Author's Note: I don't own any part of The Walking Dead franchise, nor do I profit from my musings in any way.

This is in response to a wonderful tumblr prompt from gotopsy and an extra treat for the steadfast Dixonne community. It was a pleasure to write. Apologies for any mistakes wonkiness that I missed in my attempt to not obsess over editing it.

He could just keep walking into the night and they'd be none the wiser.

Daryl had tried on Joe's way of doing things as if it were a hand-me-down pair of shoes—you wear it because it's the only thing you've got, not because it suits you. This life, these circumstances, they didn't feel right to him, no matter what tale Joe tried to spin with his talk of cats and rules and claims. To Daryl, these were men who had given up on themselves and on humanity. Is that who he was too?

It hurt everyday to think that this was it for him. Tomorrow, two weeks, five months, a year? Could he go that long sleeping with one eye open and always staying ahead of folks he for damn sure couldn't see ever watching his back? He'd had everything he'd thought he wanted back at the prison: friends and family, a life where he'd discovered parts of himself that got to shine once he emerged from Merle's shadow. He'd even gotten closure on his past with Merle, made peace with moving on without him. Or so he thought.

She'd helped him move past it, all those days of just them on the road together for a shared quest to take out the Governor.

He'd lost Michonne before he'd ever gotten a good hold on her. She'd been his friend and partner, his lover. Then their relations teetered on the verge of some next level shit if either would have ever made a move. The last Daryl saw of her, she was smiling—not at him, as he would have liked, but at Hershel. It was a tired flash of warmth he'd caught from over his shoulder as he left to talk to Rick.

Or rather, his real last image haunted his sleep, a nightmarish vision of her from a distance before all hell broke lose. Everything changed that day and here he was back on page one. And he'd never been much of a reader in the first place.

The other guys had gone on ahead. They'd been about to settle for the night when Joe thought to push forward all of a sudden for no damn reason. Daryl hadn't been in the mood for any more bullshit today with all this talk of finding some asshole so they could mete out revenge. If he disappeared into the woods what could they do? He knew how to cover his tracks and after some of the things he'd seen with the way these guys operated, he was starting to believe that he'd be better off alone.

Daryl crept ahead to better assess his options and prepared himself to make a choice. For once in his life, he'd forge his own way.

In the distance, he heard the group before he saw them, the grinding of boots against gravel and the lift to Joe's voice. Shit. This didn't sound good. Daryl thought he best take his leave soon if he was gonna. Stepping closer, he got a look at the scene, Harley and Billy at the perimeter, Tony and Joe across the street and the big guy, Dan, on the other side of an abandoned truck. The area was lit so there must be a small fire somewhere.

And that meant they'd found other people.

Daryl didn't know what to do. He needed to worry about saving himself. And what could he do if those guys got it into their mind to stir shit up? He leaned to the side and caught the slightest peek of two people on their knees.

He closed his eyes to the memory. Hershel and Michonne. One murdered, the other surely dead in the crossfire. He didn't save them and both losses almost broke him; would have if Beth hadn't stepped up to shake him out of it.

Maybe he could do something now. He'd long lost the ability to stand by and watch innocent people get slaughtered. The least he could do was check and see if the strangers had it coming.

Daryl stepped onto the road, the light from the fire revealing more details, though Harley and Billy blocked much of his view. Dan had pulled someone out of the truck and struggled with whoever it was. The two figures on their knees were as still as stone.

When he stepped out of the shadow, everything cleared. His tunnel vision honed in on the scene in front of him as his heart pumped hard against his chest. His eyes took in the familiar young boy, pulling against the man twice his size and three times his weight; they swept over the face of his brother-in-arms whose recognition flashed strong before returning to his son's distress. But his entire being remained centered on her, watching her defiance turn into shock and then a longing that painfully mirrored his own.

He stopped breathing.

Michonne forced herself to stay calm as she took in the threats surrounding her. To her left stood an older guy on Rick, ruthless but slow and cocky. Above her hovered a coward with a gun on her whose expression held a contemptible lust. Two men across the road guarded the periphery, ready to jump in if the situation tickled their fancy.

And then there was the fucking psychopath pulling at Carl, not even trying to hide the sickness to his intentions.

Rick shook with anger. The gun at his head didn't hinder her belief that he would get to his son by any means, or die trying. Michonne was angry too. Livid. A full rage threatened to erupt into a cold display of force that ended in her standing ankle deep in carnage. Yet she pushed down all those dark emotions.

Anger makes you stupid. And stupid gets you killed—although at this dire point, her anger likely made little difference.

Instead, she sized up the men around her, counting their weapons, especially the ones they probably thought couldn't be seen. She waited for the main antagonist to speak, the one with the gun to Rick's head. His leadership was clear as they all looked to him for a cue. All except the man pulling Carl from the car and taunting him. If Rick didn't get to him first, she planned on enjoying the feel of her katana sliding from his throat into the gray matter of his defective brain.

Just a few moments before, she'd been contemplating whether safety was possible again, whether they would truly know if it were at play. The prison, Woodbury, that house they'd used to recoup and recover? They'd all been safe for a time. Even she could recognize those moments following the fall of Woodbury, many of them involving Carl, or Rick, or Hershel.

Most involved Daryl.

She'd felt comfort with him on the road as they bonded over their common goal to take out the Governor. They'd learned to trust one another and rely on each other for security. Eventually, that comfort pushed at their respective walls. It nudged at them long enough to explore the physical pleasure that particular friendships sometimes develop. And did they ever explore the safety of that. Each time they'd rebuild their shields before returning to the others at the prison where he'd remain in order to lead and where she'd leave in order to protect.

Maybe that was the answer. The only comfort is understanding how temporary safety is in this new life.

The leader's words bellowed into the night and Michonne tried to assess the situation quickly. She'd been in dire circumstances before and she just needed to think. Yet something very important was different now. It wasn't just herself she needed to protect, her intentions needed to include these men who'd become her family. There was no walking away from this if she wasn't walking away with them at her side.

Another glance towards Carl showed him struggling with his captor … and losing. The kid was tough but he was still the size of a young man, even if he had the experience of an old soul. She cut her eyes to Rick and saw that his attention never fully left Carl, jaw clenched and fists tight.

The sadistic leader began his countdown and Michonne felt the stirrings of anxiety and the itch to act. They wouldn't murder her right now. She had parts they'd want to use, although she'd kill them before she let that happen—or in the alternative, she'd make them pay dearly for the trouble. She could survive whatever trauma they threw at her. They could try to break her but nothing would ever be worse than losing Andre. Bad, yes, but not worse.

At the next number, Michonne heard a rustling in the distance, another member of the gang coming out to show himself; another person to size up and another bastard who'd sooner or later get a taste of the steel to her sword.

The man shuffled towards the street, slow, languid, taking in the scene as if he had all the time in the world. Upon further reflection, she figured she'd kill him slowly simply for being tardy and cavalier about it while she kneeled at their mercy.

And then the light of the fire drifted towards him and crawled up his form, the scuffed shoes and ratted work pants, the oversized, dingy button-down and worn-in leather vest.

Daryl.

He took in the surroundings with deadened eyes, disappointment, fear and resolve alternating for control. She noted the moment he recognized them and the panic that incited. And her heart tightened when she noted the moment he recognized her. In a matter of seconds, the memories of them flashed in her mind, the way they sized each other up or killed walkers silently and efficiently side by side; laughing together on the road, sharing stories and eventually making love in the confines of their car before having to turn back to the prison; trying to get one last glimpse of him with a tank to her back and their common enemy threatening to take everything from them. All of this in one look, one yearning, strain of an expression. Her eyes widened.

She stopped breathing.

Rick's breaths were the only noise interrupting the night's innate tones. The sound of metal against flesh and organ had drifted away. The slickness of blood seeping into cloth and hair became a private affair as it dripped from the mouth and fingers of a father protecting his son. Rick's breathing covered that up too.

Michonne held Carl close, not blocking him from his father's actions but anchoring him to one of the few things in this world that remained a comfort. Carl held her just as tightly, wanting that stability and certainty. He made no move towards his father, nor did his father seek him out. They needed each other more than anyone else in the world right now, yet only the distance could keep them from cracking under the weight of that desperate bond.

Daryl leaned against the truck, favoring his side where Billy had gotten a good kick to his ribs. His former traveling companion's skull lay splattered along the pavement for the effort. Harley fared no better, his body cooling after a lethal bullet to the head courtesy of Michonne. He could feel the splits and cracks in his face but he didn't mind. At the end of the day, his opponents were dead and he was still standing. Barely.

The group of them, they were a family reunited and broken all at the same time. The fight had been the quickest and bloodiest show of aggression any of them had experienced in a while.

Michonne brushed off the steely precision of taking down her would-be rapist who'd held her at gunpoint. But she didn't wish to recall the panic of seeing Daryl brutalized in front of her eyes, or feel the primal satisfaction of putting a bullet into one of the men who'd caused it. Rick had done the unthinkable to protect his son, Carl had fought a losing battle for his innocence and Daryl had been willing to sacrifice himself for all of them. She wouldn't let any of these men die when they'd defied so many odds finding each other.

But Daryl simply remembered his willingness to give his life for family. Real family. He'd bleed in their place without hesitation.

He looked across the truck to where Michonne stood, still holding onto Carl. She raised her head to take him in as well. They both saw the world in each other's presence. Daryl inched his way around the truck, pausing to retrieve his crossbow and to scrutinize Rick. The man remained with his back to them all. From the side, Daryl could see the blood that covered Rick's face due to tearing out Joe's throat. Viscera coated his hands from where he'd destroyed the man who'd dared violate his son. His back was rigid, shoulders almost to his ears, but his fingers twitched and his jaw ground an unknown rhythm in concert with his ragged breaths.

No, Rick was not a man to approach right now. Daryl recognized that all too well from memories of his own father. Except Rick wasn't building up a rage so he could inflict an unnecessary beating, he was coming down from inflicting a righteous one.

Michonne watched Daryl pause in his trek to where she stood with Carl. The way he took in Rick's stance, tight and on fire like a live wire, she knew he'd keep his distance. They all would, even Carl. Seeing what he needed to, Daryl took a few more steps, stopping to spit out a wad of blood on the stiffening body of the man who'd held her captive. He picked up her katana from where it rested a few inches from the man's missing face. After that, he kept pace around the truck until he reached their side.

Carl still clung to her and she would make no move to let him go unless it was what he wanted. She stroked his hair and pulled him closer. Still, she would be glad for Daryl's nearness to confirm that he'd truly found them against all the odds.

A pressure at her back alerted Michonne to Daryl's proximity. In one hand he held his cross bow and the strap to her katana nestled safely in its sheath. He'd let his other hand brush against Carl's arm at her waist, letting the boy know that he was there for him too. Then he moved his hand up and, in a rare show of open affection, caressed her back softly. Tentative fingers offered a gentle test of the reality that had her alive and within his reach. That touch was gratitude and memory and the love they'd thought lost, either from death or from abandonment. That touch meant hope for family again.

"Took you long enough to get here," Michonne uttered into the chilled air. Her low, husky voice tingled his skin along with the cold breeze.

He was too raw to return her humor. As the adrenaline wore off, it took everything he had not to drop to his knees and weep at the sight of her, all three of them actually. His brow furrowed and he bit at his lip to stave off the flood of emotion. He'd thought she'd been killed, that she was dead; not lost, or gone like Beth, but no longer of this world. And she'd been out there the entire time. He felt overwhelmed by the truth of that.

"I got turned around is all." It's the only explanation he could handle at the moment. Then he looked down at her and there was that smile. It was as tired and warm as he remembered but this time it was all his.

They didn't hold each other or kiss or pledge any words of passion or regret. But they did stand together, Carl against them and Rick a few feet away, knowing that they were nearby and there for him. Daryl leaned his head down to meet Michonne's and they both closed their eyes to the contact. Michonne let out a breath it felt like she'd been holding onto for weeks, and she swore she heard him do the same.

He'd wanted a way out. She'd wanted some certainty. The answers found them in the form of each other.

End