Chapter Text
Day 8, 0800
In the wake of Atlanta’s fall, refugees begin reversing on the interstate and detangling the knot of traffic that’s keeping you stuck on the side of the road. But before then, it’s a long and awkward morning as you wait to drive out with the Dixon brothers.
Though you’d gotten a general sense of their appearance last night, the daylight reveals little details you hadn’t noticed. Both of them look like tough motherfuckers, and the way that Merle moves suggests something distinctly military about him, reminding you of all the soldiers from Emory Hospital. In comparison, Daryl doesn’t feel as dangerous, even though his expression looks surly at all times. (Well, maybe yours is too, given the fact that Atlanta got bombed by the American military last night.) He’s sitting quietly near you, reasonably amicable even if a bit quiet, and Merle is… Merle.
“I can’t thank you enough for picking me up,” you make small talk over your breakfast of protein bars—chocolate-flavoured today. “If there’s anything you’d like in return, let me know.”
"Well, I’d like some of you, Sugar Tits.” Merle gives a toothy grin, and you try not to cringe. You’d prefer to stick with people while American civilization collapses, so for now, you shouldn’t offend your fellow travelers. Not even Merle.
“…I liked it better when you called me ‘Doc’,” you laugh nervously.
“Alright then, Doctor Sugar Tits.”
Well. That’s sort of a step up, you guess.
Daryl, bless his soul, cuts in on your behalf again. You wonder if he’s the only thing keeping his brother in line most of the time. “Try not to piss off our only doctor, won’t ya?”
“Aww, but she loves it! Don’t ya, sweetheart?“
You shoot a pained look at Daryl, who only grimaces back at you. He passes you a bottle of water, taking the opportunity to lean in and whisper, "That’s just how Merle is. Hate to say it, but if you stick with us, you’ll be hearing him run his asshole mouth the whole time.”
You sigh, staring dolefully at the water in your hands as you resign yourself to a week of sexual harassment. Merle is better company than the walkers, you guess. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for trying to keep him in check.” You flash Daryl a little smile, and the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Ain’t nothin’.”
You’re relieved when you set out on the road, Merle weaving through the traffic on his bike, and Daryl driving a truck of practical supplies behind him. You follow in your car, feeling absurdly misplaced in comparison, but you’re mostly grateful that they’re letting you tag along. Based on the arsenal of weapons and supplies in that truck, you chose the right people to ride with.
Merle leads you both off the interstate, takes you into a nice little quarry that seems fairly deserted. You wonder if you’ll set up camp here, utterly alone with the two men. You could imagine camping alone with Daryl and not losing your mind… but camping alone with Merle in addition to Daryl… Your lips thin as you mull over your options once more.
Then you spot the group.
Day 8, 1100
“Hey, I’m Glenn.”
Handshake.
“T-Dog. Nice to see another survivor here.”
Handshake.
“I’m Carol, and this is Sophia—”
“Nice to meet you, ma'am!” Sophia chirps, holding out a little hand, and you can’t help but melt. Oh, what a darling. Another two handshakes.
“—and this is Ed, my husband.”
Something’s off about Ed. During rotations and internships, you’d met a couple of probable abusers and battered women, seen your fair share of bruises and knife wounds and fearful mannerisms. Carol’s shadowy wrist doesn’t escape you, nor does the wary and cagey look to Ed’s eyes as he studies you. So full of suspicion. Still, you put on your professional face for him, beaming as you introduce yourself.
Another handshake.
“I don’t know everyone at this camp,” Carol says, leading the three of you along, “but this is Lori and Shane over here. Shane’s a police officer, and he’s just been so helpful with organizing and protecting us.”
You perk up when you see Shane, eager to shake his hand. He radiates an air of authority and confidence and you can’t help but notice he’s packing muscle and weapons. He seems like a real survivor, much like Daryl and Merle, and therefore a good person to know.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, flashing a true smile at you, and then he turns to Daryl and Merle. You don’t miss how his mouth drops noticeably with the two of them; you don’t quite know what’s going through his mind, but you guess the Dixon brothers don’t look as disarming as you. He’s probably wary of them, you think.
If the Dixons notice or care at all, they don’t let it on, just introducing themselves with straight faces. “Mind if we set up camp here?” Daryl asks. “My brother 'n I can hunt and track. Could provide for your group.”
“That would be real helpful,” Shane replies. “Could use some more muscle around here, especially in case of the walkers.” He points around the group, fingers jabbed at different individuals. “Glenn’s volunteered for supply runs into the city, says he’s real quick with them. Dale’s got a sweet set-up with his RV, got the camp running with a generator and all. Got a couple of sisters over there who’ve been fishing all morning for us too.”
You shift uncomfortably, feeling distinctly out of place. You’re out of your depth here, not suited at all for apocalyptic camping. Still, you guess you should show some kind of value and not look like a complete burden, though you probably are.
“I’m a doctor,” you offer. “Hope it won’t come to that, but if anyone gets hurt or sick, I’m happy to help. Got a trunk full of first aid supplies.” It also has a full stash of antibiotics and basic surgical tools, but nobody needs to know that quite yet.
Shane raises his eyebrows, looking thoroughly surprised. “Hell! We’re lucky to run into you, Doc. Happy to have you onboard.”
It circulates around the camp that there’s a doctor in their midst. You feel like a sham that you’re giving them hope: truthfully, with only the bare bones surgery kit and medical supplies, you can only be so useful, especially since you have no experience with battlefield medicine and have only ever worked out of fully-equipped hospitals. Still, as the group of you settle down near the stream, you find yourself dutifully answering questions.
“You were working at Emory?” a blonde—one of the fishing sisters—asks you. “I’ve got friends there.” Judging from her accent and social circle, you immediately pin her for a “city girl”, as Merle often calls you. You try to ignore how he’s eyeing her hungrily from the periphery, and wonder what sort of nickname he’s going to end up giving her. None the wiser, the blonde continues, “…you must have seen them, then.”
“The walkers?” Your professional smile somehow doesn’t waver. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve seen them. Had to treat some of them.”
A hush falls over the group. T-Dog’s the first to break it, asking, “Did you save any of your patients?”
A pause. You wish you could offer an easier answer, consider maybe softening it up, but you remember how the government dragged its feet with the truth, the pains that it took to fabricate lies. Do no harm. You won’t be like them. You can’t be like them.
“…no.”
Sharp, drawn breaths, faces dropping. Even Shane wipes his jaw, looking away. Only the Dixons seem steady on their feet: Daryl sits there, stone-faced and absorbing. Merle gives a little “huh”, though it’s more musing than shocked. Maybe they’d already guessed this much based on the little details that had slipped out of you last night.
“…we tried a lot of things,” you continue. “Lots of different medications for bacteria, viruses, parasites. Had a lot of pathologists try to study the bodies—hell, I studied one myself.” Opened him up with a surgical knife before I took a saw to his skull, but no one needs to know that. As you trim away bits of your story, something moans at the inner corners of your mind: fucking useless. You try not to remember those nightmare moments in the ER, how that patient’s life had slipped right through your fingers, how her torso had been riddled with holes.
“So you have any idea what’s causing it?” Shane tries, pulling you out of your reverie and back into the sunny quarry. When you focus again, you don’t miss the hopeful stares you’re getting. If you didn’t have so much practice delivering bad news, you’d be wincing right now.
“Not many leads with that,” you reply. “My personal theory is that it’s some kind of rabies-like virus, but no one can be sure… CDC and military took over a lot of the research before the hospital collapsed. They’d have more of a lead.”
“Military research,” Merle interjects, “as in USAMRIID?“
You raise a brow. Surprise, surprise. "…yeah. You in the military?”
“Used to be,” he replies. “Marines.”
You nod. Called it. “Yeah. It would either be USAMRIID or the CDC that has answers. Although…” Your jaw tightens, and a vermilion night sky flashes before you, accompanied by whirring blades in the sky. “…personally, I’d bet on the CDC having more of a lead.”
"But you can’t be sure,” a woman interjects, her voice brisk and brow knotted up. “It sounds like none of you have a damn clue about what it is, or how to cure it. Maybe—maybe there’s no end to this?”
T-Dog puts a hand on her shoulder, voice softening. “You can’t think like that, Jacqui.”
Neither can you, you remind yourself. Even if you’re fucking useless.
Maybe there’s a bit of discomfort in your expression, because the blonde from the start of the conversation is giving you a reassuring look. “You’ve done a lot already. I know you frontline workers were having a really tough time during all of this. I’ve heard the stories from my friends.”
“How do you know so many doctors?” you ask, eager to move along the conversation.
“Did my Bachelor’s with them. A lot of them went into medicine, though I went into law myself. Civil rights.”
You perk up. A conversation about school is something you can do. “That’s amazing. Civil rights lawyer—you must have done a lot of important work.”
The woman smiles. She sticks out her hand: more handshakes. “Name’s Andrea. Pleased to meet you. Where’d you go for school?”
The two of you begin to chat, trying to figure out if you have any mutual acquaintances, if you’d ever been to each other’s favourite spots in the city, how shit school had been and what sort of hobbies you might share. After a solid week of only talking to other hospital staff and then 16 straight hours with the Dixon brothers (bless them, but you do not click), it feels nice to talk to someone new.
To the side, you see a figure stand up abruptly. When you glance over, you see Daryl wiping dirt off his pants. “Where are you going?” you ask, leaning over to look at him, though he’s busy surveying the area.
“Gotta set up camp,” he replies gruffly. “Someone’s gotta do it—Merle’s lazy ass sure won’t.”
His brother flashes his signature grin. “Now, why’d I want to look at your sorry ass puttin’ up some tents when I could be getting to know our beautiful company?” He looks between you and Andrea, eyes lingering especially long on your new acquaintance, and send a silent prayer her way. You would be worried about her if her expression hadn’t just immediately snapped into something hostile. She leans in close to you, brow raised.
“He’s a real piece of work, huh?” she mumbles.
“My god,” you moan, “you don’t know the half of it.”
“How’d you end up with these two?” She glances back and forth between you and the men. “You’re a very… mismatched group.”
You give a little shrug. “Met randomly during that crazy traffic jam last night. We drank together, so I guess we’re sort of buddies now.” A wry smile on your face, you add, “Merle’s a bit much, but Daryl’s definitely good people. I promise they’re not that bad.”
Before Andrea can reply, Merle cuts in: “What are ya whispering about over there, Doctor Sugar Tits?”
She gives you a thoroughly unimpressed look.
“Not that bad? Really, now?”
Day 10
The Dixon brothers don’t mesh well with the rest of the group.
You’d known from the start that Merle would be a problem. If witnessing the walking dead hadn’t given you unlimited patience with the living, you might have already tried to kill him yourself (except not actually, because he could probably snap your neck). Sometimes you think that Andrea and T-Dog are close to it, and really, you can’t blame them.
It’s the younger brother’s standoffishness that surprises you the most. Daryl plays with others much better than Merle, but people still seem reluctant to interact with him, and he seems equally hesitant to get close to them. You’re not sure why. Though he typically wears an expression resembling a wet cat (a very cute one, as all wet cats are), you’ve noticed that he’s actually quite a nice person, what with how he let your defenseless ass tag along with him and does his part to pitch in with the camp. It’s strange that there’s a gap between him and the others, but you’re determined to bridge it.
“It’s really nice of you, hunting for all of us!” you call out to him.
Daryl glances up from his squirrel, nods at you as you sit down next to him. He shrugs at your compliment as he flattens the little critter on a stump, belly face-down.
“Least Merle and I can do after they let us join their camp. Lotta city folk here who are gonna run outta food real quick if I don’t pitch in.” He frowns as he sizes up the animal. “I should go out for a real hunt, maybe catch us all some venison.”
Mmm, venison. You and your stomach are so glad you met Daryl Dixon. “Hah, as a city folk, I appreciate it.”
“Figured you would. You’ve never hunted a day in your life, huh?”
You wince. “Guilty as charged. Was it that obvious?”
“What was it you said? 'Squirrels are cute’?”
You groan. “Don’t make me relive that.”
He makes a quiet noise that’s halfway to a laugh. “Well, if you like squirrels, you shouldn’t stick around for this.” He grabs the tail of his catch. “Ain’t pretty.”
“Actually, I’d like to watch if that’s okay with you.” When he raises a brow, you explain, “I gotta learn to fend for myself, and there’s no one better to learn from.”
It’s a compliment, but for some reason, Daryl looks down, pointedly focused on the squirrel. Oh, you hope you didn’t say something weird. Or maybe you’re annoying him right now, getting all up in his business as he tries to go about his daily tasks. It’s the apocalypse, you moan internally, can’t my social skills get it together?
If Daryl is put off, though, he doesn’t show it. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” he brushes off a moment later.
You watch Daryl as attentively as you’d watched demonstrations back in school. It’s ultimately not so bad: after breaking the tailbone and making a couple of cuts on the hind legs, he can essentially pull the skin right off. Your eyes widen as you watch him expertly gut the thing.
When he picks up his second squirrel, you interrupt: “Can I give it a shot?”
Daryl gives you a skeptical look. “We gotta actually get meat off this thing,” he says bluntly. “I ain’t eatin’ any of your protein bars.”
You give him a pleading look. “Please? I gotta learn! Help a poor city girl out.”
He shakes his head, but ultimately seems to take pity on you. “Better get enough to fry up,” he grumbles as he gestures to the squirrel.
“You will!” you chirp. And you get right to work. You fumble around a bit at first, not exactly used to holding a dead rodent or removing the fur from its backside. But once you get into the actual skinning part, the motions come easily, even if slowly: Break the tail. Two incisions, one above each thigh. Now pull in the cephalic direction, you narrate as you focus on the squirrel. Skin slides right off, mesentery and all. Now it’s just gutting. It’s a little strange pulling out innards without gloves, the entrails warm and wet between your fingers, but you remind yourself that this isn’t a patient and it shouldn’t be dangerous. In your periphery, you can see one of Daryl’s brows inch upward steadily.
When you finish up, he whistles. “Not bad. Blood don’t bother you?”
“I’m a surgeon,” you explain. You’re a surgery resident, speaking honestly. If the world hadn’t fucking ended, you might have some day finished your residency and been a full-fledged surgeon, but you don’t think that’ll ever happen now.
He doesn’t seem to question how young you are for a 'surgeon’, simply replying, “Huh. No kiddin’.” He looks at you. “You cook?”
“Um… well, never squirrel.”
“Skinnin’s not the whole job. Gotta hunt and cook too, Doc.”
“Well, show me how it’s done, Chef Dixon.” That earns you a snort. “I’m serious. I’ll watch you fry up this first squirrel and then I’ll do the next one.” You lean in, smiling and wondering how far you can push his surprising tolerance of you. “Maybe I could watch you hunt too? Learn my way around a crossbow and rifle?”
“Yeah, right. You’ll scare off all the damn game.”
“Hey!” You frown, but relax when he shows a little smirk.
Daryl picks up the two squirrels and gets up, and you scramble to follow him. You notice how heavy your footsteps are in comparison to his. Dammit, you would scare off all the game, you think. You’re busy mulling over how you’ll ever learn to use a gun now—you aren’t nearly as comfortable with anyone else so as to ask them—when Daryl adds, “It ain’t such a bad idea though, showing you your way around a gun.”
“No?”
“Yeah. For when the walkers catch up.”
A pause, filled only by the sound of your heavy footsteps.
“You think they will?”
He gives you a flat look. “If you didn’t think it, you’d be a damn fool.”
The both of you stop, and you kick at the dirt. Some rocks clatter around your feet: more noise. “How long do you think this camp will last?”
“You said it yourself: two weeks 'til they get out of Atlanta.”
“Hm. I did.” You try not to remember all the hissing bodies strapped to gurneys. Try not to think of that squirming body, riddled with holes. Try not to think of stepping into the surgical ward only to see a bleeding nurse and a bloody mouth on your patient. If you fall to your knees and have another meltdown, you’ll embarrass yourself, because Daryl’s nice and you’ve gotten buzzed together, but he’s ultimately still sort of a stranger.
“…well,” you perk up, trying to move past those sombre thoughts, “you better teach me soon, Instructor. Can we start with a rifle? I like the idea of something long range. Wanna stay as far away as possible from those corpses.”
Another snort. “I’d never let you near a damn rifle.” He sizes you up. “But maybe a handgun could work. Yeah, that’d do.”
Day 13
“I can’t believe I let you near a damn rifle.”
You grin as you shift the gun back and forth in your hands. Daryl does not smile back. With any other person, he’d be yelling at them for touching his brother’s shit, but he’s only watching you skeptically as you study the weapon. Andrea’s mentioned a couple of times how mind-boggling she finds Daryl’s grudging patience for you, but you think it’s not so strange. There are some things that you can’t help but bond with people over, and drinking beer and smoking cigs while watching Atlanta burn is one of them.
After several painful moments, Daryl finally says, “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Give that—“
“Don’t worry!” you reassure him, stepping away from him. His skeptical look edges into a frown. “I’ll take full responsibility. If I get hurt, it’s my fault, not yours.” Clumsily, you lift up the thing and try to hold it the way you’ve seen Merle do it. You perk up as you look down the scope. “Ooh, I look through this to aim, right?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ll give yourself scope eye shootin’ like that.” Daryl grips the gun and places the butt firmly against your shoulder, adjusting your form.
“Scope eye?”
“Yeah. Shoot this thing holdin’ it wrong and you’ll get a black eye from the recoil.”
You close an eye, looking down the barrel of the gun. “Have you gotten scope eye before?”
“When I was a kid.” He grabs the rifle from you and jerks it away, making you pout. “Hey, don’t give me that look. It ain’t a toy.”
“Yeah, yeah.” You study him as he slings it across his back, thinking on how he seems to be comfortable handling every kind of weapon—crossbows, rifles, shotguns, handguns. “I can’t imagine you giving yourself scope eye. You’re so good at this stuff.”
“'This stuff?’ Hell does that mean?”
“Surviving!” you exclaim. “I feel like you’re one of the few people who could actually, y'know, really make it through all of this, if it turns out that the walkers…”
If it turns out that the walkers have overrun society. You feel the muscles around your eyes relaxing, the smile holding them up suddenly slipping away.
Daryl seems eager to move past the hitch in your words. “Grow up like me,” he says, “and you gotta learn these things. Didn’t have no grocery stores where we were, Doc. I ain’t nothin’ special.” His tone is nonchalant all the way through. He really does take his skill-set for granted, you realize, but oh, you would die to have it right now.
“That makes sense. Well, now there won’t be grocery stores anywhere.” You sigh. “Who taught you all this, anyway? Your parents, I guess?”
Daryl’s jaw tightens immediately, averts his gaze, and it takes everything not to wince. You can tell when you’ve hit a sore spot, and this one looks particularly painful.
“It was mostly Merle,” he replies, curt. He turns around. “'nough playin’ around. I’ve got shit to do.” He waves once as he begins his retreat.
You open your mouth to reply, but Daryl’s already walking off, steps light and quick. It doesn’t feel great, but you don’t blame him for cutting out and closing off. You may have watched the world burn together, might have bonded as you tried to make a strange, transient home out of this quarry, but you still barely know the guy.
Day 14
“Oh my god, Daryl.”
Daryl walks out of the woods with a bloody cloth tied around his arm, his expression apoplectic. You feel your stomach drop as you watch the red stain grow. Lori, not so far away, somehow gets paler than she already is, and walks over immediately.
“Is that—?” she begins.
“From an arrow,” Daryl cuts in. “Huntin’ accident. Some blind idiot shot me.” He gives both of you a flat look as he unravels the cloth. “Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies. Here, see—not a damn bite.”
Your chest deflates and Lori’s sighing, whispering a thank god. As soon as you hear her whisper, your brows are knitting right back up.
“I’m glad,” she says. “Glad—I mean—that you’re okay. Do you need anything? Oh, actually…” She smiles at you. “You’re a doctor. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to get in the way.”
You try not to stare as she leaves, seeming more or less unperturbed. Are you hallucinating or did she not see Daryl’s wound? Maybe she doesn’t care? Between her not-very-secret trysts with Shane and the way she sometimes talks to other people, you don’t quite know what to think of her. You shake your head, leaving her be.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not bitten, but an arrow wound isn’t good either,” you remark, glancing up at Daryl. Possessed by force of habit, you make your way over to him and grip his upper arm, leaning in to take a look. His muscles grow taut beneath your fingertips, and his stare on you is almost hawk-like, but you don’t care much, too focused on assessing the damage. “Hmm. It’s not exactly shallow. You’re lucky this didn’t hit any tendons.”
“Just grazed me,” he replies. “Not a big deal.”
You frown, studying the wound as it continues to ooze red. Though serious damage would be unlikely in this scenario, you still would have definitely had people coming to the ER for this sort of injury in the city.
“It’s bleeding an awful lot. Let me stitch you up so it’ll at least heal right.“
"Don’t bother.” He pulls away. “Merle can do it.”
You stare.
“…he’s been doing it since I was a kid,” he says when he sees your expression. “It’s fine. We’ve been good without doctors.”
No doctors? Shit, rural healthcare is worse than you thought. More importantly, you’re wondering what kind of injuries he’d been getting as a kid that Merle had to stitch him up regularly. Other hunting accidents, maybe? He did say that he had gone through his own learning curve.
None of that matters right now, of course—he’s now got a doctor as far as you’re concerned, and so he has someone to go to other than his brother. “Oh, come on, it’ll be quick. Merle’s not around right now, and I’m free anyway.” Also, I’d rather die than see someone get stitched up improperly in front of me. You turn on the doe eyes as you look up at him, hoping he’ll cave.
Daryl returns your stare, looking stone-faced for all of 10 seconds. Then, he finally relents.
You discover that he’s an ideal patient. Daryl doesn’t wince when you wash his wound, nor when you swab it with alcohol. There’s no need, but you chat to distract him from any potential pain when you get to the actual stitching, just like with any of your patients back at Emory. (Well, the conscious ones.) Not having much else in common, you go back to your favourite topic of conversation: survivalism.
“So, I don’t have a compass. Stupid of me, but it just slipped my mind during all the chaos, and I never grabbed one.”
You thread the needle.
“You don’t need one.”
“No?”
“Nah. You can tell direction from the sun. They don’t teach y'all in Emory where it rises and sets?”
Whoa. Is he teasing you? You press down a smile, trying not to look too delighted. “Okay, okay. The sun. Any other tricks? Like the moss thing? It’s supposed to only grow on the north side of trees, right?”
The needlepoint pauses on his skin.
“Pft. That’s a bunch of bull,” Daryl replies. “You can look for runnin’ water though. Always flows toward basins, so you’ll know where you’re going.”
One stitch. You can feel his arm tensing and see his fist tightening, but he otherwise doesn’t even flinch.
“Guess I gotta figure out where the basins are.”
He gives you an obviously confused look. “Haven’t ya ever looked at a map?”
“…I’ve looked at Google Maps? Of Atlanta?”
A moment of silence passes.
“I’m going to die out here, aren’t I?” you moan.
“You said it, not me.”
“Ugh…”
Two stitches.
“How about stars?” you try.
“What about 'em?”
Three stitches.
“You don’t use them to navigate? Like, the north star? Big Dipper? Sailors do, right?”
Four stitches.
“Do I look like a sailor to you?”
“Okay, fair… I just thought they could still be used for navigating on land! Like at night, when there’s no sun for directions and if you didn’t have any running water nearby.”
Daryl snorts. “Have you seen the trees around here? You think you can see any stars in the forest?” You glance up from his arm just in time to see a frown. “Why’d ya be wandering around so much at night anyway?”
Five stitches.
“I dunno, probably because I’ve gotten lost?”
He shakes his head. “You’d get yourself more lost that way. Nah, when you’re lost in the woods, you stay put. Higher chance that someone’ll find ya.”
You give a wry little smile.
“I don’t think there’ll be any search and rescue parties anymore, Daryl. If my dumb ass gets lost, I’d be on my own.”
You swab the wound one more time, then take out some gauze and bandages. You try to be as gentle as possible when you dress the injury, especially since he’s staring intently at your fingers.
Even when you finish, he’s still looking at your hands.
“Nah, Doc,” he finally replies. “I’d find you. Couldn’t leave your helpless ass out there alone.”
“’Helpless’?! Wow…“
Day 18
You’ve decided that you’re sick of camping.
Daryl would give you endless shit if you ever voiced these thoughts, but you miss your bed at home. You miss air conditioning. You miss having a washroom! You’re getting tired of the hot days and damp nights and, most importantly, getting up in the middle of the night to piss behind a tree. All the bug spray in the world can’t seem to keep the mosquitoes off your legs—or your ass—and you’re always torn between wandering too far away from camp versus staying too close and having someone potentially walk in on you.
As you stumble out of your tent, all you can think is, fuck this.
Your mood is a little better after you step out of the bush, finally relieved. As you move out into the open space where everyone has set up camp, you can’t help but look at the stars. Since Atlanta burned out, there’s been no light pollution at all touching these country skies. You don’t think you’ve ever seen so many stars before, this collection of diamonds smeared across the sky. Humming softly, you try to pick out the obvious constellations and landmarks: is that the north star, and is that the Big Dipper, and could that be Venus? You’re not sure. At least the river of the Milky Way is obvious.
Almost quicker than you can blink, something streaks across the sky. Oh shit, a shooting star! You never see those in the city.
"Stargazin’?”
You glance over, jumping a little. He’d been so quiet that you hadn’t noticed his approach—he is a hunter, you remind yourself, though he isn’t tracking any game right now—but you nod at Merle when you see him.
"Hey. Yeah, I am. You don’t get this kind of view in the city.”
Merle chuckles as he moves close to you. “Yeah, you don’t. Real nice, ain’t it?”
You quirk a brow, stepping back a bit at the words. How very un-Merle-like of him. His breath smells like beer and cigarettes, so you guess he must be very drunk at minimum.
“Uh, yeah.” You try to joke, “Best thing to come out of the apocalypse, I guess. No more light or dust pollution.”
While you’re busy looking upward, you don’t notice that Merle inching closer and closer toward you—not until you can feel his breath on the side of your face. You’re used to fresh air these days, and the stench is unbearable in comparison.
“Right,” he draws. “The apocalypse.”
“…yup.” You look away, feel a jitter in your legs and a tightness in your chest. Merle’s been somewhat insufferable, but he’s been nice enough to let you stay with him and Daryl. He won’t do anything, you try to convince yourself, but your heart jumps when he leans in even closer.
“The world could end tomorrow, y'know.”
“H-hahah!” You hope you don’t sound too terrified. “Don’t tell me you’re going to use the 'this could be our last night on Earth’ line on me? You could definitely do better than that.”
Even looking away, you can’t escape how his expression twists, pleased and self-serving and distinctly predatory. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re right. I could do better by you.”
You jump when you feel something brushing against the back of your neck. Fingers, you realize. Your mouth thins, mind doing quick math: how do you get out of this situation? Back before the apocalypse, you would have slapped a man like this and been done with it, but now…
…now he’s one of the people you rely on for survival.
You lean back, teeth grit and jaw aching. Ah, fuck, you think inanely—you’ll never be able to get a nightguard now.
“Nahh, you don’t have to better by me.” You watch him closely, trying your best to follow his microexpressions in the dark. Is he clueless? Getting impatient? You can’t tell. “Actually,” you try, “you don’t have to do anything by me.”
His expression drops, but he doesn’t move away. Merle only steps in closer, and you watch him, eyes wide and knees shaking. Is this what fawns feel like when they’ve got a hunter staring them down?
"Playin’ hard to get, huh?” A finger reaches out to your hair. “I know that game. I always end up winnin’.”
Ffffuck.
Your heart is throbbing in your ears.
“Aww, sweetheart, don’t look so scared.”
Something touches your waist, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Noooo, noooo, no no no—
“Jesus, Merle, anyone’d be scared if they had to look at your ugly mug up close.”
Oh, thank fuck!
Through your rapid-fire heartbeats, you hear Daryl’s footsteps. They’re loud—louder than you’ve ever heard before—and his movements are heavy as he grabs Merle’s shoulder and rips his brother clean off you. Merle stumbles back, unbalanced in a way that you’ve never seen him before, and right then you know he must be fucked up on something.
“Aw, shut up,” Merle groans. “You ruined the mood.”
“You’re welcome. It was a shit mood,” Daryl shoots back easily, and even though he doesn’t seem worried, you feel a hand grabbing your arm and jerking you away quickly. You look back at Merle as you retreat, see him spitting on the ground.
“Didn’t want her anyway, ugly bitch…”
Merle continues to mutter to the earth, but his voice gets fainter and fainter until you can hardly hear it through your heavy breaths and the twigs crunching beneath Daryl’s feet. He ends up leading you in front of your little tent, then pulls away immediately. The bit of skin where his hand used to be feels cold, and you cover it up when you wrap your arms around yourself.
“Did he do anything to you?” Daryl asks, voice low.
"N-no, I’m fine.”
He stares at you, almost as if searching your eyes. “Really?”
You nod vigorously, gripping your arms even tighter. A sigh reaches your ears.
“…Merle does a lot of stupid shit, but especially when he’s high. I’ll keep his doped-up ass in check. Promise I won’t let anythin’ happen to you.”
You swallow, and the shivers ease up a bit.
“Th-thanks. A lot.” You look up, connect with his gaze. In these nighttime shadows, the circles beneath his eyes look darker than usual. “I owe you one.”
He taps his healing arm. “Ain’t nothin’. I owe you one too.” That makes you smile a bit. Very cute, you think again, as all wet cats are.
“Oh, don’t say that.” You look up at him, mouth slanting a bit. “You look and act tough, but you’re actually a huge softie, aren’t you?
”Shut up,“ he grumbles, and you can’t help but give a breathy laugh.
"It’s true!” you tease. “You do a lot for me, you know?”
Daryl shrugs and looks away from you, up at all those stars that he claimed not to know, claimed to not need. You think about how he offered you cigarettes as Atlanta burned, about how he told you to follow running water, about how he fixed your hands around that rifle and warned you not to hurt yourself. You think about how firm his fingers felt in that moment, and how warm they felt just now.
You think about how he did all this, even though you’re just strangers, and you think about how maybe you aren’t just that anymore.