, swaying drunkenly, her eyes narrowed.

"Daryl?" she hissed. "The hell are you doing?"

Daryl cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered as loud as he dared. "Come down; let's go do something."

"It's-" Yvette's head ducked back inside briefly before she finished. "-Two thirty in the morning!"

"So come quick, then. Sun's up in three hours."

"What for?"

He held up a second bottle of whiskey. The liquid sloshed around audibly inside the glass, and Daryl grinned. He couldn't remember the last time it felt so good.

In the dark, Yvette's pale face hovered in her bedroom window, and when she smiled back at Daryl he thought suddenly of his mom.

...

She leaned back in the truck bed, legs crossed in front of her comfortably. Her body language was relaxed, and Daryl had to admit he felt the same. It wasn't often he had a drinking partner besides Merle and his shithead friends. He had never brought other people up to this place, but this was nice. Daryl was surprised to find himself enjoying the company.

Yvette took another swallow of whiskey, oblivious to Daryl watching her. She was staring off, enjoying the view. It was easier to see the valley from up in the mountains. "So this is where the great Daryl Dixon comes to get away from it all?" Daryl couldn't tell if she was joking or not, so he didn't react. Finally, a smile tugged at her lips. "You're not really one for joking, are you, Daryl?"

Daryl shrugged. "Guess not. Never really thought about it."

Yvette snorted and thrust the bottle at him, and he took it to have something to occupy his hands with. It was an effort not to fidget. He took a long swallow, and then another before he knew what he was doing. He was drunk, he knew, but most days he was usually pretty numb to it. This was one of those times. And besides, he knew these back roads right down to every last curve, anyway. It wasn't the driving that had him nervous.

Now Yvette was definitely amused. "You're not one for talking much, in general," she observed.

"I never said I was great," he countered belatedly on her earlier comment, and immediately felt stupid. Stupid and slow.

If Yvette thought the same of him, she didn't show it. Instead, her smile softened. "Never said you did," she replied. She held out her hand, and he handed her back the bottle.

"So why'd you bring me here, then?" she prodded. She must have been feeling the whiskey. He didn't know Yvette all that well – he hardly knew anyone that well - but Daryl had had a feeling she wouldn't have asked otherwise. Problem was, he wasn't all that sure how he would go about answering her.

He shrugged again. "Big bottle."

Yvette took the bottle from her lips, sputtering a little. When she recovered her breath, she grinned at him again. A strand of hair clung to her cheek.

"You can make a joke," she said. "I'm impressed."

They lapsed back into companionable silence, elbows touching as they passed the bottle back and forth. The minutes ticked by comfortably.

Yvette was the one to break the silence first.

"So what're you gonna do?" She passed the whiskey back to Daryl and swiped at the corner of her mouth to catch a thin trickle of liquid with the back of her hand.

Daryl stared down at the bottle in his hands as he tipped it back and forth, watching its contents swirl. "Depends what you mean."

She frowned. "After graduation, of course. We only got a couple months."

He considered for a moment. "Not much, I guess. Haven't thought too hard about it. You?"

Yvette laughed dryly, a bitter sound. "Getting the fuck out of dodge, I can tell you that much. I've been waiting for this for a very long time, if you know what I mean."

Daryl knew very much what she meant. "I'm jealous," he told her, with a gentle nudge. He passed the bottle back to her.

She gave him a sideways glance as she took a swallow. "Why don't you get out of here, then?" she asked him earnestly. "What's holding you back?"

He didn't meet her eyes. "Nothing, I suppose." It felt like an admission, and it pissed him off that it made him fucking sad, so he didn't say anything else for a while.

"What did you think I meant?" She asked him, because the silence between them had suddenly changed and gotten uneasy.

And through numb lips, Daryl finally said it.

"I thought maybe you were asking what I'm going to do about Jason."

The bottle in Yvette's hand froze midair, her body stock-still. Daryl held his breath and waited. Even the fucking crickets went dead quiet.

Yvette shook her head, a slight movement. "What?" she asked in a breathless voice. "I-I don't… how do you know his name?"

"Doesn't your mother know? How could she not?"

"Of course she knows him!" Yvette's voice started to take on a shrill edge. "He's her boyfriend, for fuck sakes! What the hell's wrong with you?"

"You know that ain't what I asked you," he told her, and it took everything he had to keep the sudden flare of emotion bridled.

This really is a bad idea, Dixon. What the fuck were you thinking?

It's too late for self-flagellations, though. Daryl had already opened the box and nothing could be done for it.

Yvette looked at him with unreadable eyes, and he wasn't sure if she was about to cry or yell or tell him he's a fucking asshole and to get the hell away from her. What he wanted was for her to tell him that he was dead fucking wrong, but then it would be a lie and he'd have to see if he was big enough a piece of shit to leave it at that and be blind to it from then on. He swore he'd never be that low a person.

He was terrified to think that maybe he was.

Yvette's eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Daryl," she said in a low, hateful voice. "You don't know what you're talking about." She clambered to her feet and jumped out of the truck bed. Daryl had no choice but to do the same, hand digging in his pocket for the keys as he opened the door and got behind the wheel. There was nothing else to say.

Yvette kept her back stiff as she stared out the window the entire drive back.

Merle's back from his expedition with Shane and Glenn before Daryl returns from hunting. He meant what he'd said to Shane about going out and bringing back more to go around. When he gets back to the tent, squirrels and woodchuck thrown over his shoulder, his older brother's already got the fire going and the water's nearly set to boil.

"Nice shooting, little bro," Merle comments good-naturedly and goes back to stirring the embers. Daryl casts around at the nearby tents, looking for Shane. When he finds him, their eyes meet briefly and Shane gives him a slight nod.

Merle looks up at him and notices the exchange. "What? You don't think I can play nice with the coolie and the cop? Shit." He chuckles. "You gonna start skinnin' them squirrels so we can get to stewing?"

Daryl settles down on a log and positions the first squirrel in front of him, knife drawn.

"You get gas?" he asks after the first couple slices, fingers working deftly.

Merle grabs another squirrel and gets to work, himself. "Nope," he says. "Big waste of time. The Chinaman wants to run to town. Says he can go in alone, but he wants a couple guys waitin' on the outside to help him lug the gas back."

Daryl cocks an eyebrow. "You volunteered?"

Merle flicks innards into the fire and scratches his cheek with his shoulder. "Ain't got nothing better to do," he says casually. "Would only help us out in the long run, brother."

Much as he hates the thought of prolonging their stay with these people, Daryl can't deny the logic. They'll need gas themselves, anyway, and it would go a long ways towards getting Shane off their backs.

He scowls as he reaches for another squirrel. He doesn't like the fact that his brother will be running towards what they were trying to get away from, but this whole damn robbery was his idea, anyway. So he'll sit here, and he'll stew up these squirrels for the rest of the camp, and he'll play Merle's fucking game because he's the one who got them into this mess, not Daryl. Daryl never asked for any of this.

...

That night, Daryl is brought out of a dead sleep by a vicious cramp twisting his gut. He rolls over on his side and holds his breath as another one hits. He stifles a groan and feels a cold sweat spring out across his shoulders. His scalp prickles. After a minute, the churning in his belly increases and he's hit with another cramp. He sits up and kicks the sleeping bag off his legs, debating if pulling on a pair of pants is even worth the effort. But someone's out there on watch duty, he knows, and no way is he going to be seen stumbling around in the dark wearing just a pair of boxers.

He half staggers out of his tent, unable to fully straighten. The pain in his gut won't ease up and another cramp twists the knife in his belly a little more. He can make out Dale's silhouette in the pallid moonlight, sitting in his accustomed place atop his RV. He raises a hand in a mute wave to Daryl before turning his attention back to searching the night for signs of walkers.

Daryl heads off into the trees, hand on his stomach.

He feels wrung out and oddly shaky by the time he gets back to his tent. By now, someone else has taken Dale's post as lookout, but Daryl doesn't give it much further notice than that. He unzips his tent and crawls back to his bedroll, collapsing onto one shoulder and promptly dropping off into sleep.

Daryl was right; he got that beating he'd predicted. Only it wasn't for the stint with Yvette. For some reason, she never mentioned it to anyone. It was his own stupid screw up that did it. His father had ended up finding the whiskey bottle in the truck bed the next day. It wasn't his brand, and Merle was still in juvie.

It was three days before the ringing in his ears cleared and he could walk a straight line without falling over. When he was able to go back to school he learned that not only was Yvette not there that day, she hadn't been in class all week.

Daryl found himself on Yvette's street more often than not. He lingered when Jason's truck was in the driveway. And as he'd pull away and head back home, he was chased by the memory of Merle and his friends, Jerry and Bernard, laughing at him all over again.

There's a hand on his shoulder, and he doesn't know if the hand's cool and his body is hot or the other way around. All Daryl knows is that his guts feel like they're on fire, and when he opens his eyes the tent is swimming.

Merle's face swings blurrily into view. Daryl blinks the sweat out of his eyes.

"Jesus, little brother. You look like shit."

"Screw you," Daryl grunts. Suddenly, he bolts out of his bedroll, pushing Merle aside and scrambling to get outside. He barely gets his torso past the tent entrance and he collapses on one elbow, heaving. The contents of his stomach are hot and acidic and absolutely foul. Merle pulls back, covering his own mouth with a wrist.

"The hell's going on with you?" he asks gruffly, grabbing Daryl roughly by the shoulder and dragging him away from the mess. Daryl lets him, and he leans back while he gulps in air. His throat burns from the bile, and he spits to try and get the taste out of his mouth. It's enough to make him gag again, and he twists back over on his side for another bout of retching.

"You sick or somethin'?" Merle asks when it's over.

"Dunno, bro," Daryl manages to mutter, but the truth is he's starting to feel horrible. He forces himself to his feet, because he sure as shit ain't about to let his brother see him crawl. His knees wobble and the ground tilts with each step, but he makes it back to his bedroll and sinks down with a groan. His stomach clenches, threatening an imminent trip back outside. He squeezes his eyes shut as the pain flares and tightens like a vice around his intestines. He feels his brother's shadow over his face.

"…headin' out now, you hear me? There's a few of us going out with the Chinaman. The plan's to be back before night." There's a brief rustle, and Daryl feels Merle place something within easy reach, just brushing his outstretched fingertips.

"Canteen's full," Merle grunts. "Don't forget to drink, numb-nuts."

Daryl gives his brother a weak nod, and Merle stoops and exits the tent without further comment.

He doesn't know how long he sleeps before he's woken by another cruel twist of pain in his gut. This time, Daryl is afraid that he's not going to be able to make it far enough to avoid discovery from someone in the camp. His stomach is in agony.

"You pussy," Daryl hisses at himself. "Get it together."

He pulls himself to his feet with great effort, gritting his teeth against the looming nausea. Outside, the sun is bright and dazzling and it burns Daryl's retinas. He shades his eyes and looks down as he walks raggedly.

He passes by Carol and her little girl, Sophia. They're digging through the contents of their vehicle's trunk. Sophia is holding a bar of soap. Carol looks up with a shy smile, but it slides off her face as she gets a better look at him. "Morning, Daryl," she greets him timidly. They've barely exchanged words since he and Merle got here, but the same goes for Daryl and the rest of the group, and that suits him just fine. "How you doing?" she asks, sounding unsure if she should be asking. "You look a little peaky."

Daryl bristles at the attention, but he doesn't bother telling her to mind her own damn business. He only glares in response as he tries to walk with a semi straight posture. He's pretty sure he does a piss poor job of hiding the pain he's in. He can't do much better than a slouch; the core of him is a molten, swirling ball of excruciation and he has to fight to not curl into himself like a dead spider. He can feel Carol's stare on the back of his neck.

By the time he thinks he's deep enough in the woods, Daryl is dangerously close to passing out. He can't believe how quickly this has hit him, and he wonders briefly if anyone else is sick. He tries to think back on all the things he's eaten in the past few days – the short list brings up nothing suspect. And he's been hunting and skinning his kills himself for too long to not know bad meat when he encounters it. He runs his hands over his body, patting himself almost desperately, seized with the sudden panic that perhaps he had been bit in the recent walker encounters. He lets out a breath when his fingers are met with ridged, old scars but otherwise unbroken skin. He doesn't have any longer than a moment to revel in the relief: his gut clenches painfully and he's fiddling with his pants with trembling fingers.

By the time Daryl emerges from the woods, he's practically dripping sweat and so dizzy he can hardly see straight. He weaves a little as he walks, sheer stubbornness keeping him on his feet.

The sunlight once again aggravates his mounting headache and forces him to keep his head down, but the ground is undulating like waves before him and Daryl can feel the nausea building again.

Shit, he's pretty fucking sick.

"-ou okay? Daryl?"

The voice flickers in and out like a shortwave radio, and Daryl rubs the sweat out of his eyes. Some distant part of him understands that the voice had been talking to him for some time, but he can't focus on that. Not when his tent is so damn far.

There's a touch on his elbow, light and hesitant, and Daryl recoils, flinching almost violently.

"Leave me be," he snarls, and Andrea snatches her hand back, startled and defensive. Her brow furrows.

"I was just seeing if-" she tries to explain reasonably enough, but Daryl's already walking away.

"Bitch," he mumbles.

"Sorry I asked," she shoots back, and doesn't follow.

Carol, though, is another story. He doesn't even see her until she's walking right beside him.

"Daryl, can I help you? You don't look so good."

He tries to growl at her to fuck off, but it's completely ineffectual. The nausea is already rising, filling the back of his throat, and he hastily stumbles a few feet off to the side before he bends forward at the waist and vomits into the tall grass. As he heaves, he's dimly aware of Carol hovering nearby. It's fucking humiliating, and he just wants her to move on and leave him alone. No such luck, and he feels a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, Daryl," Carol says softly, and her hand moves to the back of his neck. "You're burning up."

The touch is so personal, so damn motherly, that Daryl can't deal with it. He can't stand the sympathy, the concerned and caring glances. They think they care, because that's what people are supposed to do for each other in the face of suffering, but Daryl knows better. People suffer every day, all the time. That's just how it is, and giving a crap won't change a thing. Won't change –

His thoughts jumble and coalesce into something too muddled for Daryl to make out. He rests his hands on his knees, hunched over, and just breathes. The earth feels like it's spinning under his feet, and he closes his eyes because if he keeps them open he's sure he's going to throw up again.

"Daryl?" The hand is back, resting between his shoulder blades, and Daryl's eyes snap open again. He jerks away from her touch. Christ, he'd forgotten that Carol was there. He needs to get back to his tent, and he needs to get there now. He forces himself to straighten up as much as he can and starts walking, but his feet aren't cooperating and he's tripping over himself.

"Go away," he spits at Carol, but she doesn't waver. She just stares at him with doe-wide eyes and follows a pace behind him.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," she tells him in a quietly insistent voice. "You're obviously sick, and Merle's gone to help Glenn."

The anger is quick and fierce. "Merle ain't my keeper," he snaps. "And I don't need you following me. Don't you have a family around here?"

Carol had been starting to reach for Daryl, but at his harsh words she seems to change her mind. Her hands withdraw, but she doesn't leave. "I do," she tells him in a faintly tremulous voice. She's nervous, sure, but the woman is like a goddamn dog with a bone. "My family is here, but yours ain't." She takes a small, apprehensive step closer. "Please, Daryl. Let me help you back to your tent at least."

"Don't want your help." The toe of his boot strikes an unseen root and he barely manages to avoid falling over, but the movement jars him. He wraps his arms around his stomach as he's hit with another blinding flash of pain, and this time he has to stop. He shuts his eyes and waits for the spasm to pass.

When he opens his eyes, he's startled to find Carol's shadowed face bending over his, blocking out the sun. He can't understand how this can be, and it's when a second face is peering down at him, long brown hair hanging down and obscuring her face, that he realizes he's laying flat on his back on the ground. He can feel the grass beneath him, and there's a rock digging into the small of his back. He can't remember how he got here, and the sudden disorientation that comes with that is too unsettling for Daryl. He tries to sit up, to get his bearings, but hands are gently pushing his shoulders down.

Lori looks over at Carol, and although her question is low and not directed at Daryl he hears it all the same.

"How long has he been like this?"

Daryl looks at Lori, trying to bring her face into focus, but there's sweat in his eyes again and the world is spinning crazily so he can't keep them open for too long. She asks more questions but now he's beyond hearing them, of attaching meaning to the words. Her hair falls forward, spilling over her shoulders and curtaining her face, and it reminds Daryl of her.

Yvette.

Then it all slips away from him.

Jason Cleary was just about as big a drunk as Daryl's old man. In a small town in Georgia, those were some of the easiest men to find. Daryl picked out Jason's truck in a parking lot behind a dingy bar, and waited. It was cold out, but a simmering rage was stoking a slow fire in his belly.

When the son of a bitch finally stumbled outside after last call, Daryl fell in behind him silently as the man made wavering progress across the lot to his pickup. By the time he'd gotten to his driver side door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, he saw Daryl's reflection in the window too late.

Jason spun around, swinging blindly to the threat, but the booze made his efforts uncoordinated and sloppy. When Daryl's fist connected with his jaw, Daryl couldn't remember the last time anything had felt so satisfying.

Yvette's mom's boyfriend went sprawling in the dirt. "You little shit," he snarled. "Who the fuck are you?"

But Daryl was too busy burying his boot in the man's side to answer. Jason oofed painfully at the blow, and when he hunched forward Daryl kicked him in the face and flattened him out entirely. Jason's nose was a bloody mess, and the blood bubbled at his nostrils as he tried to breathe. He made panicked, whistling noises, and when he opened his mouth there were gaps where his front teeth used to be. Daryl wanted to knock out the rest of his teeth. He wanted to cut off his fingers, his dick, and any other part of him that had touched her.

He straddled Jason, and grabbed the man's blood-flecked shirt collar with both hands. "You fucking pervert," he ground out. "You're never gonna touch Yvette again," he seethed and hauled Jason's head off the ground. "D'you hear me? Or I'll kill you, you fucking son of bitch. I'll kill you –"

But then Jason's eyes had widened nearly imperceptibly, and just like that Daryl knew it was over. The blow came the same moment he'd comprehended that his old man was standing there behind him. He went face first into the dirt, his head whirling. When Daryl flipped over onto his ass, his father was standing over him.

"What the fuck is this?" he bellowed at Daryl. "What the fuck is this, Daryl? You little prick, what do you think you're doing? Trying to mug this guy?" Steel-toed boots slammed into Daryl's side, but he knew better than to try and defend himself. Instead, he curled into the hammering blows in an effort to try and shield himself better. "You're no better than your worthless brother. You shit! You little piece of shit!"

Then Daryl was being yanked to his feet and roughly shaken; the reek of whiskey stung his eyes. He punched Daryl across the jaw, holding him up with one hand, and when he let go Daryl couldn't help but fall back down into the dirt.

It went on like this, Daryl being lifted to his feet and struck again and again until he collapsed back down in the dirt like a broken puppet, his father's voice screaming in his ears. He was aware of a crowd gathering, but faces and voices were becoming indistinct, even his old man's. The only face he saw clearly was the memory of Yvette's from earlier that day in class after her week-long absence. Daryl had still been able to make out the mottled yellow of fading bruises.

It went on, until finally Daryl fell to the ground and all went black.

There are hands. Voices and hands.

"He's coming back around –"

Commotion, movement, and he's at the centre.

Someone's touching his face, and Daryl twists his head, trying to get away. But there are fingers gently grasping under his chin, turning his face back towards the voices.

"Can you open your eyes, Daryl?"

Daryl groans, and slowly the pinwheel of blurred colours and shapes take a more recognizable form. Lori, Carol, and now Andrea are bending over him. He can make out the familiar surroundings of his tent, and he wonders muzzily how he got back inside. More importantly, he just wants to be left alone.

"I don't want you here," he tells them, swatting feebly at their hands.

Lori sits back on her heels, looking Daryl up and down. "What do you think we should do?" Carol asks her in a soft voice.

"Do you think…?" Andrea lets the question trail off, but the implication hangs in the air heavily. She may as well have said it out loud.

Daryl growls.

"Ain't bit," he tells them viciously. "Now get the hell out and leave me be." He closes his eyes, blocking them out. His guts ache miserably and he swallows against the acrid taste in his mouth.

Daryl loses time, then. He dozes fitfully, shivering and burning and dripping sweat. His stomach clenches and twists, never giving him respite. It follows him into his dreams, and drags him back to the surface before he gets any chance at real rest. He twists fitfully on his bedroll, trying to find a position that eases the misery.

His stomach lurches, and he barely manages to roll over before he vomits on the floor of his tent. He's disgusted with himself, but he doesn't have the strength to do much else about it other than roll onto his back. A hand slides under his neck and he jumps.

"Easy, Daryl. Here." The canteen is at his lips, and he swallows a few times before the effort overwhelms him entirely. He opens his eyes to see Shane peering at him, expression serious and set. "I hear you're doing poorly," he tells Daryl.

"Can't you people leave me the hell alone?" He mutters darkly, and turns his back to Shane. He feels like he's repeating himself and yet no one is listening. It's exhausting to him.

Shane puts his hand on Daryl's shoulder and gently pulls him back. "Sorry, buddy," he tells Daryl apologetically. "But you know I can't do that. I need to check."

"Like hell you are."

Shane exhales, a little impatiently. "I ain't askin' here. T-Dog." T-Dog appears over his shoulder, grim faced.

"Sorry, man," he tells Daryl, holding his shoulders and leaning his weight down. Daryl instantly starts to struggle, lashing out as best he can while restrained. T-Dog presses down harder. "Easy, Daryl. I don't want to hurt you."

"Like hell!" Daryl snarls. "Get your fuckin' hands off me!"

His struggles make the pain in his gut flare, and it aborts all sense. He hears more voices around him, and the sense of others close at hand becomes overwhelming.

"Dale, come here and help hold…"

"…fighting us too hard. Careful he doesn't…"

"…he bit?"

Hands are pushing his shirt up, checking his torso before feeling his legs. He kicks out as best he can, but there are too many people holding him down. Finally, the hands release him and he falls back, panting. His struggling has caught up with him, and he's beyond fucking exhausted.

"Anyone else sick in camp?"

Shane's voice, and Daryl strains to keep his scattering thoughts together long enough to listen. He's having an increasingly hard time staying in the now of things.

"No, no one else," Dale answers, voice tense with worry. "Is he alright?"

"He ain't bit," is all Shane can say to that, and Daryl snorts.

Told ya.

"Then maybe he picked up some sort of virus along the way, or…or drank contaminated water somewhere while he was out hunting."

"Yeah, maybe." Shane takes his Police cap off and wipes his forehead before settling it back on. "Either way, this could be a problem."

Indignation makes Daryl pick his head up off his bedroll. "I ain't your problem," he tells them angrily. "Just mind your own business. I don't want your help."

"And leave you to choke on your vomit and die?" Dale asks, incredulous. "I don't think your brother would appreciate that very much if we did."

Daryl wants to tell them to shut up, that they don't know what the hell they're talking about. He tries, but somewhere between his brain and his lips the words are lost and another wave of pain crashes through him and he's buried underneath it.

...

He vomits several more times over the next few hours. He's barely strong enough to roll to his side as he heaves, and there's always someone there bracing him, holding a basin under his face to catch the water they keep forcing down him that he just brings right back up.

He leans back when the latest bout is over, shivering. Andrea sits back, watching him.

"Want some water?" she asks, reaching for the canteen.

Daryl throws his arm over his eyes. "I want you the hell outta my tent."

Andrea chuckles. "You've mentioned that. You're persistent, anyway."

Sometime later, he startles awake from the renewed cramping in his gut. He can't help it – he groans before he can get himself under control.

"Daryl?"

He rolls over onto his stomach and gets his hands under him. The effort leaves him shaking all over. His skin is crawling with fever; his head is buzzing. It takes his body a moment to understand that the slight pressure he feels on his back is a pair of hands on him, steadying him.

He looks over, panting, and meets Carol's worried eyes.

"You too stupid to get the hint?" he grinds out as he struggles to get to his knees. "You ain't welcome. I don't want you here."

Carol purses her lips a moment, but she holds her ground. "You need someone here with you til Merle gets back."

Daryl hangs his head, gathering the strength to push up to his feet. He's so dizzy he's not sure if he can, but his guts aren't giving him any choice in the matter. He groans again as he's gripped by a particularly debilitating cramp in his midsection. The pain is unrelenting, remorseless. He feels fresh sweat break out across his back and face.

Carol crowds him even closer, and she slips an arm around him to keep him from tipping over as he drags himself up. "Where are you going?"

He doesn't answer her - can't answer her - and he clumsily pushes her arm off of him.

Dale's outside, standing around and looking worried. He spies Daryl as soon as he emerges from the tent and makes a beeline.

"Are you sure you should be on your feet?" He throws Daryl's arm over his shoulders and holds on despite Daryl's feeble protestations.

Dale stares at him as he waits for instructions, and damn it all if Daryl doesn't need the help. His knees are threatening to buckle; he knows that if he falls he won't be getting back up.

"Just get me to the bushes if you wanna help," he tells Dale, fighting to keep his head up. He feels Dale tightening his hold on him.

"Okay, Daryl," the older man says in soft, patient tone. "Whatever you need."

Dale helps him deeper into the woods, away from camp. The man even gives him his privacy and dignity.

Afterwards, when Daryl rises shakily and leans against a tree, Dale comes back and wordlessly takes his arm again.

The walk back is torturous. The pain in his gut eats at him with fiery intensity, and he's burning hot as coal. He knows that Dale is keeping him on his feet, but the older man's body heat against his side is almost too much.

Daryl has to stop and vomit along the way, Dale's voice keeping up a steady, continuous litany.

"You're going to be okay, Daryl. Everything's going to be fine."

Daryl laughs despite himself. Nothing's ever been fine, andit sure as shit ain't gonna start now.

By the time Yvette finally came to her window, Daryl had started to worry that he was going to be throwing rocks all night. He stood there, pebbles digging into his palm, and stared up at her. She didn't turn on her lamp this time, and in the dark she looked pale as a ghost. She seemed to consider him for a long while before her hands moved to the window. She pushed it up slowly. Daryl swallowed past the dryness in his throat.

"Hey," he greeted her. She didn't answer. "Can you come down? Just for a minute."

"Fuck you, Daryl."

"Please."

She bent down and studied him, her elbows on the sill. "What the fuck for?"

Daryl opened his hands up, palms out. He had no whiskey on him this time, and he was stone cold sober. "I just wanna talk."

"It's late."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"If that's all you came here to say, say it from there."

"Is that what you really want?"

"I want you to leave me alone."

Daryl hesitated before he nodded once. "Okay, that's fine. But come down first. And then I'll leave you be."

He couldn't see her face clearly in the pitch dark, but he could feel her stare. When her head popped back inside and out of view, he wasn't sure if that was the end of it. He waited there in the backyard, feeling stupid and small and utterly useless. He'd gone and fucked up her life even more than it already was, and here he was, about to tell her fucking sorry?

Sorry, like it meant something. Like it would somehow undo the damage he'd done, erase all the shit he'd caused her.

The back door opened, and Yvette quietly slipped outside bare footed. She came over to Daryl slowly, long dark hair obscuring her face. It was when she looked up and met his eyes that he saw what that son of a bitch had done to her. Her left eye was bruised and puffy, and beneath her eyebrow there was a scabbed over gash. Her bottom lip was also a swollen mess. It looked like it had been bitten deeply, and was ready to split open again at the barest grin. Daryl glanced down. Bruises peeked out under her sleeves, encircling her wrists.

Aware of what Daryl was looking at, Yvette self-consciously tugged her cardigan closer around her shoulders and looked him over. "Nice cast," she commented.

Daryl glanced down at his right arm. It was encased in plaster from elbow to wrist. He'd broken it in two places trying to shield himself from his father's wrath the night he'd attacked Jason Cleary. "Thanks," he said, rueful. "Maybe later you can draw on it or somethin'." He looked back up at Yvette. A smile was tugging minutely at her mouth.

"Think I'll pass," she responded without venom, then sighed and crossed her arms. "Well?"

Daryl shook his head, at a loss. "I'm a fucking idiot."

"And I'm supposed to disagree?"

It was Daryl's turn to smile, he knew. Somehow, he just didn't feel up to it. "Yvette," he began, and then gave it up as a bad try. He shook his head again, angry with himself. Pathetic, Daryl. Just get a hold of yourself.

Yvette held up her hand. "Don't," she told him. "Just, don't. It's pointless, anyway." She gestured at his cast. "And I'm sorry you broke your arm beating the shit out of my mom's boyfriend, but if you're looking for some kind of absolution you can go get fucked."

"I was standin' up for you."

Daryl hadn't mean for it to sound petulant; he regretted saying it the moment the words left his lips. He snapped his mouth shut and rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed.

Even in the dark, the flush in Yvette's cheeks was obvious. Her hands slammed into his chest, and Daryl was so surprised by her ferocity that he stumbled back a step.

"And I never asked you to," she hissed through clenched teeth. "I barely even know you."

Daryl was in it this far; if this was going to be the last conversation he'd ever have with Yvette then he'd figured he might as well ask.

"Why don't you tell your mom?" And why can't she see it for herself?

For a moment, the angry veneer cracked. Yvette's eyes pricked with moisture and she paused, apparently debating whether to answer.

"I told her with the last one. It didn't matter then and it won't now." Her voice wavered, but didn't break. She looked at Daryl, half with disdain. "Worry about your own shit, Daryl. Been nice knowing you."

With that, she turned her back on him and went inside. The door clicked resolutely shut, the bolt sliding home.

Worry about your own shit, Daryl.

Yvette would never know it, because Daryl upheld his end of the bargain, but that would be a lesson he would always carry with him.

All that remained was for him to turn around and go home.

"Daryl, you gotta wake up for a minute."

The hands are back, gripping him firmly and yanking him back into consciousness. For a moment he doesn't know what's happening, where he is. All he's aware of is that there's someone close at hand. He tries to throw a punch, to get them away, but he's too weak and the best he can manage is a feeble shove. The hands easily catch his fist and push it back down to his side.

"Daryl." The voice is persistent, and Daryl opens his eyes. Shane is back. Or maybe he never left; Daryl has no idea. Every time he opens his eyes there's someone else in his tent, against his wishes. It pisses him off.

"You with me, man?" Shane asks, and Daryl scowls at him.

"You people don't quit," he mutters and tries to turn over and face away from Shane. He's hot and cold and hurting and tired of people coming in to watch him suffer.

"I think we should move you to the RV."

"Leave me be."

"You'll be more comfortable there."

"I ain't going. Piss off." Daryl turns his head on the pillow, nearly unconscious before the words are out of his mouth.

...

Time passes in fits and starts. Daryl dozes restlessly, tossing and turning. The hands return from time to time, lifting his head and giving him water, and Daryl can't even find the strength to be embarrassed. As it is, he can't even focus on faces anymore. He's so hot and everything is spinning, spinning, and he's shivering uncontrollably. It just seems to go on and on, and Daryl has no idea how long he's been like this.

"It's okay, Daryl," a voice tells him. "Everything's fine. You're going to be fine." Something cool and wet is gently draped across his forehead, liquid dribbling over his temples and into his hairline. He cracks his eyes open, and it's Carol with him this time. She offers him a small smile. "Merle should be back soon," she says, as though it would fortify him.

Daryl snorts in answer and tugs the rag off his head. He already feels enough like an invalid. But Carol won't have it, and she replaces it. "You need it."

Ignoring her, he turns and settles himself on his side. He desperately wants to drop off into sleep again; it's the only reprieve he can find. He wants away from his body, away from these people. Away from this, whatever the hell this is. He closes his eyes, but opens them again. Staring at the wall of his tent is better than dreaming about her. He doesn't even know why it's been on his mind lately. That shit's long and buried in the past. They were just kids then, and Daryl had kept his promise. They'd never spoken again. She's probably dead, probably a walker by now.

It's not a comforting thought, and it doesn't erase his failure.

Carol's voice disrupts his slow slide into sleep. He didn't realize he was starting to drift. "Would you like some water?"

"Go keep an eye on your daughter."

"Sophia's playing with Carl, Lori's son. She's watching the kids." She furtively rests a hand on his shoulder. "Someone needs to keep an eye on you."

"I don't want any of you here."

Daryl hears her take a sad, slow breath.

"None of us want to be here, Daryl."

Daryl closes his eyes. He's given up on telling Carol to get the hell out. He knows that in the morning he'll wake up and face another day with these people, another day of dealing with Merle's shit. He can see his brother's crap coming a mile away. It's becoming pretty damn obvious he's getting comfortably settled, living off of the work of the group, eating their food and wearing clothes they've scrubbed by hand for him. They can both pretend that he's being forced into helping Glenn lug gas back to the group, that he's doing it to avoid suspicion from Shane or anyone else. Truth is, Merle wants to stay.

If Daryl wakes up feeling better, he'll be pissed about it then. For now, all he can do is turn his head on his pillow. His dreams are terrible and dark, but he doesn't dream of Yvette again.

End.