A/N: This fic wanted to be some forty-thousand-word monster I would never actually finish, so I pared it down to the bone and managed a ten-thousand word fic written sporadically over seven months instead. As a result, it's focused almost entirely on the Rick-and-Daryl aspect, instead of covering the whole winter arc like it wanted to. Whatever, I'm just glad to be writing again.

As a side note, expect some timeline voodoo, because this show has no timeline. Working off of Maggie's comment about the swamp drying up, I put season two- which occurred within a two-week period- at around mid-to-late July, which is when summer in the south stops dicking around and really gets down to business. Assuming Lori got pregnant sometime around when Rick found the group, that means season three had to start in early-to-mid-April, which also explains the clothing choice (Daryl still wearing the poncho at night but not during the day, for example).

The third time Lori flinches away from his touch, barely a week after they lose the farm- and he really ought to learn to just stop reaching for her, but her touch is his only anchor in this blood-soaked nightmare- he turns away and finds Daryl watching, head cocked and eyes keen like some sort of bird of prey.

He approaches a few minutes later, when Rick's had time to scrape together enough dignity to pretend that hadn't just happened, comes towards him in a wary sideways shuffle but looks him straight in the eye. "C'mon," he says, gesturing with his chin to indicate the forest around them. "Let's go kill something."

Which, hell, that's the most tempting offer Rick's heard in weeks. Shooting walkers might be cleaner and more efficient, but bashing their brains in is therapeutic, a built-in stress release valve. And time alone with Daryl might be exactly what he needs- someone who doesn't judge him, doesn't find him lacking. Daryl is impartial, neutral, preferring to live and let live. He'll sneer at Rick's tracking skills and give him amused looks when he ends up killing a walker in the messiest way possible, but that sort of thing Rick doesn't mind. Everything else, though, from Shane to Lori to Rick's new dictator regime- all of that, Daryl apparently doesn't care one whit about, and that's what Rick needs, to leave all that shit behind for a little while.

Still, Rick balks. He looks over at the half-circle of cars, the group tucked tight around the fire they'd started. Bad enough letting Daryl wander off whenever he feels like with no way to communicate with him when he's out there. They really can't afford to get cut off from Rick, too.

"Hey," Daryl says, and puts a cautious hand on Rick's elbow, one of the very few times he's ever voluntarily touched Rick- or anyone, so far as Rick knows. "They got the cars and they ain't stupid. Somethin' happens, it'll be us up shit creek. They'll be fine."

That should not be an effective argument, but it does the job. Rick nods once and Daryl retreats instantly, snatching his hand away like it's been burned. He waits patiently at the tree line as Rick goes over to the others to tell them and pass over the keys to his truck, just in case. Lori doesn't look at him but Glenn tells him to be careful, and Rick nods at them all before he turns and heads over to where Daryl's waiting.

If he'd had any say in it, Daryl Dixon would not be the sort of man Rick would have allowed in his life in any way. Tattooed where he's not scarred, smelling permanently of dirt and old blood and cigarettes, hashing his consonants and dropping his g's in that backwoods Georgia way, crossbow on his shoulder and knife on his hip looking so much like they belong there that Rick half-thinks he wouldn't recognize Daryl without them… No, Deputy Grimes wouldn't've had anything to do with Daryl, aside from maybe arresting him for whatever crime he could make stick, plus a few more just in case.

Then again, Deputy Grimes had had a wife that loved him despite their problems, a best friend that was always on his side, and a good life in a safe world. That's all gone now. And Rick had learned his lesson, almost too late, about allowing his personal opinion of someone to affect his estimate of their usefulness and trustworthiness.

"Thought you were better on your own," Rick observes, ducking low to avoid a tree branch. Daryl moves through the forest like he's a part of it, flowing around trees and over rough ground like he's something fluid instead of flesh and bone, and Rick envies him his careless grace. He feels clumsy and loud in contrast.

"Looked like you needed to get away," Daryl says simply, and Rick remembers how Lori had pulled away from him. That hadn't been for anyone else to see- but then, that whole mess with Shane made it plenty apparent that Rick's problems, personal or not, are the whole group's problems. Out here, it's just the two of them, no group, no wife and son, no friends looking at him with fear in their eyes. It's just him and Daryl, and he hardly needs to worry about protecting Daryl- if anything, it's the other way around. Out here, Rick can breathe.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly, and doesn't say anything else.

They don't find anything to hunt, but they do stumble into a group of walkers, and by the time Rick's done with his half of 'em, he's panting and sweating and splattered with gore. And Daryl is behind him, watching his back, the light in his eyes not pity or even sympathy, but understanding.

By the third time, Daryl doesn't even ask. He just touches Rick's elbow and moves a few steps away, waiting patiently for him to catch up or shake his head no. Rick never initiates, doesn't see the pattern to when Daryl offers, tries not to think too much on it. Daryl's still people-shy, antsy and snappish whenever he's forced in close quarters, careful not to turn his back to any of them. Ingrained habits, like his shifting and swaying, like the flinching- he's still learning these people can be trusted. This is too fragile and new, too important, for Rick to risk shattering it with careless questions.

The third time, Daryl consents to start teaching Rick a few things about tracking. It's an exercise in frustration for both of them. Daryl's shit at explaining things in a way anyone else would understand, but it's not really his fault, 'cause Rick just doesn't get it the way Daryl does. He belongs here, Rick realizes, in this bloody new world where every breath you take may well be your last. He's one of a handful of people who have the right skills and the right mindset, who can not only survive but thrive, while everyone else is just clinging to the ragged edge of existence. This is the only life he's ever known. There's nothing new about this world to Daryl, save the whole dead people trying to eat him thing.

It's a humbling thought.

The fifth time they're out, it goes wrong.

They find a gas station eventually, abandoned years even before the world ended from the looks of it, the forest breaking up the pavement of the road and reclaiming the cleared land around the building. The door's padlocked shut but the windows have been busted out, boarded over, and broken through again. Rick- being, as Daryl puts it, fuckin' scrawny- slides through one of the gaps first, twisting so he lands on his knees. He points his gun into the gloom, but nothing moves. The smell of dust and old mildew is chokingly thick but there's no layer of rot underneath, as there is with anyplace that's seen a walker. Rick'd guess no one's been in here for years 'cept maybe the occasional teenager looking to spray paint something lewd on the walls and search for years-old Twinkies.

He rolls up to his feet, moving out of the way, and Daryl comes through a moment later. He overbalances and lands hard on his shoulder, twisting so his crossbow's cuddled protectively to his chest. He has to fight to right himself, and it's so wrong, Daryl being so clumsy and off-balance, that Rick can't bear to watch it. He catches Daryl by the arm and hauls him up to his feet.

"I's fine," Daryl says stubbornly, pushing Rick away. He staggers without Rick's support but keeps his feet, due more to that mile-wide streak of obstinance than anything else. "Just a concussion. Had worse before."

Sad to say, Rick finds that easy to believe. "Be that as it may, we're not leavin' 'til you can walk a straight line."

"What 'bout the group?" Daryl counters.

"They know what to do, they'll be fine," Rick says. "Like you said, it's us up shit creek."

Daryl looks confused, like he's backtracking through their recent conversations to figure out when he said that. Rick leaves him to it and goes to check the rest of the building. The restroom is a single-stall room, the mirror broken out of its frame in jagged shards, the bowl of the toilet bone-dry and the sink spanned with spiderwebs. Rick spares the room a single sweeping glance before he heads back out. There's nothing left in the main room, not even the racks used to hold merchandise. Just dust and a scattering of dead insects.

Behind him, Daryl sneezes, then hisses in pain as the sharp motion jars his aching head. Rick turns back to find him sitting back against the main counter, legs splayed out in front of him, crossbow on his lap.

"Now what?" he asks sulkily, 'cause he has all the patience of a two-year-old when it comes to doing something he doesn't wanna do.

"We'll leave first thing in the morning," Rick says. "You should get some sleep." He sure as hell won't, being the only thing standing between them and whatever might be out there. For all they know, there's a herd of walkers just out behind this building.

"Thought you weren't s'posed to sleep with a concussion," Daryl mutters, but he shifts down, slides a little lower.

"It'll be fine," Rick says, not bothering to fight a battle he's already won. He moves away, pressing himself into the corner by the windows and watching the world outside, and Daryl relaxes a bit more.

After a while Daryl loosens up from his tense sprawl, not really forgetting Rick's there so much as accepting the imposition of his presence. He doesn't like being vulnerable around other people, so Rick's being as still and nonthreatening as possible. Finally the other man lies down properly, cradling his head carefully against his arm instead of resting it on the hard tile floor, the other arm cuddling his crossbow close like it's a teddy bear. Rick waits an hour, watching the shadows creep across the parking lot outside, 'til Daryl's as deeply asleep as he's likely to get. Then he moves, pushing himself away from the wall and ghosting across the room, kneeling as close as he dares to the other man. He counts Daryl's breaths and wishes he could risk touching the man, take his pulse just to make sure, but that'll wake Daryl up for sure, and he's like to come up swinging.

In truth, it's really not that bad of a concussion, just enough to slow Daryl down and throw him off his game a little. In a different world, Rick might not even bother worrying about it, as he'll probably sleep off the worst of it. But out in the woods, with nothing but each other to rely on and God knows how many walkers between them and camp, he can't have Daryl off his game. The others hopefully won't do anything stupid, but by this point there's nothing Rick can do about it either way. Going back alone would be a suicide run, and he's not leaving Daryl.

He eases back to his feet and steps carefully around Daryl, positioning himself this time by the window nearest the other man, so he can watch outside and keep a close eye on his companion at the same time.

It's going to be a long night.

Rick's lost track of time, his focus on more immediate things like food and shelter, the days sifting through his fingers like sand. And now, the trees are burning with red and gold, the nights are long and cool, the rain is cold and the wind bitter. Summer had melted so smoothly into autumn he hadn't even noticed; he'd woken up one morning and suddenly, finally, realized time had moved on without him. He looks at the trees in their fall splendor, the frost on the grass on the cooler mornings, and feels somehow betrayed.

Daryl's tying his string of squirrels to the cord of his homemade quiver when he suddenly veers off, breaking into a trot as he slips between trees. Rick catches up only when the hunter stops at the edge of a pond, his boots sinking into the soft mud. He moves past Daryl, taking a half step further out and crouching down to drag his fingers through the water, still warm with the heat of late summer. The water looks clear enough, like the ponds Rick played in as a kid. Beside him, Daryl is staring unblinkingly at the pond, the sunlight reflecting off its surface to dance brokenly across his face.

Rick turns it over in his head, the prospect of being clean versus the possible dangers associated with bathing. They haven't seen a walker in a week- they haven't seen a single sign of civilization in a week, either, and he's starting to think there's some correlation there- and he considers that and wavers.

Then he unbuckles his belt and slips it off, holding his gun by the holster. "Here," he says, pressing the gun into Daryl's hand. "We gotta make this quick."

"Ain't gonna be a problem," Daryl mutters, and backs up and turns away as Rick strips down.

Rick's forgotten the glorious sensation of water against his skin. He enjoys it for a few precious seconds, digging his toes into the mud like he's a kid again, allowing himself to float weightless in the water's embrace, before getting down to business. His hair's a mess- those goddamn curls- and he has to rake his hand through it a dozen times before his fingers stop catching on tangles. He balls up his shirt and scrubs at his neck and armpits and chest where sweat dries sticky and itchy, at his arms and throat and back where the dirt's caked on in layers, at the insides of his knees and the soles of his feet simply because he can. Then he does it again, and again one last luxuriant time, until his skin's raw.

"Thought you said make it quick," Daryl says as Rick reluctantly slogs out of the pond. He slides a quick sideways glance at Rick, expecting an answer, and Rick is suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that he's naked. He's never been bothered by such high school locker room issues before, but he's feeling very vulnerable, standing here buck naked while Daryl hasn't so much as taken off his boots.

Finally the other man loses patience with Rick's blank silence and shoves Rick's belt and gun at him, and Rick takes them and moves away. He debates whether preservation of what little modesty he's got left is worth the chafing, then untangles his shirt from its wadded ball and tosses it over a low tree branch to dry and tells himself to grow up, for Christ's sake. He can hear Daryl moving behind him, the sound almost lost under the constant drone of the cicadas. Still, he's sure he doesn't imagine the slight pause before Daryl takes his shirt off- he knows Rick's seen the scars, and he knows Rick won't ask, but there's a lifetime of habit weighing him down. Then he's splashing into the water and cursing under his breath, a soft steady stream of invectives, and Rick smiles to himself.

Daryl flounders in the water like he's trying to avoid getting wet as much as possible, all graceless scrabbling like a cat that's misjudged its leap and fell into the bathtub instead of landing on the edge. It occurs to Rick after a moment that there's a decent chance the man doesn't know how to swim, but before he's got the chance to really worry, Daryl's out again, slipping in the mud and dripping everywhere.

There's a brief overlap of time where they're both just kind of standing around awkwardly, neither one willing to risk putting on clothes until they've had a chance to dry off. Daryl paces aimlessly around, mostly seeming to try to stay behind Rick, or at least out of his sight, and Rick- guided by some unknown urge to be a jackass- spies on him as best he can.

Rick's never considered it some big secret that he sometimes finds other men attractive. He's never advertised it, never considered it to be anybody's business, but he's never tried to hide it either. He's sometimes had to stop himself staring at a particularly nice ass or the set of broad shoulders before, sure, but that's as far as it's ever gone. Daryl, Rick sees, has both, as well as well-developed biceps and planes of muscle rippling under the demons on his back. He's a powerful man, and he carries his strength in his upper body, where years of crossbow hunting has left its mark.

The scars catch his eye suddenly and Rick's mood sours a bit. The man who did that is most likely dead, and the brother who had failed to protect Daryl is gone, and Daryl is quietly but obviously flourishing without them. It feels like an infection that's been cut away, like a mask falling to pieces and revealing the man underneath, a good man, a man who would near kill himself looking for a lost little girl, a man who would do what couldn't be asked of him. A better man than Rick, probably, because Daryl isn't bending under the pressure of surviving in this new world like Rick is, certainly isn't going to shatter under it like Shane did.

Finally Daryl deems himself dry enough and pull his clothes back on in a hurry and Rick follows his lead. He waits while Daryl fusses over the squirrel string, watching the water from his still-wet hair drip onto his shoulders and trickle down his neck.

"Think we should tell the others?" Daryl asks, and Rick looks past him back towards the pond, considering the logistics. If they split into groups, if Daryl's willing to make this walk multiple times, if they keep it fast- it's through a mile or two of forest, and that makes Rick uncomfortable, but it's been a good week. It's been a good week, and people are smiling and laughing again, and no one's flinched away from looking Rick in the eye long enough that he's starting to forget what it's like to be feared.

"Yeah," he says finally, smiling to himself for a second, because it feels almost like Christmas and damned if that isn't just a little bit sad. "Yeah, I think we should."

"Better get back, then," Daryl says. "We'll lose the light." He moves away, taking the lead as he normally does out here, and Rick follows him. He feels vaguely disgruntled, like he's been deprived of something, and it takes him most of the walk back to figure out what- his time alone with Daryl, out here with no immediate worries besides them two, has been cut short, the others intruding without even physically being here.

He ignores the other sense of loss, this one rooted somewhere lower than his belly, spends hours trying to forget the sight of the long powerful lines of Daryl's body, and never quite manages it.

Somehow- and damned if it wasn't the hardest thing he's ever had to do- Rick's finally trained himself to stop touching Lori, so he can't say when she stops flinching away from him. By the time they're eight weeks off the farm, though, they've reversed their roles completely, with him pulling away from her as she reaches out. She looks at him now with eyes full of guilt and fear and pain, and when she puts her hand on him, he slides out from under her touch and moves away.

It couldn't be more obvious, and no one seems to know where to look or what to say when it happens. And poor Carl, by the very fact of his existence, is dragged into the middle of his parents' cold war. His mother still wants to protect him, to coddle him, to let him stay a child- but that boat sailed when he put down the walker that had been Shane, and Lori's attitude is only alienating him. Lori spends a lot of time with Carol, who knows what it is to lose everything, and Carl takes to following after Rick, learning to protect what's his.

There's a gas station a mile up the road, according to the signs. Rick's been in this world long enough to know it's been milked dry, but there'll be cars there, and other buildings maybe. They've redistributed gas until all the cars are running on fumes and Daryl's bike ain't even got that much, so they're stuck hauling gas cans and praying they get lucky. Rick itches to go but he can't, not when their group's left sitting on the road like a buffet spread, so he sends Daryl instead, and T-Dog and Glenn, and that's it- until he's turned away from handing Glenn the gas cans and finds Carl planted firmly in his way.

"I wanna go," he says. He looks like an old Wild West gunslinger, hat pulled down low, gun on his hip, steady gaze pinned on Rick.

"No," Lori says, her hand going to Hershel's, her fingers wrapping around his so tight her knuckles turn white. But she says it to herself, quietly enough that Carl can pretend he didn't hear her.

Rick wants to say no, too. Instead he looks to Daryl, who's in charge of this little outing, and he shrugs one shoulder and looks down to start fiddling with his crossbow, carefully offering no opinion on the subject. Daryl's surprisingly good with Carl- mostly because he doesn't treat the kid like he actually is a kid, doesn't talk down to him or try to soften the edge of his characteristic harshness for Carl's sake, and that's earned him all sorts of points in Carl's book. And Rick trusts Daryl with his own life, so it's not that much of a stretch to trust him with his boy's.

"You stick with them, and you do exactly what Daryl says," he says to Carl, who grins sharp and hard at the sound of permission. "Hear me?" he asks, to be sure.

"Yeah," Carl says, and darts over to stand with Glenn and T-Dog, as if afraid Rick might change his mind at any moment. Rick looks past him to Daryl, who has stopped messing with his crossbow and meets his gaze again. The hunter gives him a single nod, barely more than a dip of his chin, and Rick nods back. Neither of them are big on talking. There are other ways to communicate.

They're on their way out when Lori reaches out and catches Daryl by the shoulder, a whisper-light touch that stops him in his tracks. He stares at her, then at the hand on his shoulder, and Rick stays half-turned away to see what happens next.

"Bring him back safe," Lori says, begs. Daryl shuffles his feet and ducks his head and finally looks her in the eye.

"I will," he says.

"Yourself, too," she adds, and Rick looks back so he can clearly see the look on Daryl's face, the open surprise. He wonders if anyone's ever expressed any concern over Daryl before. Daryl rocks his weight back on his heels and hesitates, and for a moment his hand comes up, like he's going to put it on Lori's arm in comfort-

Then the spell breaks and he's striding past T-Dog and Glen and Carl, saying, "C'mon, ain't got all day."

As he's turning back, Rick's gaze meets Lori's, and for once he doesn't look away. She smiles, tiny and scared, and he nods once before he turns away.

"Does cough syrup go bad?" Maggie asks, pulling a plastic bottle of viscous dark fluid out of a canvas bag printed with the name of whatever pharmacy she and Glenn had just raided. She holds it out to her father and Hershel takes it, more by instinct than authority on the subject, rolling the bottle in his hands and staring in carefully disguised confusion at its label. He's a vet, not any sort of human doctor. They all sort of just ignore that, happier to think they're covered on the medical front.

"It says to keep it in a controlled environment," Glenn adds. "You know, above forty degrees, below seventy-five."

Which, needless to say, there is no controlled environment anymore. Rick paces in a half-circle around the other three, more to keep his circulation up than out of any driving need to move, the collar of his jacket turned up against the bitter wind, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his fingertips still cold as ice. Winter had hemmed and hawed and dragged its feet, but it's finally settling in, a heavy cold presence filling the very air they breathe. The walkers are slower and clumsier and dumber than ever, as Rick had hoped- prayed- aloud to Shane those months ago- but the trade-off of cold weather, wet snow, and no food might just be more dangerous than any herd.

Rick had liked winter better than summer, before. Better to bundle up in layers against the cold than strip down to nothing in the heat, he'd always said, and he knows now what an arrogant, spoiled fool he'd been.

"Best not to risk it," Hershel says finally. He holds the bottle out to Rick when the arch of his pacing takes him close to the older man, and Rick takes it. There's a cartoony picture of a child being tucked into bed by his parents on the front of the bottle- children's Nyquil, grape flavored. He twists the cap off and picks at that stupid foil safety seal until it peels up and takes a quick sniff. The sharp sticky-sweet codeine smell almost chokes him, but he thinks he detects something else under it, a hint of bitterness. It could be perfectly normal- he doesn't know, he doesn't normally go around sniffing cough syrup- but he shakes his head all the same, snapping the cap back on and handing the bottle back to Hershel.

"He's right," he says. Maggie bites at her lower lip and looks at him with wounded, worried eyes, and Hershel takes her hands in his and rubs reassuring circles across her palm.

It's just a cold, nothing serious. Just a cold in a world where there is no bed rest, never enough water, no warm food, no warm anything. Just a cold that could so easily become something stronger, something deadly. Carl had come down with it first, coughing himself awake late at night, but Carl is young and healthy, and he'd burned through it so fast it almost hadn't registered that this could be a very bad thing. Then T-Dog had started coughing. They'll all go through it before long, Rick knows how contagions work, he's been the father of a preschooler. But for now, Carl's fully recovered and T-Dog's better but for a fading rasp in his chest when he breathes, and Beth's starting to cough, which is what's got Maggie so worried.

Daryl, of course, is smack in the middle of it and actively hating them all, bundled up in his corner with that ridiculous poncho he'd found who knows where, glaring at everyone. He's the worst patient Hershel's ever had, the old vet had reported darkly, and considering most of Hershel's patients weren't shy about biting or kicking to express their displeasure, that was really saying something. It probably has something to do with the inherent vulnerability of being sick as opposed to injured- Daryl can push past any level of pain, Rick's seen him do it, but there's no pain to push past here, no injury to work around. There's only the pressure in his chest and the burning pain in his throat and not enough air, never enough air, a slow drowning on dry land, and Rick knows it's scaring the hell out of Daryl.

"We also got this," Glenn says, pulling a pouch of anise cough drops out of Maggie's bag. Rick's never been a big fan of cough drops, would only take one of Lori's cherry-flavored drops if he absolutely had to, and can't say if this is a good score or not. He doesn't even know what anise tastes like.

Hershel, however, lights up a little, the concerned lines engraved into his face easing somewhat as he reached out for the cough drops. "These," he says with a small smile, "will do nicely."

"Good," Glenn says wryly, and pulls the bag open to show about a dozen more pouches. " 'Cause we grabbed it all."

Rick takes one and turns away, heading back to their temporary- very strictly temporary- shelter. Storage containers, the group split between two of them, and all agreed they weren't staying here a second longer than they had to. There's gore and dried blood arching in sprays and splatters over the walls and caking the floor in the containers, the scent of death and vomit and human excrement heavy in the air. Two other containers nearby are closed and barricaded- the one on the left had been closed when they'd found this place, and Rick wouldn't let anyone open it, the overwhelming scent of rot whenever they got too close warding them off.

The other one had been half-full of walkers all standing around in that odd semi-hibernation state. They'd shut the door and locked it and check it twice an hour, sometimes more as paranoia demands, but that didn't change that anyone in the right-hand container can still hear them, the growls and groaning and thumping and shuffling that gets louder and more determined whenever someone makes even the slightest noise.

The right-hand container is the one Rick makes his way towards, and he finds it almost empty, T-Dog on guard right outside the door and Carol inside. She's kneeling in front of a dark shape tucked away in the far corner, her hands full with a bottle of water and what looks to be a granola bar. She leaves them there and rises to her feet, moving with tired grace over to Rick.

"Do you want to handle him?" she asks, her voice staticky-rough at the edges, the early warnings of that damn cold. Rick looks past her to the corner she'd been crouching in, to the dark bundle that is Daryl, watching them with the wary irritation of a pissed-off house cat.

Carol and Daryl have an odd bond, one born of old scars and faded bruises, of nightmares and half-buried flinch reflexes. They two are survivors in ways no one else is- save perhaps Hershel, but Hershel has decades of road between himself and his demons- and are stronger for it. Rick doesn't envy them their friendship, is in fact grateful for it. He would have done anything to spare them their pain, but the best he could do by now- far, far too late to save anyone- is be grateful they found a kindred spirit within each other.

But for right now, Carol's gentle mother hen routine won't serve them nearly as well as Rick's strict authority. He shows her the cough drops and waves her towards the door, to the other container where she'll be with the others and might be able to relax a little.

"I'll do it," he says. "He'll listen to me. You'd best get some rest." To his annoyance, his voice catches harshly in his throat, and the last word comes out with a cough. He turns away, coughing quietly into his wrist, and when he turns back, Carol is doing something almost like smiling.

"You too," she says as she moves away, and Rick takes a deep, bracing breath before heading back.

There are no words to describe how much Rick is not in the mood for any shit today, and Daryl's not so wrapped up in his misery that he doesn't see that, so whatever acidic comment the hunter had been preparing dies on his lips when he looks up and sees who's standing over him. He settles for a glower instead, curling further into himself as Rick drops to a crouch in front of him. He rips open the pouch with his teeth and shakes a few drops, all gummed together, into his hand. He breaks off one drop and holds it out without saying a word.

Daryl hunches even further down, but eventually he frees one arm from the tangle of his poncho and takes the drop with a tiny sneer. Rick watches him with a commanding narrow-eyed stare until he puts the drop in his mouth, then Rick breaks off another and pops it into his own mouth, trying to preempt the sandpaper-roughness he can feel lining his throat. He sinks down to his knees, twisting around until he's sitting beside Daryl, back to the cold metal wall.

"You're gonna get sick," Daryl says to him, his normally whisky-rough voice as harsh as a crow's caw.

"Already am," Rick says. Anise, as it turns out, tastes a lot like licorice, and it takes a considerable amount of self-control to not spit it out. Beside him, Daryl grunts and shakes his poncho out, letting its corner drape over Rick, a silent grudging offer of more since it's fairly obvious Rick isn't leaving. Rick slowly, carefully shifts closer until they're pressed together, a shoulder-to-hip line of warmth. He's shivering, Rick can feel it now- shivering and sweating a bit, a fever that most likely doesn't even break a hundred degrees, and Rick can hear the rough, raspy draw of air as he breathes.

He's woken up huddled up against Daryl a time or two, now that winter's setting in and human instinct is guiding them all to seek out the warmth of another person while they sleep, but that only lasts until Rick's awake before Daryl's rolling away. Now, though, they're leaning into each other and they're both wide awake and no one's moving. Daryl relaxes into the touch until he's half-melted against Rick, his eyes bruised and dark and fixed on nothing, his chin tucking into his chest, his nearer hand resting absently on Rick's hip. He's sick and filthy and smells of anise and dried gore, and Rick thinks he's never seen anything so appealingly honest, and there really should be nothing attractive about the smell of old death on a person. He's never realized how much an absence of regular sex can affect a man's thought process 'til just now.

The bitter licorice aftertaste drives Rick to stick another cough drop in his mouth. Daryl doesn't stir at his movements, barely even opens his eyes, and once Rick's still again he drops his head on Rick's shoulder, asleep within moments.

Rick counts the breaths fanning out across the skin of his throat and doesn't sleep at all.

There's eleven of them, though Rick doesn't get the chance to count 'til they're all dead. Eleven walkers should be too many for two men, but they'd come out of the woods in ones and twos, and Rick had been suddenly, furiously angry at the world as a whole. He's so sick of running from these bastards, hates how so much of his life is defined by them now, how much he's lost to them. So instead of running, leading the walkers away from camp and looping back with nothing to show for their efforts but the news that it's time to pack up and move on- instead, Rick had stood his ground and killed them until they stopped coming, until there's nothing left but his own harsh panting and the roar of his blood in his ears.

"That was fun," Daryl says, and Rick starts ever-so-slightly at the sound of his voice. He'd been so lost in his rage he'd forgotten the other man was there. It's not the cold, calculating, slow-burning anger that drove him to kill Shane, but something white-hot and incendiary, blinding him to everything else. He'd never experienced its like before the world ended.

Daryl's got bloody tracks on his wrists, long shallow scratches running the length of his arms up under the sleeves of his jacket, and that punches the air out of Rick's lungs for a moment, unable to think past the total denial. He relearns how to breathe, a second and an eternity later, when he remembers Daryl got those scratches retrieving a rabbit from under an ornery thorn bush earlier. Daryl grins sharp as a knife and looks away at the walkers they'd put down, and Rick reaches out one shaky hand to grab his shoulder for support and reassurance both. Instead of flinching away from the sudden, unseen touch, Daryl gently sways into it, tacit permission to maintain contact. He's been doing that since the night he'd woken up basically sprawled in Rick's lap in the storage containers, and Rick's always pushed right back into him, closing distance until they're touching and thinking nothing of it. Shane had been a tactile person, so that's what Rick is used to, and Daryl seems to be all right with touching Rick even if he's still determined to maintain a proper distance with everyone else-

- oh.

And just like that, in a blinding moment of clarity, Rick suddenly, finally gets it.

It's a strange sort of seduction, practical instead of romantic, with hunting trips instead of dates and dead walkers instead of roses. It's fitting, as there's no romance left in this world anymore, and never has been for people like Daryl. Rick wonders if Daryl's been doing it on purpose, or if it's something that just happened, starting off so slow but picking up speed and momentum like an avalanche, sweeping them along in its wake.

He thinks about that day they found the pond, about the demons climbing up Daryl's shoulder blade, about how his wet hair shone red as blood in the sunlight. Something stirs in Rick's belly, a familiar hunger he's never sated, had promised himself he'd never indulge- but if he's right, if he's reading this correctly… Daryl will never be able to tell Rick what he wants, what he'll allow Rick to have of him, he hasn't got the words for it. If Rick's right, this is the closest to giving voice to any of that Daryl can come.

"They're all dead?" he asks as Daryl steps back from the bodies. He has no intention of being the horny teen that dies first in every single horror movie, thanks.

"Yeah," Daryl says, and Rick lets him sheathe his knife and wipe most of the blood on his hands off on his pants. Then Rick grabs him- right wrist and left shoulder, keeping him from going for the knife and pinning down the strap of the crossbow- and swings him around, slamming him back into a nearby tree.

It's too fast, too violent, it triggers reflexes both old and new. Daryl jerks back, trying to twist his hand free to grab his knife, and Rick has to drape the length of his body against Daryl's to avoid getting thrown off altogether. He waits a second, until Daryl's moved past the immediate, instinctive reaction to a sudden threat, until there's recognition and comprehension in his eyes. Then he kisses him.

After a moment Daryl starts struggling again, twisting his hand free and pushing Rick back. It's Rick's turn to flinch when Daryl reaches up, fully expecting to get punched for reading this whole thing completely wrong, already trying to work out what he needs to say, what he needs to do, to keep Daryl here because the group can't lose him over this-

But Daryl just rearranges his crossbow so it's no longer caught between his back and the tree. "Shit, Rick," he says. "All you had to do was ask. Don't gotta attack me." But for his bold words, he can't quite look Rick in the eye, and a blush is spreading across his cheeks. It's endearing, almost cute, and those aren't words Rick normally associates with Daryl, and he can't let himself start down that road. There's a line Rick intended to never cross that they're crossing here, and the further over it Rick goes, the worse he'll feel about it later.

He digs his fingers into Daryl's hair, curls his hands into a fist and pulls the other man back in for a punishing kiss. This time, Daryl pulls him close, wedging his thigh between Ricks' and kissing him back. His eyes aren't closed, Rick sees when he breaks away for air- he's not even looking at Rick at all, but scanning the forest around them. Rick presses a smile against his throat. Some things never change.

There's nothing graceful or poetic about it, but it's still right. It's cold- there's frost on the bark of the tree behind Daryl and a thin layer of week-old snow crunching under their boots- but they're warm between them. Rick's pushing into him too hard, grinding against him- he's never had a partner he didn't have to worry about like this before, never had someone who could match him for strength and take everything he has to give- and he presses his face against Daryl's neck and breathes in the scent of earth and smoke and walker blood and groans.

Daryl's cold-clumsy fingers are fumbling with his belt, fighting the zipper of his fly, and he's muttering oaths into Rick's hair. Rick declines to help and instead works his hands under the poncho and Daryl's shirt, sliding them up the broad plane of his back. He traces the scars with his fingers where he finds them, then presses his palm flat over them, owning them, making them his. He digs his nails into unscarred skin on Daryl's shoulder blades and rocks up against him and says "anytime today would be nice," to which Daryl snarls something that sounds a lot like fuck you.

Then, finally, Daryl works it out, and then he's got Rick's cock in his hand. It's too harsh, too much at first, and Rick gasps and growls when Daryl moves wrong. It's different than Rick had expected- he'd thought it'd be like jerking himself off, only not quite, but this is nothing like that. Daryl's fingers are cold and rough and callused in unfamiliar places, and Rick finds himself tensing, preparing for pain of an extremely personal nature.

"Relax," Daryl says impatiently. "I ain't gonna hurt you."

"You ever done this before?" Rick asks, because he's stolen looks and admired from afar but never really considered the mechanics of it, and Daryl huffs a silent laugh.

"Helluva time to be askin' me that, Grimes," he says.

Finally, when he's sure Rick's not gonna bolt the second he can, Daryl lets him go. Rick lifts his head and gulps down winter-sharp air. He's getting cold again now that the action's mostly stopped, the shared heat between 'em not enough against the bitter chill.

Then Daryl dips his head and spits into the palm of his hand. He tugs Rick closer again with a handful of shirt and lines up their hips just right and Rick's breath hisses out as the sensitive skin of his cock brushes against Daryl's. He presses them together and wraps his hand loosely around them both and Rick grunts and jerks up into his hold.

"Better?" Daryl asks, and traces a fingertip feather-light up the line of Rick's cock.

"Jesus," Rick bites out, and starts thrusting into Daryl's hand, rubbing against the other man's cock. He presses his forehead against Daryl's temple and tries to slide his hands up to his shoulders, but the crossbow strap's too tight across his back to get past, so he pulls his hands out. One he puts over Daryl's, reinforcing the gentle pressure of his touch in all the right places, and the other he wraps around the back of Daryl's neck.

It feels far too intimate, feeling his hair stir with each of Daryl's breaths, a tiny wet flick on the side of his neck when Daryl wets his lips. He can taste the sweat on Daryl's skin, and that shouldn't be as appealing as it is, so Rick buries his face against Daryl's shoulder again and bucks up into their hands one last time and comes with a sharp, muffled moan. Daryl untangles their fingers and brings himself off in three easy, familiar strokes, and then there's nothing but the sound of Rick's own heartbeat slowing and the silence of a winter forest around them.

"That was stupid," he says finally, looking over at the walker bodies. There could've been more of them, hundreds more. They got lucky. He doesn't move, though- this is the warmest he's been in a month.

"Prob'ly," Daryl agrees. He starts shifting uncomfortably, still pinned between Rick and the tree. The crossbow strap is biting into the side of his neck, and between it and the cord of his quiver and the poncho, bunched up and twisted between them, he's just got too many crosswise forces at work. Rick finally steps back, giving him room to sort himself out, and tucks himself away. He can taste nicotine in his mouth from Daryl's fiercely coveted cigarettes. He looks at his left hand, at the battered dull band of gold on his fourth finger, and feels some emotion he can't even begin to put a name to. Some childish voice inside him keeps insisting that Lori had betrayed him first- but Lori'd thought him dead, whereas Rick's just pissed at her.

"We can't do that again," he says, and Daryl doesn't look up at him, just nods once and keeps fussing with his clothes, like he'd expected this. And Rick feels all of two inches tall, because none of this is Daryl's fault- he's just giving Rick what he needs, same way he's always done. All Rick can think about is how easily Daryl fits under Rick's skin, settling into the empty spaces between his bones, belonging there in a way Lori never did. Rick aches for him already, which should feel a betrayal, and is all the worse for how much it doesn't.

No one's going to notice if they come back reeking of sex and each other. Still, Rick keeps a step or two further away from Daryl than he normally would, like distance now would erase any evidence of their closeness earlier.

The next few weeks, whenever Daryl goes off to hunt, he goes alone.

Spring arrives with a roar after finally ousting a stubbornly lingering winter- by Hershel's calculations, they were well into March by the time the ice stopped riming the edges of the creeks and the last patches of snow melted away. Barely a week later, it's storming every night, a heavy warm rain that thaws the ground and coaxes green life back into the world. Come morning the sky is always crystalline blue, scattered with tufts of cottony clouds, and the air is heavy and moist and smells of rich earth. It's a different shade of misery than winter, with a damp that gets into everything and never quite dries and raises some alarming questions about how to identify fungal infections, but it's warm, and that alone makes it worth it.

One particularly sunny day, the group finally starts shed the last of their layers, and Rick finds himself not knowing where to look. All he sees in his people is the harsh reminders of the world they live in and how much he can't do for them. They're all bruised and battered and pared down to nothing, muscles visibly working under skin, collarbones and cheekbones and shoulder blades all sharp enough to cut yourself on. Daryl is easily the worst offender here, every ounce of fat he once had- and he'd had some to spare at the start of this, the beginnings of a chubby face and a beer belly- all gone now, his shoulders and arms roped with steel-cord muscle from that damn crossbow, his stomach tucking into a concave curve that suggests someone may need to start watching him to make sure he actually is eating and not just passing his share along to someone else when no one's looking.

There's no room for worry about Daryl, however, once Rick sees Lori.

He had known- of course he'd known, he's not stupid- that her pregnancy was advancing. But it had been out of sight for four months now, a ticking time bomb hidden away under layers of jackets and shirts, and Rick had been able to ignore it, to deny its urgency. But now, with only her plaid overshirt to disguise her state, Rick can't deny it anymore. She's thinner than ever- and she of all of them had never had anything to spare- and her swollen belly looks almost obscene.

They have weeks, if they're lucky, if there's no problems caused by the stress and the running and the ever-present food shortage. They've been out here for months, never able to stay in any place for more than three nights in a row, and now they have a handful of days to find someplace safe to hole up. He'd kill for a safe haven- no lie, no joke, no exaggeration, he'll kill hundreds of people to keep his nine safe, that's just how it is anymore. There's something dark and ugly burning in the pit of his belly, all furious possessive jealousy, a fire kindled the day after the Atlanta camp had been attacked and everyone had turned to him to ask what now, a fire stoked into an inferno the night after they lost the farm when he had told them all to yield to him or leave.

Lori quickly gets uncomfortable with the staring and goes to sit in the car, and it's Daryl Rick looks to, Daryl whose strength and reassurance Rick finds himself seeking. The hunter's staring after Lori, biting at his thumbnail- a nervous habit born of fear, Rick's seen it often enough to recognize it, always whenever Daryl's worried about someone else and never himself. After a moment he looks away to Rick, meeting his gaze unerringly, unflinchingly, before he finally turns back to the arrow he'd been fletching.

Rick turns back to studying Lori, her head lolling back against the seat headrest with a blank, defeated look in her eyes, and the slow steady slide into desperation picks up speed until it's an avalanche, and it's swallowed Rick whole.

"You've never seen anything out there," Rick says, only half-asking, gesturing to indicate the forest around them as he talks. The group's settling in for the night, another night in the cars and huddled together on the open road, sleeping in hurried snatches, every noise startling them awake, and Rick knows he's getting desperate. "No place we could stay for a while?"

Daryl pauses and looks up from where he's sorting through his arrows, testing their shafts for weak spots or warping. "You don't think I'd've said somethin'?" he asks, and his tone is carefully blank, but there's something darker underpinning it. Rick groans and looks away and rubs his hand over his face. And now he's stepping on toes, offending people- Daryl, in specific, which is a hell of a lot harder than it sounds. The man's still got a short fuse but his anger burns quick and clean, a lightning strike of fury. To actually offend him instead of just piss him off takes some serious effort.

"I didn't mean it like that," Rick says in a tone that's an apology even if the words aren't, and the tension coiled within Daryl eases instantly, any ruffled feathers neatly soothed just like that. It has never, even on their best days, been that easy with Lori. "It's just- I'm looking for ideas here, even really stupid ones."

Only one arrow gets discarded, completely lacking any visible defect that Rick can see, the rest dropped back into the quiver. Daryl stands with ease, like he hasn't been crouching down for almost twenty minutes, like his knees aren't hating him right now. They're about the same age, but Rick feels decades older than Daryl sometimes. For a moment, the hunter seems on the verge of saying something. Then he slides his gaze over Rick's shoulder, scanning the group beyond- looking for Lori, probably. Rick doesn't have to look for her. He always knows where she is anymore, constantly keeps her in the periphery of his vision.

" 'M goin' hunting," he says instead, a simple, concise statement of fact, and Rick almost smiles at it. His own family practically thinks they need his permission simply to breathe, but Daryl's always been quietly dead set on doing things his own way, and has found a way to neatly fold this streak of independence into Rick's strict dictator regime. He picks his battles, only gets stubborn on things he knows best like hunting, and if Rick says no anyways he backs down easy, no arguing or unhappy grumbling. And Rick somehow always finds himself more inclined to say yes the next time he wants to dig in his heels. It's either masterful manipulation on Daryl's part- highly unlikely- or some form of natural compromise between two men with a thorough understanding of one other.

Rick watches as Daryl moves away, even paces a step or two after him. He won't bother to say be careful, 'cause Daryl doesn't need that, he's the most careful of them all. He doesn't want to say good luck, that's just too pat, too small and hollow, and they all have shit luck anyways. He can't say see you later 'cause there's no guarantee of that, not even a false promise of safety in this world anymore. So he lets Daryl go without a word, until Daryl stops on the shoulder of the road, stops and turns back and squints at Rick.

"You comin'?" he asks, and Rick's halfway to him before he even realizes he's moving, some small voice in his head saying no while every other inch of him screams yes. He stops and looks at Daryl, crossbow on his shoulder, hair shining red and just barely long enough to fall into his eyes, then looks back at the others. Lori is standing in the middle of their loose huddle, one hand spread over her belly, her eyes sad and knowing. She does nothing, just watches him walk away, and Rick mourns the disintegration of what had once been a good marriage.

Daryl doesn't touch him as he draws near, ducks away when Rick gets within arm's reach, but he matches his stride to Rick's as they walk, and it's like finally coming home.

Rick's worse than useless that first time he gets back out there. He's stumbling and loud and blind to everything around him, all caught up in his own head- worried about Lori, the baby, trying not to think too much about Daryl- and probably wouldn't notice if a walker was coming 'til it was chewing on him. Fortunately for him, sometime between Atlanta and here Daryl had learned patience, and he in turns guides and follows Rick through the forest with the silent dedication of a sheepdog tending his flock.

He doesn't notice the railroad tracks until he literally trips over them.

He's still kneeling dazedly between the rails, knees aching from the sudden impact with the ground and palms stinging with splinters from the trestle he'd caught himself on, when Daryl makes it to him. He's watchful and wary, standing protectively over Rick, searching the forest around them for anything resembling a threat. Finally, he lowers his crossbow and holds out a hand, and Rick takes it and pulls himself up. He brushes the dirt off his jeans, picks out some of the larger splinters in the heels of his hands, and turns to look first one way, then the other down the tracks.

"Think it's worth followin' 'em?" he asks, thinking of train stations and rail yards. If nothing else, at least it'd no longer be going in smaller and smaller circles over the same terrain, trapped between herds that roll over the land like storm fronts.

"Tracks don't run parallel to the roads 'round here," Daryl says, not quite answering the question. "It'd mean walkin'."

There's precious little gas to be found anymore, especially since they have to stick to the back roads to avoid traffic snarls and herds. They've taken to swapping out cars instead of trying to siphon a nearly-full tank or whenever one of theirs starts showing signs of engine troubles. The only vehicle that's lasted is Daryl's bike, and that's just sheer stubbornness on Daryl's part. They'll be walking before long, no matter what- but Rick won't abandon the cars, not until he absolutely has to. They're safe harbor, a last line of defense, the group's pack horses, and fairly respectable battering rams should shit really go wrong.

Rick sighs and rubs his wrist over his forehead and steps over the rail, his face twisting into a surprised wince of pain at the scrape of denim over his abraded knees. Daryl sees it and ducks his head, swaying on the spot like a rattlesnake sizing up its prey, the very corner of his mouth tugging up.

"Shut up," Rick says, feeling all of eight years old. They're standing close enough to touch, closer than they have been in weeks, and Rick's pretty sure he can feel his blood supply all heading south, his long-deprived body happily responding to Daryl's presence even if his head insists on being stupid about it. He wants to sway in close and kiss him.

Instead he rocks back on his heels, fast, and moves a step away, giving himself room to breathe. He closes his eyes and sets his jaw, wrapping a steel fist of self-control around those urges and pushing them back. He's not in the habit of denying himself something he wants this much, but he's not a hedonist either, and this whole thing isn't fair to any of them. It would be easier if it were somebody's fault, but it's not, so all Rick can do is push Daryl away and hate himself for how easily Daryl accepts it, like he's used to begging for scraps of affection and will take what he can get.

When Rick opens his eyes, he sees only understanding in Daryl's face, and it just makes him hate himself that little bit more.

"Pro'ly oughta head back," Daryl says, ripping some small vital piece out of Rick and taking it with him as he moves away. "Ain't gonna catch anything anyways."

When they get back, Rick buries himself in the map, tracing the hashed line of the railroad tracks he'd found. As Daryl had said, no roads ran beside it, but there were some that led in the same general direction. He looks at Lori and feels something grim and determined settling into that hollowed place inside him.

The next morning, he turns them south to follow the tracks.

Proper distance established, self-control maintained, Rick finds it easy to follow Daryl out into the woods again. Daryl treats it as though nothing has changed, and Rick is quietly, desperately grateful to him for it, so damned relieved he hasn't done any damage with his cold shoulder treatment.

"Huh," Daryl says, the fourth time they're out after Rick rejoined him, and Rick moves closer, following his gaze. "That's a shame."

They've been following the train tracks again, and Daryl's looking out to the south where the land dips sharply, dropping right off the tracks into a short steep hill leading down to a creek. Beyond that Rick can see strong walls and tall fences and squat towers standing sentinel over the land, all cold cement and iron bars, and something in him clicks. He barely pays any mind to the dozens of walkers milling around the enclosed yard, unable to see anything beyond the plans forming in his mind. This is what he's been looking for. He'll fight for it, kill for it, die for it if it comes to that.

Mine, a voice in his mind whispers, ours, and something wound tight to snapping loosens within his chest, stretching out and luxuriating like a cat in a sunbeam. It's a haven, a city unto itself- it's a prison, it has to be completely self-contained- and if they can take it, they will never need leave. And it's not even like they're going up against a thinking enemy here, just a bunch of walkers. They can kill the things through the fences, get into the towers and shoot them down. It'll wipe out their ammo supply, but they can do this. They can do this.

He looks at Daryl, still standing next to him, patiently waiting for Rick to come back from whatever place his mind had wandered off to. He could've conquered the world with this man if they'd met before everything had burned to ash, Rick thinks.

"What do you think?" he asks, because he needs to check that he hasn't just completely lost it here. He doesn't have to explain what he means; Daryl is extraordinarily good at following Rick's lead, wherever he may be going.

"Think you found your really stupid idea," he says finally. He looks suddenly very tired and worn, like he's let his stoic mask slip away to show what's underneath, but there's a new light in his eyes, one that looks an awful lot like hope. He sees it, too. They can do this.

Rick looks back at the prison, at its sturdy walls and standing fences, and for the first time in weeks, he smiles.