Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Jess Dixon looked at his nephews existing around their little group, it felt like he was watching a rabbit climb a tree; it was unnatural.

Dixon men didn't cuddle, didn't hold hands to comfort little girls, didn't throw their arms across the shoulders of other men.

Dixons didn't have easy smiles that weren't greased by liquid courage or crank or loopy, cottony concussions.

Dixons didn't mourn for three little kids, like their own hearts had been ripped out.

The night after Woodbury burned, while Merle, Daryl, and Bo fell asleep amongst their group, Jess watched on with distant curiosity. It was like a documentary he watched, where a lioness adopted a gazelle. All of her power and strength centered down on the very thing she was born to kill, to hunt. Jess remembered, with a touch of ugly humor, the gazelle had starved.

From the door to the perch, as Daryl called it, Jess let his eyes travel over the sleeping forms.

The big guy - the one missing his arm - looked like a hibernating bear, the deep snores from his barrel chest vibrated the bouncer with the baby but she didn't pay it no mind.

The old man and his daughter leaned against each other easily, like she had never been given a reason to be afraid of him.

The couple were next, so wrapped up in each other that Jess could only tell the difference from the color of their hair. They were almost painfully happy, they were the stuff of the endings of fairy tales and children’s stories - things that didn’t exist in the bleak world they lived in, even Before.

The sheriff, next in their little line, seemed saner when he was asleep - the lines of tension around his eyes had smoothed, showing how young he really was in the grand scheme of things. Jess was uncomfortably reminded that he was an old man now.

While Rick was awake, Jesse usually avoided him, those crazed blue eyes too similar to his pa’s after a few rounds of moonshine.

Right behind Rick was Daryl, so close Jess probably couldn't fit a playing card between their backs. Daryl’s shoulders were pulled up to his ears even in his sleep, muscles tight and bunched up. His fist was curled up close to his face, making Jess think back to the dark haired little boy he used to take camping and how Daryl sucked his thumb when it was dark and quiet and his daddy weren't around to beat him for it.

Past his youngest nephew, the two boys were in a little pile. Will would have knocked out every one of Jess’s teeth if he tried to sleep tangled up with another boy at Bo’s age, let alone the son of a Sheriff. Bo practically blanketed Carl, like he wanted to shield him with his very body.

Jess wondered if that was what a big brother was supposed to be like: someone to cover you up bodily, hide you from the world and from whatever it is that wanted to hurt you. Someone who wasn’t the hurt you wanted to hide from.

Sophia’s back was to the boys, curled in her mother's arms like a toddler. Carol held her close and tight and Jess tried to remember if he had ever been held as tenderly.

Finally, his eyes slid over to Merle, to find a pair of Dixon blues staring back at him.

Jess shrank away, watching Merle stand and slowly pick his way over the bodies. No one woke up fully, as if, even unconscious, they knew they were safe; they looked like sheep sleeping peacefully around a bloody-jawed wolf.

Merle prowled away from the group, leading Jess away to the communal area downstairs.

“You know what he was plannin’?” he asked, once they were far enough they wouldn't disturb the others.

Jess shook his head and, since Merle kept walking and didn't look back, eventually answered out loud, “Didn't tell me nothin’.”

Merle grunted at him, still walking.

Watching him, Jess was reminded vividly of Will. The set of his shoulders, the power in his arms, the size of his remaining hand. Merle was the spitting image of Will when he was that age - and Will looked just like their pa.

Daryl took his coloring after their mama, and so did Bo by the looks of it, but Merle just needed about 40 pounds around the middle and a beard to look like his daddy’s twin.

They came to an exterior door and Merle slammed through it. Jess followed meekly.

They had kept him away from Woodbury for the most part. The way they distrusted strangers was understandable, but Jess mourned that he was now considered a stranger in their eyes.

“He killed them kids, Jess,” Merle growled. He had finally come to a stop in the yard and turned on Jess like an angry dog just waiting for the chance to take a bite.

“I know.” There wasn't much more to say than that.

Merle snarled and paced, his hand twitching at his side.

Jess watched him passively. He knew what Merle wanted him to say, he wanted someone to push against, someone to use that big fist and sharp bayonet on.

Jess knew those moods from Will, the only difference was that Will didn't need an excuse to take his rage out on someone.

“You good?”

Jess looked up and saw one of the prisoners looking down on them from the tower.

Merle waved his bayonet over his shoulder. “Fuck off, Oscar,” the words held no heat, “family business.”

Jess watched Oscar look between them for a moment before nodding. “Eat a dick, Dixon,” he replied with a companionable tone before turning back to the fence.

“You got a good thing goin’ here, Merle,” Jess pointed out, once it seemed that Merle was going to let the silence fester. He aimed for some humor, “Better’n the last time you got locked up.”

“They had it good in that town too, til goddamned Will Dixon came along.”

Jess lowered his eyes, focusing on the dirt and mud caked to his boots so he didn’t have to look up and see Merle’s righteous rage.

“Would’a been right homey there,” Merle continued, his voice losing some of the anger and tipping back into a familiar mournful tone. “Old ladies on porches, kids in yards. Didn’t think that shit was real even before the world ended.”

Jess reached into his pocket and offered Merle one of his last cigarettes.

Merle accepted the olive branch. He lit up with a click of his metal lighter and exhaled a cloud of smoke to the sky.

The silence grew heavy, but not tense. Jess could feel something between them building like pressure from a storm.

Merle blew out another arid cloud. “He broke ‘im, y’know?”

Jess didn't have to ask who Merle was talking about.

“Broke me too, prob’ly broke you. Sure as hell broke Ma.” Merle took another long drag, glaring up at the stars like they held answers.

Jess listened to the words, remembering how small Merle was when he first asked to come live with Jess instead of Will. The words felt like blows, Jess accepted them like a penance.

“And now -” Merle’s voice cracked with the force of a glacier.

“Now he broke my boy. He marked ‘im up jus’ like the rest of us.” Merle reached back with his bayonet, stopping just short of carving into his shoulder. Jess knew what he was gesturing to, knew the feeling of welts turning into molted scars. “Learned ‘im just like me ‘n Daryl, ‘n now he went ‘n broke his damn heart too.

“We're gonna kill ‘im, Jess, gonna tear ‘im up ‘n let ‘im turn ‘n-” his voice shook with equal parts impotent rage and bone deep fear, “I’m gonna let Will Dixon turn ‘n I’m gonna do it all over again.”

Merle turned his attention back down from the sky and he had a manic gleam in his eye.

Jess saw Will in those eyes, felt phantom blood running down his back.

Shane was… better?

Hershel said it was all part of the process, but Shane felt like he was still on fire. The heat was a constant feeling, even when Andrea pressed cool compresses into his skin. It felt like the fire had sunk deep into his bones and was radiating out and out and out, burning him all over again.

Now, though, now he had the itching too. The bandages itched, the way his skin was healing itched, even where his hair was growing back made his scalp crawl and he felt phantom spiders against half-numbed skin.

Shane preferred the burning.

On the other side of their little burn ward, Nate was mercifully unconscious. The few times he had woken up he had just screamed, like he was still trapped in the fire.

Herself said that Shane's burns were less severe than Nate’s, that he would be able to be back up and moving soon.

Shane hoped he was right, he hated laying in bed while he saw Tyreese going on runs and Michonne searching for the damned Governor and Will fucking Dixon. Shane tried to be thankful when Andrea popped in and told him how Axel rigged the showers or how Sasha was working on evacuation plans, but it just made him feel worse.

Everyone was doing their best, keeping the prison running, turning it into a place where they could truly live, and here was Shane, laying in bed and trying not to think about how his skin could itch so bad when Hershel said that his nerves were dead.

A few days after Woodbury, they were running low on meat.

“Gotta go hunt,” Merle told Daryl.

“Take Bo ‘n check the snares,” his little brother answered, “I'll go further out.”

Merle heard what Daryl didn't say; Bo had been withdrawn and quiet since Woodbury, so maybe some time outside of the walls would do him good.

In agreement, Merle gathered Bo up along with their weapons and they started to the gate.

“How long’r we goin’ for?” Bo asked, glancing back at the guard towers.

“Few hours, be back before dark.”

“Which way we goin’?”

Merle huffed. “Whichever way’s got food, what else you wanna know?”

Bo gave a little half shrug, still glancing backwards.

Maggie opened the gate for them, but not before wrapping Bo in a hug and ruffling his hair. Bo blinked at her blankly before following Merle out.

Merle watched him with concern, but counted on the peaceful walk to help draw him out.

Their first few traps were empty besides fur and bones, anything that had been snared had long since fallen prey to other predators.

Behind him, Merle heard Bo panting like they had just ran a marathon.

It was a warm day, the summer had settled in now and was blazing bright across their shoulders. When Merle looked back, he convinced himself that was why Bo was pale and sweating.

By the fourth snare, Merle started to get frustrated. “Damn cityslickers couldn't’a checked a damn snare while we was busy?!”

Bo didn't answer.

They were luckier along the back stretch, finding a pair of plump rabbits and shooting half a dozen squirrels. Bo had yet to raise his crossbow or help Merle reset a snare, but his wide eyes kept darting around to keep watch.

At one of the last snares, Merle heard one of the newcomers picking their way through the undergrowth. They weren't too loud, not like T-Dog, but loud enough that he knew they were there.

Whoever it was stepped on a fallen branch, the crack echoed through the woods.

Bo gasped and fell.

“Bo?!” Merle dropped the snare and ran to his son.

“You guys okay?” Leroy’s voice came through the trees.

On the ground, Bo clutched his chest and fought for each breath like he was underwater.

“No!” Merle snapped, “Get Hershel! Bo’s havin’ a damn heart attack!”

Merle dropped to his knees next to his son, helping him undo the buttons on his shirt.

The steps sped up toward them and, after a minute, Leroy skidded into the clearing.

“What happened?!”

“He's dyin’! Go get Hershel!”

Between them, Bo gasped and tore at his shirt.

“Oh,” Leroy seemed calmer all of a sudden. His voice took on a strange, measured cadence, the low tone unfamiliar from the usually carefree man. “Hey, little man, follow me.” He took a slow, loud breath.

“C- can't!” Bo spat

“You can,” Leroy said slowly, “just one little breath. C’mon.” He took another slow breath.

Bo finally got his shirt off and flopped back into the dirt. He closed his eyes and tried to follow the steady stream of instructions from Leroy. He swallowed a big gulp of air, nearly choking on it.

Merle’s hand twisted into a fist, a slow understanding overtaking him. This wasn’t a heart attack, he couldn’t just scoop Bo up and run away from the danger, couldn’t fight it off. He just had to stand there and witness it.

“Can you feel the ground, Bo?” Leroy kept up the exaggerated breathing, “What can you feel?”

Merle pushed himself to his feet, retreating. He paced at the treeline, trying to give Leroy room to help, but unwilling to stray far from his son.

“I feel,” Bo stuttered through his answer, sucking in air like he was breathing through a straw. “I feel the - the dirt!”

“What does it feel like?” Leroy asked.

“Cool,” Bo took a shallow breath, then another. “Cool and- and damp.”

“Good job, little man.” Leroy spoke like he was talking to a toddler, “What can you hear?”

“Birds.”

“One more, what else?”

Bo’s breathing slowly got more even, more steady.

Leroy kept prattling on, asking Bo about what he could feel and hear and smell and even taste.

Merle watched them, feeling dumb and useless, too big and clumsy and unfit for such a fragile scene.

By the time they got to sight, Bo had come back to himself to give a little smile. “I see your ugly mug, Goober,” he panted, still flat on his back but no longer clutching his chest like he was about to burst.

“Welcome back, little man.” Leroy gave him a high five and stood with a stretch.

Finally sure he wasn’t going to break his son, Merle allowed himself to approach.

Bo’s eyes met his, huffing a sigh and offering a shaky smile. Merle searched his face, finding exhaustion and shame.

Merle’s blood curdled and he hurried to help Bo sit up, running his flesh hand along his son’s back in an awkward attempt at comfort.

“I know those suck, but at least now you know he isn’t dying,” Leroy told Merle. “That was a pretty gnarly panic attack. We should get him back inside for now.”

Bo was tired enough that he only put up a token protest before climbing up onto Leroy’s back. Merle took point and led them back to the prison.

“I'm not a shrink or anything,” Leroy explained, “but my little brother had panic attacks. I remember what he said his psychiatrist told him to do.”

“You mean it's gonna keep happening?” Bo asked, sounding nearly offended.

Leroy nodded, “It might. We need to figure out what triggered it.”

When they came back to the prison, Merle watched little Sophia scurry down from the guard tower with a little frown. Maggie slung open the gate to let them in, then Bo hopped down and huddled with Sophia while they walked back toward the block.

“I'm surprised it hasn't happened before now,” Leroy said, when the kids were outside of earshot. “They've been though a lot, more than they deserve.”

After that, Merle made sure to keep a close eye on Bo.

He got fidgety and anxious when separated from Carl or Sophia, he went still and ridged when he smelled unexpected smoke, he glared at Jess like he had personally wronged him.

In the background, Hershel put together his little council. It was him, Glenn, Daryl, Carol, and Sasha while Rick retired to the garden.

Merle paid it little mind. “Have fun playin’ house, Darylina,” he told his brother, “just come find me when you actually need to get shit done.”

Since Rick was often at the garden, so was Carl and, by extension, so were Sophia and Bo.

When Sophia or Bo had watch shifts, the three shifted to the other side of the yard, never out of sight for longer than it took to use the latrine.

Even at night, if one wanted to get water or check on Judy, all three of their kids would stumble out of their cell, sometimes joined by the hands, and make their way together.

It scared Merle.

Oscar eventually asked Merle to help reinforce the fence. Glenn brought back sheet metal and hardware along with his newcomers and Merle kept up his observation while making sure no one could burn down their defenses.

Every night, whether he had watch or not, Merle walked the fence, eyeing where they had cut their way in, where they needed more metal, more layers between his son and everything that lurked outside of their fences.

After what happened to Bobbi, Jason, and Eli, they all knew that life wasn't guaranteed. There was no way that Merle could keep everyone alive - he was struggling with just his own family - but he knew that losing either Carl or Sophia would destroy his son.

Bo wouldn't recover.

So Merle threw himself into securing their home, laying down spike strips and caltrops, making barricades, laying traps, and pacing like a junkyard dog on a chain every night.

Will had taken a lot of things from Merle, a lifetime of things added up over and over again. But Bo? Merle would be damned if Will took Bo from him.

Chapter Text

Glenn found himself outside of the fences more often than not.

He made deals with himself - if he recruited enough survivors, if he found that horse Michonne wanted, if he brought back enough seeds. If he did enough then they would be safe.

He couldn't hunt down their attackers like Daryl and Michonne, he couldn't reinforce the fences like Merle and Oscar, he couldn't feed dozens of people like Carol and her team, but Glenn was quick and quiet and he had to do something.

Besides that, every time he left, he got to come back. Maggie would greet him at the gate, Hershel would update him on the goings on in the prison, Rick would wave at him from the garden.

They were surviving, despite everything.

“You leavin’ again?” Maggie asked, her voice was still deep with sleep and her drawl was slow and lazy.

It was early, the weak sunlight coming through the sheet they hung was gray and soft, casting his wife in a halo around her messy hair.

They were tangled up under a sheet in the lower bunk in their cell, enjoying the last bit of cool from the night before the Georgia sun made it too hot for the stuffy cell block.

“Yeah.” Glenn didn't resist the urge to run his hand through Maggie’s hair, pulling her in for a kiss. “Daryl said he would help me find that mare Michonne keeps talking about.”

Maggie snuggled close despite the heat already radiating down from the roof. “I'm surprised he's going that far out.”

“Merle will be here.” Everyone knew of the brothers’ concerns about Bo, echoed by concerns for Beth. Glenn sighed at the thought, “I just - I don't want them to give up.”

Maggie didn't answer.

Their group rarely slept all at once, but there was still a distinct time where night turned to day: Carol and her team of newcomers started on breakfast - their snares had been plentiful so it was mostly meat with some early veggies from the garden or foraged from outside; Rick handed off Judy to Beth, who sang to her softly; Hershel hobbled off to the burn unit near D-Block; and a heavy pair of boots stomped closer to their cell.

“You decent?” Daryl growled, in his own psudo-playful way.

“Never,” Maggie joked back, just as dry.

Daryl grunted and stomped again, his meaning clear enough: Hurry up, time’s a wastin’.

Glenn and Maggie shared a giggle. Their taciturn hunter might think himself distant and mysterious, but they knew better. They wouldn't have heard him coming if he didn't want them to. He only stomped around to warn them someone was coming; it was sweet in its own way.

Glenn slid out of bed, dodging Maggie’s half-hearted attempts to pull him back down, and got dressed efficiently.

Outside, Daryl tapped his boot against the catwalk.

With a sly smile, Maggie dragged him down for one last kiss, making sure to end with a loud mwah.

“Ha-ha-ha!” Daryl groaned from outside their cell, “I'll leave you lovebirds ‘ere ‘n rope that damn nag myself.” His footsteps clanged once more, leading away from their cell.

“I guess you get the day off then,” Maggie joked with a soft smile.

“And leave him with all the bragging rights?”

“Now that would be a tragedy.”

Glenn left his wife to get ready for her plans, chasing Daryl through the prison and into the yard where he already waited by the gate with Merle and Bo.

With his eyes averted respectfully, Glenn overheard their goodbyes - mostly gruff reminders to bring water and get back safe - before Tyreese let them through.

“Michonne saw her a few hours South of here,” he told them, “and saw some signs of a camp if you want to recruit while you're out.”

Daryl nodded once and melted into the trees, leaving Glenn to crash about after him.

They each carried their packs - boiled water, empty bottles, jerky, and a change of socks - and weapons. Since the prison had gotten busier, and by extension louder, it seemed that the walkers tended to gather more at their fences instead of spread through the woods, but they were still cautious.

These runs were easy, compared to last winter, especially when Glenn was with one of their original group. Sure, they liked the newcomers, enjoyed them taking up watch shifts, helping with the cooking and checking snares, but they were still slow and clumsy outside.

Their group, though, could go on almost endlessly. Once they set a steady pace, they could lope on and on.

By noontime, they were at the remains of the camp that Michonne had found. If they had brought newcomers they would have had to add nearly an hour to their journey, at least.

The camp they found was chaotic, even Glenn could read the hastily extinguished fire and saw that the tent was only half broken down.

Across the camp, hovering over a mess of footprints, Daryl sighed and shook his head.

“They're kids.”

Glenn jogged closer to peer over his shoulder, still mystified by the way Daryl could read the sand and mud.

“‘Bout six, probably teenagers.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Poor bastards.”

Wordlessly, they changed course to track down the kids. Glenn knew that Daryl felt the same weight in his chest, a stoney grief that still lingered for the last group of kids left alone at the end of the world.

“Scattered at first,” Daryl traced a hand in broad sweeps, “but met up again there.”

Even Glenn could see the path they took, underbrush tramped, muddy footprints painting a picture of panic and fear.

The path led away from the last place they saw the mare, but Glenn couldn't find it in himself to care.

The sun tracked over their heads, blazing rays on their shoulders and burning the back of Glenn’s neck. One strange thing he missed from Before was sunscreen, aching with burns whenever he spent too much time exposed. Hershel had tried to get Glenn to switch out his baseball cap for a wide brimmed farmer’s hat, but Maggie’s giggles made him politely decline.

Daryl stopped at a clearing, glaring down at the ground. “Split up again, looks like they ran into a couple ‘a walkers.”

“Which way do we go?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Went off like scattershot.” Daryl waved a hand in a few different directions.

“Might as well go this way then,” Glenn pointed in the direction opposite of the prison. “Then we can get the stragglers on the way home.”

He was met with a grunt and a nod, basically rousing approval from Daryl.

They kept walking, but now they sped up a little, hoping they could find them before they turned into another set of undersized walkers.

Eventually, Daryl put up a hand in a silent signal to stop.

They perfected it, over the winter, that silent trust in one another.

Daryl looked over his shoulder at Glenn, then cut his eyes up and raised a single finger.

One, in the trees. The way they had taught the kids in the beginning.

Daryl pulled himself back into the underbrush, melting against the greenery and shadows.

Once he was clear, Glenn shielded his eyes and looked up at the vague lump on the tree branch.

“Hey!”

“Shit!” The lump startled so hard it almost fell.

“Hey,” Glenn said a little softer, “down here.”

A head poked out, covered by brown hair and painfully young.

“H- Hey?”

“C’mon down, I won't hurt you.”

Glenn watched a few emotions flit across that young face: first hope, then suspicion, and finally a grim kind of acceptance.

The boy threw down his pack and scrambled down from the tree in the awkward way that spoke of learning under pressure.

Once on the ground, the boy stuttered some more. “Hey, I - um…”

Glenn took pity on the kid. “Let's start with this.” He held out his hand with a gentle smile. “I'm Glenn, nice to meet you.”

The boy sagged in relief and took his hand in a good, steady grip. “Zach,” he said with an awkward smile.

“Are you out here by yourself?” Glenn asked, keeping his posture calm and open.

The boy sighed, he couldn't have been older than twenty. “No, my friends got scared away by some sickos. I was gonna go look for them after I got some rest.”

“Yeah, I saw your camp back there. Grab your bag, maybe I can help you find them.”

Zach looked ecstatic and hurried to throw his backpack on. “Great!” he said, “There’s sev- well, six of us. I- I think Ian didn't make it.”

Glenn found himself smiling at his enthusiasm. “So, while we look, will you answer some questions for me?”

“Sure! Sure, whatever you need,” Zach replied with an earnest grin.

“How many walkers have you killed?” Glenn watched his face carefully while they walked, knowing that Daryl lurked just out of sight.

Zach furrowed his brow, thinking. “Walkers? Eight, I think. We usually run away from the sickos.”

Glenn came to a stop and looked Zach in the eye. “How many people have you killed?”

“What? None!” Zach looked concerned, suddenly. Looking around like he was calculating his chances of running away.

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why?’?!” Zach nearly shouted. “Because they're people! We don't kill people.”

Glenn watched him, weighing his answers.

Zach obviously read into the silence, his hands twitched at his side and he bounced on the balls of his feet.

Curious, and trusting that Daryl was around to keep the kid from getting hurt, Glenn let him stew for a few long moments. He watched sweat break out on Zach’s forehead, saw him shift his weight and -

Glenn’s hand snapped out and grabbed Zach by his backpack at the same moment that he coiled his legs and tried to leap away.

“Hold up,” Glenn said, drawing out the words. “Don’t worry, you passed.”

Zach just stuttered in his hold, all adolescent offense and indignation. “What’d’ya mean, passed?”

Glenn made up his mind quickly enough, evidently the boy and his friends had been lucky enough not to run into anyone as ruthless as the Governor or Will Dixon. They were safe to bring into the prison and, truthfully, probably needed some help to survive.

Zach wiggled out of his hold, and sent Glenn a questioning look.

“Pretty damn trustin’.” Daryl materialized beside Zach, nearly giving the poor boy a heart attack.

“What the hell?!” he yelled, startling the wildlife around them quiet.

Daryl stalked past without another word, leaving Glenn to explain.

“It's okay, he's with me,” he told a nervous Zach. “We have to ask those questions before we bring someone back home.”

“Home?”

Glenn gave him another gentle smile, trying to calm him down. “Yeah, someplace safe. We'll take you and your friends there once we find them.”

Zach still looked dubious, but he followed them easily enough. Glenn watched him slowly relax, getting curious enough to peer over Daryl’s shoulder while he tracked.

“Two ‘a your friends went this way,” Daryl explained, once they caught up, “one’s kinda heavy.”

“Probably Josh and John, they usually stick together.” Zach cocked his head to the side, “What did you do Before? Were you a police tracker or something?”

Glenn had to work fast to turn his laugh into a cough while Daryl growled and stalked off.

Zach turned out to be right and they found a pair of boys barricaded in an old cabin.

Glenn knocked on the door and, once they saw Zach, the boys spilled out with hugs.

“We thought you were a goner!” the taller boy sobbed.

The shorter one, also more stocky, added, “We saw Ian get bit and we thought you would too!”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Zach reassured the boys then introduced Glenn and Daryl.

“That’s Josh,” he pointed to the tall, lanky boy then to his stout friend, “and there’s John. You can usually just say ‘Josh-and-John’ ‘cause they’re always together.”

“Looks like another pair went that way.” Daryl marched off, once more leaving Glenn to herd the kids after him.

“Its not you,” he joked, “Dixons don’t do small talk.”

He saw the looks Josh-and-John were passing to Zach, like they weren’t really sure what was going on, but he figured he could explain more once they found everyone.

The next pair of boys were found hunkered down in an old storm drain. They heard them approaching and emerged, muddy and cramping, once they heard the familiar voices.

“Scott and Justin,” Zach introduced. “They’re brothers so they’ll answer to either.”

Glenn stepped up and reached to shake their hands. “I’m Glenn and this is Daryl.”

“We're just missing Patrick,” John said, once they were finished with their reunions.

Josh, at his shoulder, explained, “He's the new guy. He found us a few weeks ago.”

Zach shook his head sadly, “He's just a kid. He lost his parents near the beginning and I never asked if he lost them or… you know, lost them.”

“Either way he's a damn lot better at stayin’ hidden then you lot,” Daryl growled.

Glenn went to defend him to the kids, just to be met by wide, adoring eyes.

One of the brothers asked breathlessly, “Can you track him, Mr. Dixon?”

Daryl prickled at the name, but Glenn felt a shot of glee. “You've got yourself a fan club,” he whispered, only for Daryl to smack him lightly and glower.

Patrick turned out to be much better at hiding than his friends, taking nearly as much time to find him as it took to find the five others.

“Went this way,” Daryl finally announced from the front of their train. “Chased by a couple walkers.”

The boys made various sounds of shock, each grabbing their weapons and shoving past Daryl and Glenn to get to their friend.

With a pair of long suffering sighs, they followed, listening to the pack of boys crashing through the undergrowth.

At the sounds of impacts, Glenn and Daryl sped up a little, coming to a stop where the boys had fallen upon a small group of walkers like wild animals.

Josh and John were taking turns hitting one with their baseball bats, shouting and grunting with effort.

Scott and Justin, whichever ones they were, had ganged up on another walker. One had it in a near chokehold while the other tried to get a clean shot without hitting his brother.

Zach, full of surprises, pulled a handgun from his pack and unloaded a few rounds a piece into three walkers that had gathered around a tree.

“Damnit, kid!” Daryl stomped over and stabbed the walker that Scott and Justin were struggling with. “You tryin’ to bring down all ‘a Georgia on our asses?!”

“Patrick's in the tree!” Zach shouted, making quick motions.

Finally, once all the walkers were taken care of, a lanky teenager with glasses half slid, half fell out of the tree, only to be wrapped in hugs from the older boys.

“We made it!” Scott-or-Justin sobbed, one hugging the other. Josh and John high-fived and Zach braced himself on his knees, panting hard.

“No time to rest,” Glenn chuckled, “we’ve got to get going before a herd answers that dinner bell you rang.”

They hustled the kids off a good distance away, pushing them hard to keep running.

Patrick seemed to be struggling the most, younger and all knobby knees. For their credit, the other boys covered for him, carrying his pack and sometimes hauling him up by his arm when he stumbled.

They seemed like good kids, Glenn thought with a pang.

Once Daryl deemed it safe, they slowed their pace, searching for a quiet place to rest.

Glenn found a little gas station and left the boys outside while he and Daryl cleared it efficiently.

“Mr. Dixon, where are we going?” Patrick asked, after they had caught their breath.

“Back to our group,” Glenn answered, while Daryl was busy looking offended. “We have a pretty good spot right now, there’s plenty of room.”

“But where is it?” one of the brothers asked, munching thoughtfully on expired candy he fished out from under a shelf.

Glenn waved his hand in the rough direction of their home, getting a nod of confirmation from Daryl. “A prison, not far from here. If we hurry we can get back before dark.”

“A prison!” exclaimed the other brother, snapping his fingers. “That’s brilliant!”

“And you’re just going to let us stay?” John asked. He was resting on a box, his feet pulled up in front of him like he could hide behind his knees.

Glenn’s heart broke again for the guarded look in John’s eye. “You’ll have to contribute, sure,” he said finally, trying to keep his voice from shaking with grief, “but you can find where you fit.”

“Do you have food?” Patrick asked. The light shown off of his glasses, making him look even more painfully young.

Daryl, with his typical grace, dug around in his pack and tossed some jerky at the boy

Patrick reached out but missed the pass. He scrambled down to pick it up. “T-thank you! But I’m not - I meant,” he started turning red with embarrassment.

“He wants to know if you need help cooking,” one of the brothers interjected. “He always makes our food at camp.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Glenn waved a hand toward the jerky in Patrick’s hands. “Our friend, Carol, she’s putting together a whole crew to keep everyone fed.”

“So you want us to come work for you?” Josh narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“No,” Glenn smiled at them sadly, “we want you to come and live.”

Chapter Text

Tyreese’s mother called him gentle. Sasha called him fragile.

He knew that he was soft and unfit for this world in every way except for his size, his strength.

Tyreese was lucky, Before.

Sasha, years younger and half his size, had always stood up for him – gotten between him and demanding bosses, angry exes, even waitresses who got his order wrong. It had always been them against the world.

Even when they were kids, Sasha was the one to hold Tyreese when their parents got divorced. When their mama died, Sasha was the one who stood still and strong like a statue carved in obsidian while friends and relatives murmured their condolences.

Sasha was strong and Ty was… fragile.

He knew it, but that didn't stop the hurt in his heart when he thought about how far away he was when Woodbury burned – how he was helpless to do anything but listen to those kids die.

That night, Karen curled up beside him at the tables and sobbed, Andrea hovered beside Shane’s bedside, Michonne ran and claimed she was hunting the Governor, and Nate…

Hershel said that Nate was doing better than expected. Tyreese interpreted that to mean Hershel was surprised the boy was still alive.

Sasha threw herself into helping with the fortifications, taking down the walkers at the fence, keeping them alive. Tyreese wondered at her, watching her deliberate swings and dispassionate expression. She looked like she was just cutting the grass or filing paperwork.

Tyreese, on the other hand, couldn't stomach it. He hated to look them in the eyes while he stabbed out at their vulnerable skulls and hated to see flashes of the people they were before.

One day, right after Woodbury burned, Tyreese saw a walker with a distended belly and a thin gray sweater wrapped around her shoulders. When he saw the elastic of maternity pants, he fell to his knees, choking back sobs and dry-heaves in equal measure.

Sasha had to put him back together again, holding him while he wailed his grief for humanity, for that woman and her baby, for three little kids burned, and another boy dying in a prison.

Tyreese gave up on the fence and spent most of his time walking the dark halls to the burn unit. Hershel, Michonne, and Andrea were the ones who he usually ran into – besides, of course, Shane and Nate.

Whenever Michonne wasn’t on the road, she spent her time helping to change Nate’s bandages, pressing cold compresses to his skin, and telling him that he was strong. “You can make it,” she whispered to him, her voice as harsh as the edge of her blade. “Those bastards can’t take you down.”

Nate was close to her before the fire, both taking comfort in their quiet nature. There was a part of Tyreese that compared them to himself and Sasha: a strong, fierce woman and her burden.

***

Now, though, Nate was little more than a pile of raw flesh and bandages. He had rarely woken up and, each time, through the agonizing screams, Tyreese wondered if it would have been better if Shane hadn't pulled him out of the flames.

Andrea, when Tyreese ran into her, was almost always changing Shane’s bandages or offering him sips of clean water. When Michonne was present, she watched over them both. Tyreese saw that there was something that tied the three together, keeping them bonded like a string of fate.

Tyreese didn’t pretend to know what it was like to survive with just two other people – survival was hard enough with a whole group. He saw the easy co-dependence that Rick and his group faced and imagined it was even more pronounced when just three strangers had to survive together over the first winter at the end of the world.

“We met Dale first,” Andrea told him after one of his long, dark walks. Her voice had the dreamy distance of a sleep talker. “Me and Amy, I mean.”

Tyreese felt the weight of the name like a physical thing.

“My baby sister,” she explained, still with that same tone. “Then we found Shane and Carol and Glenn and everyone else at the quarry. It felt like – like an inconvenience at first, like it wasn't really the end of the world. Rick came later, when we were in the city.”

Andrea used a cool rag to wipe gently at the exposed part of Shane's face. Tyreese had seen the damage the fire had done and was grateful the scars were obscured by the bandages and darkness.

“We were far enough up that the walkers didn't bother us, not at first, but that night…” Andrea trailed off.

Tyreese sensed that he was witnessing something sacred and sat with a quiet reverence for Andrea’s words.

“Amy was bitten, right on the neck. I held her all night,” Andrea’s voice was dull. “I held her until she turned.”

Andrea shook herself, like she was shaking off a spiderweb. “As if it made a difference,” she said with a sigh, turning back to Tyreese with a strained smile.

He tried to imagine holding Sasha while she bled out, while she turned into something no longer human. “I'm so sorry, Andrea,” he whispered, though his words paled compared to her grief.

“Everyone's lost someone,” she brushed off his words.

He watched her hands shake while she wrung out the rag.

“Anyway,” she continued briskly, “after the quarry was the CDC, then the farm. Then we got separated by a herd. Me and Shane, I mean. We knew the rest of them got out; we saw the tire tracks back to the highway.

“We ran and ran and,” she laughed again, this time it sounded genuine, “I was useless! I could barely find a gun’s trigger, let alone keep us alive.

“But then she found us. She had these walkers, a pair of them, and they kept the others off of her.” There was something in her voice, somewhere between pride and infatuation. “She was so strong; standing there, with her sword and her dead bodyguards. She looked untouchable.”

Andrea dipped the rag back into the water, still smiling.

“Shane and I got sick,” she continued, sounding much more like herself. “Michonne took care of us for weeks until we could keep up.”

Shane stirred under her attention, trying his best to give her a little smile. “Scariest weeks’a my life,” he croaked, his voice smoky and raw.

Andrea smiled down at him, wiping at the bits of his face that were exposed from sterile white bandages. Hershel said Shane already lost his eye and the covering was mostly to fight off infection.

Shane settled back down and turned just enough to hide the worst of his scars.

Tyreese sat in companionable silence with Andrea, listening to Shane’s steady breathing and the harsh rasp of Nate’s.

Slowly, a faint buzzing started up.

Then, a bright light.

It was almost blinding, as used to the little camping lights as they were.

“I guess they got the lights working,” Andrea laughed, squinting.

Axel and Oscar had been working with a newcomer named Brooks to get the generators running again, stringing naked bulbs around the kitchens and hallways and, especially, the makeshift med-bay they were in.

Tyreese looked down and, under the bright white fluorescents, Shane’s scars were thrown into sharp relief, each ridge and valley exposed with visceral clarity. Tyreese had to look away, wishing they would turn the lights back off.

***

Once he left the med-bay, he was met with a slightly better-lit walk, but the cell block was still depressing.

Going up the catwalk stairs, Tyreese was immediately greeted by the cell Karen had shared with Bobbi and Jason..

They had insisted on leaving some of their things in the cell. “For when we visit for sleepovers!” Bobbi told him before they loaded up on the bus.

There was a rainbow rug at the end of the bed, toys set up neatly in the corner, and the picture of their family was still pasted to the wall.

Tyreese felt the familiar ache of grief in his chest.

“Mr. Tyreese! Mr. Tyreese!”

Ty looked up to find the herd of teenagers that Glenn and Daryl had brought back.

“Hey guys!” he put on a smile, determined not to put his grief on kids that had enough to deal with. “You all settling in well?”

“Yeah, we're doing great,” Zach, the unofficial leader, answered. “We set up in those cells down the way.”

“And Mrs. Carol said I could help her with dinner tonight, if I wanted,” Patrick said, practically vibrating in excitement.

“Yeah, but he's too chicken shit to go by himself,” Scott teased, nudging him with his elbow. Justin joined his brother, their laughter softening the sting of their words.

“I'm not! I just… I don't remember the way,” he stammered, his face slowly reddened.

Tyreese smiled, catching on to why they called out to him. “Well I was just heading over to C-Block to give Axel back some tools Sasha borrowed, if you guys wanted to help carry some.”

“Of course!” Patrick grinned at him, “Thank you so much, Mr. Tyreese!”

The boys practically fell over themselves to gather up the tools, teasing each other and showing off. It reminded Tyreese of his old teammates. He wondered if he was ever as carefree.

They quieted when Tyreese led them to the hallways. The new lights helped, but the shadows reached out inky fingers and each turn whispered promises of walkers.

“Do you really call this the tombs?” Scott asked in a hushed tone.

“No, not here” Tyreese answered, looking back over his shoulder. He saw the boys huddled together, holding onto the tools like melee weapons.

The sight made Ty think of another group of kids, smaller, wearier. He could practically see Bobbi confidently leading the way, Jason holding onto Nate’s hand – unburnt and whole – and Eli trying to slink through the shadows like a cat.

Tyreese had to close his eyes and walk a little faster, as if he could outrun the memories of those he failed.

The kids, the real ones, hurried to keep up with him, fearfully looking over their shoulders.

Tyreese, rarely the one relied on to offer comfort, resorted to telling a story: “You know, Carl found me and Sasha in the tombs, a few months ago.”

“Really?” Zach laughed, a little nervously. “The little one? With the hat?”

“Yeah, the little one. But he had the other two with him.”

“The one with the crossbow?” Scott asked.

Justin butted in, “Yeah, Daryl’s son!”

“Merle’s son,” Tyreese corrected, “but yeah, that one. He had that crossbow on us the whole time.”

Zach looked more confident, the crowbar in his hands relaxed back to his side. “And the girl too, right? What’s her name?”

“Sophia,” Tyreese answered. “They found us lost in the tombs and struggling with a couple of walkers then – bam – a trio of pint sized kids were killing them all with guns and telling us to follow them blindly into the halls of a dark prison.”

His haphazard strategy seemed to work. The teens were hanging onto his every word having forgotten about the cold fear of the halls. They were nearly back to the block; Tyreese only had to finish his story and they would arrive.

“And, I mean, what were we going to do? Tell them no?”

That got another laugh from Josh and John.

“Then Rick’s crazy ass came runnin’ in, waving that big hand-canon of his,” Tyreese laughed along with the boys, “yelling about how we’re not real. Now, we didn’t know him, back then. We just saw this crazy white guy with a gun, so me and Sasha got right out of Dodge.”

“Is that when you went to Woodbury?”

Zach’s innocent question startled Tyreese, landing like a sucker punch. The name itself brought with it a tightness in Tyreese’s throat. In that moment, Tyreese could have sworn he tasted smoke and heard distant screams.

Of course they would ask about that, he thought, everyone knew of the town that had burned, the lives they had lost.

Mercifully, the sounds of life coming from C-Block saved Tyreese from having to answer. He hurried to take the last dozen steps, opening the doors like a drowning man takes a breath.

In the common area, Carol was issuing orders to her small army of cooks, working on breaking down the day’s catch of possums and squirrels.

“Hey, Carol,” Tyreese greeted, bringing the teenagers after him like a line of ducklings.

“Ty,” she looked up with a smile, but only for a second. She kept her attention mainly on training a squeamish looking man on the task of cleaning the meat.

“You have to take all of this out,” she pointed something out to the increasingly green man, “or we'll all get food poisoning. We can use it for tanning eventually, or bait for the traps.”

“Hi, Mrs. Carol!” Patrick said, pushing up his glasses.

“Nice to see you, Patrick. How about you take over here?”

Tyreese left them to it, trusting Carol to take Patrick under her wing. In turn, he led the other boys out to the yard.

The sounds from outside surrounded them even before they got to the doors, Tyreese heard muffled voices and laughter and they brought with them a bittersweet sense of nostalgia and regret.

Once through the doors, Tyreese took a moment to soak in the sun beating down on his shoulders, waving at the newcomers who saw them come out and shouted their hellos.

The warmth, both from the sun and from the life that surrounded them, quickly chased away the remaining chill from the hallway, sinking into Tyreese and stirring something that started to feel like hope.

Tyreese looked around and took stock of the group: Rick and Daryl were hard at work making a pen for the pig Glenn spotted on his latest run; Maggie waved at them from the tower where she and T-Dog were on watch.

Closer, Beth and the baby were relaxing in the soft grass, enjoying the shade; Oscar, Axel, and Brooks were huddled close to the generator and talking loudly over the hum; and Merle was shouting orders from a semi-circle of newcomers, teaching Sophia to beat them in a fight.

Off to the side, the horse watched them idly, grazing on the grass and offering warning snorts to anyone who wandered to close. Glenn had been so proud of himself when he brought it back – though Tyreese didn’t think anyone was brave enough to ride it yet.

“Hell yeah!” Merle shouted, making the horse flick its ears in irritation. For the practice fights, Merle’s bayonet was replaced by a dull stick carved to fit into the contraption on his arm. It still hurt, but it was much less deadly.

Tyreese and the boys were drawn to the fight, watching Sophia dart under Leroy’s outstretched arm to mime stabbing him with a wooden dagger.

They were close enough to the fences that they saw Carl and Bo stabbing out at the walkers that had piled up, talking companionably. It was an odd juxtaposition between the boys arguing over comic books and dead men pinned to a fence.

Sophia landed another hit, drawing her dagger across Leroy’s side with a tiny, satisfied smile.

“Don’t let the lil’ mouse show you up, man!” Merle teased just on the right side of mean. “If’n you can't handle a lil’ girl with a stick, how the hell you gonna fight the damn Gov’nor?”

Leroy was panting and sweating, his black shirt marked by white lines. Tyreese looked closer and saw their carved weapons were coated in dust, maybe chalk, to show pretend wounds.

Sophia’s clothes were still clean and her breath came easily.

It was bittersweet watching her so soundly beating a man two or three times her size. She was capable, strong.

Tyreese felt a pang. She was also so, so young.

“Whoa, she's good!” Scott shoved an elbow into his brother's side, laughing.

Merle waded in and caught her next swing with the meat of his hand. Sophia, for her part, looked nearly irritated to be stopped but Leroy collapsed back onto the grass in relief.

“Alright, alright. That's enough’a you beatin’ the Goober’s ass for today.” Merle grinned at Sophia with an almost paternal pride.

Leroy groaned from the ground. “Not you too!”

Merle absorbed Scott and Justin into his lessons, giving one a wooden dagger like Sophia and the other a long stick carved to look like Michonne’s sword.

Tyreese led Zach, Josh, and John away, chased by the sounds of the brothers laughing and sparring.

Next, they visited with Oscar, Axel, and Brooks by the generator. The kids handed over the tools to a round of thanks.

“It's still runnin' a little hot, hmm?” Brooks pointed to a dial on the generator. He was a short man, round and serious even with the grease smudged on his face.

It was all Greek to Tyreese, he had never been wired right for mechanical work, but Josh perked up beside him.

“Can I look at it?” he asked, already sliding up to squint at various wires and metal bits.

John followed, nodding. “We met in vo-tech, back in high school,” he explained. “Maybe we can help you rig it up.”

Axel gave them a big smile, easily handing over a screwdriver.

“We ran through everything obvious,” Oscar told them, kneeling to show the boys a less accessible spot.

Realizing that they were in over their heads, Tyreese and Zach bid them good luck and beat a retreat to where Beth was watching Judy lay on her stomach and babble to a couple of blocks.

“Hey,” Zach gave her a shy smile, miles away from the confident teen he was minutes before.

Beth looked up, her own expression told Tyreese she knew she was being flirted with. “Hey yourself,” she said, sending Tyreese an amused glance.

“So, uh, what’re you doin’?” Zach asked, motioning to the baby helplessly.

“Tummy time,” Beth answered. “Then a bottle. I’ve got some snacks if you want to sit down.”

Tyreese had to hurry to cover his laugh with a cough.

“I think Merle needs me,” he lied, giving Beth a wink before leaving to give the two a moment of privacy.

Chapter Text

Bo awoke in a cold sweat, reaching out instinctively for his friends.

Sophia was curled away from him but close enough that their ankles crossed.

In front of her, empty space.

Bo sat upright, a scream already on his lips.

“Carl!” his voice was high and panicked. “Carl!”

He was gone.

Bo choked on air like cloying smoke. He threw himself off the bed, but his limbs tangled and he landed in an uncoordinated heap.

“Carl!”

He couldn't stand. The ground swayed like he was drunk and Carl was gone and Bo couldn't stand.

Reality bled at the corners.

All at once, Bo was somewhere else, choking on smoke and listening to his friends burn. He was running from the Greene farm watching Dale go down under a pile of walkers. He was in the bowels of the prison, cutting through muscle and bone to save a life.

Huge hands yanked at his shoulders.

Bo looked up and came face to face with Will Dixon’s evil mug.

He screamed again, scrambling back and covering his face.

Will reared back, his face twisted into the same terrible, mocking scowl that came before the belting. Will snarled… no.

Will’s beard melted into Daddy’s gaunt face. His beer gut shrank.

The only thing that stayed the same was the blue of his eyes.

It was Daddy.

Bo felt a pang of guilt, but then his vision swam and he couldn't see anymore.

Bo squeezed his eyes shut and curled in on himself, like if he squeezed hard enough he could keep his heart from bursting through his chest.

Bo distantly heard a dozen pairs of boots storm into his cell. There wasn't enough air, his panicked thoughts raced, he was going to suffocate like Bobbi and Eli and Jason.

Bo was lost in a sea of legs, closing in on him.

“Give ‘im room,” someone shouted, their voice booming like a rifle blast. “C’mon, Bo, you can do it.”

Carl was missing and Bo was on the floor – as useless as a newborn fawn.

Then, Sophia was there.

Bo felt her curl against his back, felt her cool hand worm under the thin material of his tank top and press against his chest to help keep his heart contained.

“Deep breath in.” Finally, Bo could hear Uncle Daryl, slowly repeating instructions to breathe.

Right. Reminded of his need for air, Bo gulped down a greedy lungful, almost choking on it.

“Slower.” Daryl demonstrated, each rasping breath like the sound of a metal lighter.

Bo struggled to follow, trying to sync their breath, like the exhale right before firing a bolt.

“Can you hear anythin’?”

“You,” Bo answered, finally able to make his mouth form words again. “Sophia, the generator.”

“‘N see?”

Reluctantly, Bo opened one eye, then the other. He was greeted first by an exhausted looking Daryl and, over his shoulder, his father. “You ‘n Daddy,” he said.

“You know who that is?”

“‘Course.” Bo let his head thump down on the metal catwalk, his body feeling like lead.

“What'd’ya smell?” Uncle Daryl prompted, looking a little more relaxed.

Bo took a shaky breath, trying to clear imaginary smoke from his lungs.

He could smell the sweet warmth of the soil from Uncle Daryl’s boots, the tang of sweat, and the spice of herbs. “All'a you,” he said, “and the sage Carol put in dinner.”

“Good job, half-pint.” Uncle Daryl sat back heavily, suddenly looking much more tired.

“Now you gotta ask if he can taste shit,” his daddy whispered, his voice thick with concern.

Bo huffed a tired laugh, snuggling back against Sophia.

“Don' fall asleep there, kid,” Daddy ordered. ”You'll catch a cold.”

“I know, I know.” Bo couldn’t sleep after his nightmares, not anymore.

“Is he okay?”

Bo looked up again and saw his whole group hovering over each other’s shoulders, half-dressed with their feet shoved hap-hazardly in unlaced boots.

Glenn, finally relaxing, ran a hand through his hair. “I forgot my hat,” he said with a yawn.

Maggie just laughed and sagged against him in relief.

Herschel leaned on the rail, unsteady without his crutch.

Bo’s face burned. He woke everyone up, interrupting a rare night of peace.

“Bo?” Carl’s voice floated up from the ground floor.

Peeking through the rail, Bo saw Carl and his stupid, giant hat looking up at him curiously – like he hadn’t just given Bo a damn heart attack.

“Where were you?” Bo snarled. The shame doubled down and burned in his belly.

Carl wrinkled up his nose, just as ready for a fight. “I had to piss, asshole!”

“Carl!” Rick snapped, “Watch it.”

“You're supposed to tell us,” Sophia pointed out, “You scared everybody.”

She laid a warning hand on Bo’s shoulder, holding him back.

At least Carl finally looked chastised. “I know,” he said down to his shoes, "I'm sorry I didn't wake you up.”

“Bo?” Sophia prompted, giving him a little shake of encouragement.

“Fine, fine,” Bo huffed. “Sorry I care–”

Sophia smacked the side of his head. “Boys,” she sighed, under her breath. Louder, she ordered, “C’mon, let's go back to bed.”

Bo kept grumbling to himself, his chest still aching with panic.

Uncle Daryl caught his eye, looking suddenly older. Bo let himself be dragged against his side in a quick hug before he was pushed in the direction of their cell.

Daddy watched them for a second, his eyes guarded. Bo remembered how he flinched and, more importantly, what Daddy looked like when he flinched.

His stomach twisted into nauseous knots and Bo clenched his fists until his nails dug into the meat of his hand.

Everyone trickled back to their cells, whispering reassurances and quiet good nights.

Maggie pulled Glenn to their cell and waved over one shoulder. Hershel, awkwardly limping, gave Bo an understanding smile.

Carl stomped up the stairs and made his way back to bed, kicking off his boots with a huff. Bo couldn't bring himself to look Carl in the eye.

Sophia snuggled in close to the wall, leaving the boys no choice but to settle right next to each other.

The sounds of the prison quieted again, leaving them in near silence with moonlight diffusing through the block making everything hazy and soft.

“I was only gone a minute,” Carl whispered, after a small eternity.

Bo’s chest clenched with remembered panic. Trembling, he reached out and knotted his hand in Carl’s t-shirt to reassure himself he wasn't alone.

Carl huffed a noise – maybe a laugh – but let Bo pull him close. “I really didn't mean to scare you,” he said.

Bo let the words linger, his stomach churning. “I know,” he answered, his voice breaking. “I just – I woke up ‘n… Just don't do it again.”

Bo was right, he didn't get any more sleep that night.

He spent long, slow hours listening hard to the sound of Carl and Sophia breathing in deep, calm breaths. If he concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear Uncle Daryl and Daddy sleeping in the hallway, camping on the catwalk like living shields.

Eventually, the soft moonlight coming from the windows turned golden and signaled it was time to get up.

Carl and Sophia stirred slowly, tired from Bo’s outburst the night before. Their breathing picked up, then they started to move.

Bo watched them all the while.

Uncle Daryl and Daddy left before Carl and Sophia were awake, waving at Bo from the catwalk before they went downstairs.

Once his friends were ready, they got dressed, brushed their teeth, and went down for breakfast and they were never further than arm's length. Bo knew he was being coddled, he knew that they were hovering close because they worried about him.

He tried to feel annoyed but he mostly just felt relief.

Breakfast was the last of the instant eggs and a mug of bone broth. They sat by themselves at a table, Sophia in the middle with Carl and Bo to either side.

Bo pushed his food around his plate listlessly, smearing the fake eggs against the beat up plate. Every once in a while Sophia would fix him with a frown; Bo just glared and took a gulp of his broth to keep her off his back.

Surrounded by the comforting sounds of forks against plates, Bo let his thoughts wander. Ever since he was a kid, he was trusted to go on solo hunts – giggin’ bullfrogs or spreading bait for bow season – but now Carl couldn't even take a piss without Bo melting down.

Bo bit his cheeks and glared into the table.

“Hey,” Sophia called to him softly. “Are you alright?”

“Fuckin’ fine,” he snapped, slamming his fork down hard enough to dent the metal plate.

Her knee nudged Carl’s under the table.

They didn't say a word, but Bo could practically hear their concern: the way Carl’s brow would quirk and Sophia probably shook her head.

Since he freaked checking the snares with Daddy, Bo was practically grounded and kept inside the fence. And not only him, Carl and Sophia had to stay in sight or Bo’s treacherous body would freeze up and lock down.

It wasn't fair.

He knew they would be safe, he knew they were strong and capable, but a nagging feeling in his stomach told him that they would burn up, just like Bobbi. If he didn't see them, they would choke on heavy smoke or melt down to bone and skin and pain like Nate.

Bo grit his teeth and dug his nails into his palm, trying to get his racing heart back under control.

Then, he was surrounded by warmth.

Carl had gotten up to sit beside Bo, shoving himself to Bo’s flank and Sophia bullied her way in to mirror him.

His breath caught and he cursed when his eyes got misty.

“It's okay,” Sophia whispered.

Bo felt Carl nod, “We're right here.”

“We’re safe,” Sophia told him, gripping his hand, “We're all safe.”

Bo shook, half enraged by his own weakness and half in gratitude.

Swallowing the knot in his throat with a frustrated growl, Bo shoved his untouched eggs onto Carl’s plate and chugged his broth.

“Stop fuckin’ moping,” he snarled, mostly to himself. “Rick needs us in the garden.”

Bo slammed down his mug and stormed towards the door, only to be stopped by that same tugging in his gut that kept him tethered to his friends like a dog on a chain.

Bo pretended to look into the unoccupied cells, keeping himself busy until Carl and Sophia finished their breakfast.

His sides were cold without their warmth.

Wandering around the common area, he checked in with Beth and Judy, sent a teasing look at how close she sat to Zach, and pressed an affectionate kiss to the crown of Judy’s head.

Carl and Sophia took their time but eventually came to join them and exchanged good mornings. Finally, they headed outside to watch Michonne edging closer and closer to Flame – the mare.

Since Glenn and Daryl brought her back, Flame tolerated Michonne only if she tossed a carrot in her direction, but she pinned her ears back and snorted when Carl tried to come too close.

“Leave her alone for now,” Michonne warned them, “she's lived out there by herself too long.”

Flame pawed the ground when they left, apparently pleased.

Closer to their garden, Rick and Daryl were already at work digging holes for the posts that would eventually form a pig pen.

“Ain't roped ‘em yet,” Bo grumbled, “no sense in buildin’ the pen.”

“We can't bring them in if they got nowhere to go,” Carl sassed back.

Bo huffed and walked off to help at the fence. Behind him, he heard Carl and Sophia arguing in low voices.

The fence was a welcome relief. He couldn't mess that up; it was simple, brutal, and perfect for a Dixon. If Bo stayed close, he could even keep an eye on Carl and Sophia.

Karen was already there, coaching Tyrese on how to effectively dispatch the walkers. Her voice was smooth and confident over the sounds of groans from the walkers and rhythmic thuds of other workers.

Secretly, Bo envied Tyreese’s big arms and long reach but took pride in his own ability to kill a walker without losing his breakfast.

“See, it's not too hard,” she told him with a grunt. Her knife slid clean from the soft skull of a decomposing walker.

Her flirty smile was familiar, Bo recognized how women would throw the same look at his dad and uncle when they thought he wasn't looking.

Unlike his kin, Tyreese answered her with his own dopey smile. “Maybe I just have a good teacher,” he said, voice like syrup.

Bo wrinkled his nose and gagged theatrically, stabbing a walker with a fire poker.

“Just you wait, little man,” Tyreese laughed, still a few feet from the fence.

“Don't tell me you still think girls have cooties,” Karen teased with a different kind of smile, “I’ve seen you with Sophia.”

Bo pretended to throw up. “Ew! She's not a girl, she’s just Sophia!” he said, grinning back.

“Don't let her hear you say that!” Karen came closer and watched Bo speed up his stabs. “Oh! You think you can keep up with me, huh?”

With that, it was on.

Bo spun his fire poker around and lashed out at the closest walkers, downing three before Karen even freed her own knife.

Their unofficial contest was slowed only by the way Bo's gaze was magnetically drawn back over his shoulder.

Carl and Sophia were working on the pig pen, laughing with Rick and Daryl.

He took down two walkers at the fence, then an insistent feeling in the back of his neck told him to check on Carl and Sophia.

Again and again, Bo killed a walker, then looked back.

Karen’s pile grew a little faster – she was focused only on the dead in front of them.

Bo stabbed a fresh walker with bloodied eyes, his poker got stuck in the still-solid skull.

Without thinking, Bo looked back over his shoulder.

Something wet and strong wrapped around his wrist.

The vice-like grip sent ice into the pit of his stomach and he froze, stuck halfway between fight and flight.

After a small eternity, Bo finally screamed, planting his feet and throwing himself back against the pull.

Sophia shouted behind him but Bo’s eyes were glued to the walker dragged him closer. It had one hand gripping Bo and the other knotted into the fence, white teeth bright against a pitch black maw.

“Shit!” Karen fumbled with her knife, diving at the walker. Panic made her flush and her hands shake.

Bo desperately shouted at her to hurry.

“No!” Carl screamed. Bo could hear him running, steps loud against the packed earth.

Behind him, a thick arm wrapped around his waist but Bo couldn't look away from the inch between his skin and those deadly teeth.

Karen finally sunk her knife into the soft temple with a scream of her own.

Bo was yanked backwards to land on top of Tyreese with a gasp, dimly aware of Karen stabbing the walker twice more.

“Bo!” Carl and Sophia skidded to a stop next to him. Carl dropped to his knees and wrapped Bo in a desperate hug, shoving his face into Bo's shoulder with a muffled sob.

“Oh my god!” Tyreese panted.

Bo let Sophia grab his hand and twist it around, searching for a bite. Her hands shook in his.

Carl pulled back just enough to shake Bo by his shoulder. “Don't scare me like that!” he shouted.

“Shit,” Karen repeated, pulling her blade free.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Tyreese repeated. His voice shook a little, telling Bo just how scared he was.

“We're okay,” Sophia muttered, over and over, still running her hands against Bo’s unbroken skin. “We're safe, we're okay.”

Uncle Daryl came next, bringing Rick and Daddy and half the yard with him. They all had their weapons drawn, just like the night before.

Bo's cheeks heated and his eyes burned. Deep in his gut, a now familiar ache reminded him how weak he really was.

Chapter Text

After the walker grabbed Bo, Sophia suddenly felt like a little girl again, like she wanted to curl up under her bed and hide.

It didn't matter that she knew she had made it through worse; it didn't matter that she had helped Bo shoot Will Dixon out in the forest.

All Sophia saw was a walker gnashing its teeth into Bo’s vulnerable hand.

When they reached him, Carl collapsed against Bo and drew him into a hug, but Sophia’s view narrowed down and she desperately grabbed his hand. She turned it over, looking for blood, looking for a bite.

She ran her fingers across his calloused palm and the reddening ring around his wrist, noting that it would be bruised purple by morning, and found his skin was smooth and unbroken.

Sophia’s heart raced all the same and a nagging feeling made her look again.

“We're okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to Carl or Bo.

All the while, Bo watched her with distant eyes. Carl clung to his side and Tyreese used his big arms to wrap them up tight to his broad chest.

“We're okay,” she said again, firmer, trying to make it real by speaking the words. Using her grip on his wrist, she pushed up on his sleeve to run her fingers over the unbroken skin of his arm.

“Motherless, poxy bastards!” Merle shouted, running past them to ply his bayonet against the walkers at the fence. Rick followed, pausing only to touch Carl’s hair.

Half a step behind, Sophia heard Daryl’s knees hit the dirt next to Carl.

His big hands wrapped around her own, tracing feather light lines.

Daryl seemed satisfied and sat back on his heels, but Sophia couldn’t quiet herself. She wasn’t there, she had let him wander away again and now she couldn’t find the hurt.

She felt Daryl watching her silently, but still couldn't stop herself from tracing the welting handprint encircling Bo’s wrist.

Sophia remembered staunching Hershel’s bleeding leg, remembered the way T-Dog still twitched his shoulder when he forgot his arm was gone.

What would they have done if Bo couldn't use his weapon?

“Hey,” Daryl said. “He's okay.” He put his hand over theirs, this time to comfort instead of inspect, finally making Sophia stop her incessant fidgeting.

Daryl’s hand was so big it enveloped theirs completely. She felt the same calluses on his palm that Bo had and saw nearly identical scarring across his knuckles from the string of his bigger crossbow.

Bo continued to blink at Sophia owlishly, even when Tyreese patted his arm and rose to check on Karen.

“Bo,” Daryl called, putting his focus entirely on his nephew.

He sat still, silent, and pale. Sophia could hear his shallow, quick breaths and remembered the word Hershel used: shock.

“It's okay, half-pint,” Daryl said, his voice low and quiet. “Jus’ focus on what you can smell.”

The words were familiar, Leroy had taught them all to “ground” Bo when he got like this.

Sophia, feeling her own chest go tight, gripped Bo’s hand and followed along with the advice. She took a deep breath, breathing in the decay and rot from the walkers and found the gentle scent of summer grass under it. Past that, she could smell old blood and the metal of the fence.

Next to her, Bo sat dazed. His hand was cool and sweaty under hers.

“C’mon, kid,” Daryl urged, his voice even softer. “What can you hear?”

Sophia felt Daryl’s eyes on her first, then they slid to Carl, like he wanted them to do something. Sophia felt a heavy weight settle on her shoulders.

Then, Carl pulled back to watch them and Sophia knew what the weight was.

He looked scared, darting his eyes back and forth between Bo and Sophia. He was scared, but Sophia couldn't reassure him when she was still so scattered.

“C’mon,” Daryl sounded scared now, “jus’ listen, Bo.”

Sophia tried to lead by example. She closed her eyes and listened to Daryl’s voice, gentle as a warm breeze. She heard Carl repeating her own affirmation in whispers pressed against Bo’s shoulder. Closer to the fence, Merle was growling curses while Rick grunted in effort.

Bo sat silently like the grave.

Carl dug his fingers into Bo’s shoulder, shaking him gently. “It's gone,” he insisted, “C’mon, you're safe.”

“You're alright,” Daryl repeated, “You're at the prison and you're safe.” He spoke quicker now, an urgency bled into his words.

The summer breeze seemed to still until even the thumps of the men at the fence seemed distant, like the prison was holding its breath. Sophia’s whole awareness narrowed down to Carl and Bo.

Bo’s breathing stuttered, his hand twitched under hers.

Carl’s voice broke, “Bo?”

He came back to life almost violently.

Bo threw himself backwards, landing on the packed earth with his hands up in front of his face.

“Bo!” Daryl went to follow, only for Bo to flinch away in naked fear.

Sophia, acting on instinct, covered his body with her own and looked up to see Carl between them and Daryl.

Carl had one hand on his holster and the other out in front of him, like Daryl was a threat.

Bo drew in a shaky breath and pushed her away, his eyes darting around wildly.

Sophia went willingly, more concerned with the way Carl was still shielding them from Daryl, of all people.

“Bobbi?!” Bo called, his whole body tense.

Sophia gasped, finally realizing where Bo thought he was.

Even with Carl barring him from his nephew, Daryl sagged in relief once he heard Bo’s voice, practically collapsing in on himself.

After a tense moment, Carl relaxed. His hand moved from his holster and he looked over his shoulder.

When their eyes met, Sophia realized he was just as confused.

“Carl?”

The three of them looked up to find the whole of the prison yard watching them, wearily. No one in their group reached for any weapons, but Sophia saw a few of the newcomers touching their holsters.

Rick had been the one to speak, watching them with the blood of a dozen walkers clinging to his shirt and splattered across his face.

“S’all good, Rick” Daryl muttered.

Sophia watched the way his jaw jumped, like there was more he wanted to say. Instead, Daryl retreated to the prison block, sending one last look over his shoulder to where Bo, Carl, and Sophia were huddled together.

Mama followed just a half-step behind Daryl, sending Sophia a questioning glance before she went through the metal doors.

“Carl?” Rick repeated, "What're you doin’?”

Beside him, Merle looked back at them, his face tight.

Another walker groaned from beyond the fence, catching Merle's attention. He turned back to them, killing one with a grunt and a particularly brutal stab from his bayonet.

“C’mon,” Carl turned away from his dad and tugged on Bo’s arm. “Let’s go sit down.”

The hair on the back of Sophia’s neck stood up; the air itself was charged like the moment before a thunderstorm. The feeling scared her. All Sophia knew narrowed down to sticking close to her friends.

She grabbed onto Bo’s hand again and followed them to the half-finished pig pen.

Once there, Bo fell back into the soft grass with a yawn. Sophia and Carl followed him with the inevitability of gravity and she let him rest his head on her thigh.

“What was that?” Carl finally asked, curled against Bo’s side with his head cushioned on Bo’s shoulder.

“Don’t know,” Bo answered.

His voice slurred a little, the way it had in the CDC after he split a bottle of wine with Daryl.

“Are you okay?” Sophia asked. She hated how her voice shook.

Bo hummed. “Jus’ tired, I think.”

“Hey, half-pint!” Merle hollered, starting towards them. His mouth was turned down in concern, eyes darting over the way Bo had curled up so quickly.

Before he made it a few steps, Leroy ran to intercept him. “Merle!” he shouted, “hold on!”

Merle slowed to a stop.

Leroy looked serious, speaking low and quick. Merle listened, but kept looking up at Bo with a pinched look.

“C'mon,” Leroy said, drawing Merle to the gate.

Sophia looked down, back at the boys she was watching over.

“You scared us,” Carl told Bo, snuggling a little closer.

Sometimes, Sophia forgot how much younger he was, but, in that moment, he looked just like he did in Dale’s RV.

Bo sighed into his hair. “Didn’ mean it none,” he said. “Jus’ wanted to help.”

Sophia sat there, propped up against the fence, and watched her friends fall asleep.

Bo drifted off first, his face finally relaxing. Carl stayed curled against him, his hand fisted into Bo's shirt.

The adult gave them a wide berth.

Leroy had herded Merle outside of the gate and they were efficiently moving the pile of walkers away from the fence. Merle still watched them with naked concern, but Leroy kept him focused.

Rick stayed at the fence, casting his gaze across the yard. Sophia felt his eyes on them more than once.

Glenn took over for Mama at the grill, gently coaching her team to keep preparing more food, Patrick in particular nearly fell over himself to help.

No one came near the pig pen.

An hour later, Bo woke up groggy.

“The hell?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and squinting in the afternoon light. “Why’re we outside?”

Sophia looked down at him, taking in the bruises under his eyes and the way his cheeks were sunken in.

“You were tired,” she told him, soothing a hand through his hair.

He hummed at her, satisfied, and closed his eyes again.

Against his chest, Carl stirred as well.

“They didn't like that,” Sophia pointed out, once she was sure Bo was asleep again.

Carl huffed and hid his face back into Bo’s chest. “I wasn't gonna shoot him,” he said. She could practically hear his pout.

Sophia scratched lightly at Bo’s scalp, thinking about the expression on Daryl’s face.

“He wouldn’t hurt Bo,” she whispered.

Carl closed his eyes tight. “I know.”

Sophia insisted, “He wouldn’t hurt any of us.”

“I know!” Carl sat up suddenly. “But you saw him! Bo was scared!”

Sophia’s chest got tight, with worry and habitual fear and something that felt like grief.

“He didn’t know what he was scared of,” she told Carl, “Sometimes I… I don’t think he knows what he sees.”

Carl lapsed into silence, both of them staring down at their friend.

He looked calmer now than he had in days, the crease between his eyes had smoothed and his loose fists were resting against his stomach.

Sophia tried not to notice how thin he had become.

“He was still scared” Carl whispered.

Sophia let the words settle between them, breathed out like a prayer, like a swear.

Carl sat up fully, leaning back against the same post Sophia was using. She felt how he was still warm from his nap in the sunshine.

“What do you think is happening?” He gestured vaguely at Bo’s head, “In there, I mean.”

Sophia thought back to a woman she met at the last shelter they stayed at. She was quiet, timid, and desperately scared of anyone with a deep voice.

When Sophia asked, one of the volunteers told her that the woman had been so scared for so long that her body didn't remember how to be safe.

At the time, Sophia didn't quite understand. Now, watching Bo waste away, Sophia could see how fear could sink in deep and not let go. She could see it making him small.

“He's stuck being afraid,” she told Carl, trying to make him understand in the same way. “He doesn't know how to be safe anymore.”

Carl wrinkled his nose and thought hard.

Sophia left him to it, casting her attention back across the yard.

Merle and Leroy had finished with the bodies and were arguing close to the food. Merle was pacing, swinging his bayonet in wide arches toward the pig pen.

Leroy, either brave or stupid, put his hand on Merle’s shoulder and spoke low and quiet. Merle shook him off.

Sophia watched Hershel hobble over on his crutches. They were too far for her to hear his quiet, authoritative voice, but Sophia could recognize his tone by the way he held his back straight and his head high.

She could practically hear Hershel as he worked with Leroy. They were telling Merle to back off, to give them space. Leroy was holding up his hands like he was soothing a beast.

Sophia wanted to protest, to defend her friend’s dad, but she was held back by Bo’s head on her lap.

“Give them time,” Leroy said.

Merle was finally quiet enough for her to hear; he had stopped pacing. Sophia saw him sigh, sagging with the weight of whatever Hershel and Leroy were still whispering to him.

Merle still stared longingly at them, at his son, his face drawn and sad.

This time, when Leroy tried to touch Merle, he allowed it. “Give him time,” Leroy said, his voice just loud enough to carry over to them.

Leroy herded Merle into the cell block, Sophia imagined he was going to check on Daryl and Mama.

Once they went inside, Patrick came scurrying towards them, cradling three bowls. He walked quickly, with his head dipped.

Bo woke up before he was a dozen feet away and Sophia laid a quieting hand on his shoulder. He sat up with a groan, eyeing Patrick with the same distant annoyance he gave to all the newcomers since Woodbury.

“Here,” Patrick said with an awkward smile, when he was close enough, “you three’ve gotta eat too.”

“Thanks,” Sophia accepted two bowls of warm broth. She let the heat sink into her hands for a moment before handing one to Bo.

His hands shook when he took it and held it close to his chest.

Carl took the last bowl and distributed the spoons.

Patrick coughed into his shoulder. “I made the broth,” he said, bashfully, “do you like it?”

Bo grunted, already sipping at it listlessly.

Sophia watched him carefully, noting how little he seemed to actually drink.

The soup was more filling than what they ate over the winter, but it was still thin and the few vegetables were tiny little cubes practically bleached of color. Sophia knew better than to complain, though, feeding this many mouths was hard.

Bo put his bowl to the side, still half full. Sophia frowned, but Patrick’s presence stopped her from saying anything.

Patrick shifted and cleared his throat. “We, uh, used some of the vegetables you grew too.”

Sophia watched him swallow words like he wanted to say more, wanted to make friends. Carl and Bo just hummed at him coldly and Sophia didn't have enough energy to let someone else in.

“That's nice,” she said, as kindly as she could.

Patrick hovered a little more, eyes darting around from Sophia to Bo to Carl and back. He was looking for an in, a life line.

None of them wanted to give him one.

“I think Glenn needs you.” Sophia finally said, trying to keep a pleasant tone.

Patrick wavered, lips pursed. “Oh, um,” he said, finally. “Yeah, I'll go see what he needs.”

Sophia watched him turn and pull his shoulders up around his ears, retreating to the other newcomers huddled around the food. A year ago, she thought, she would have felt bad for him.

Now, though, she just waited until he was far enough then snatched up the bowl to plop it back in Bo’s lap. “Finish it,” she ordered.

“Fuck off,” he snapped, but he still held the bowl under his nose.

Carl looked between them with a scowl.

Sophia felt tears gathering. She forced away the feeling, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She felt the grass with her fingers and focused on where Carl’s shoulder dug into her own.

Trying to get around Bo’s stubborn streak, she tried again. “Mama worked hard on that,” she said, her voice wavering, “don't waste it.”

Bo just poured his broth into Carl’s bowl and threw himself backwards onto Sophia’s lap again.

“Ain't hungry,” he lied, closing his eyes stubbornly.

“You know that's not what she meant,” Carl snapped, aiming a soft kick at Bo’s leg. “Eat your damn broth.”

Bo squeezed his eyes shut and curled up tighter.

“Eat it or I'm going to pour it on you!” Carl threatened, even though it rang hollow. None of them dared to waste food anymore.

Sophia’s vision went blurry, her friends turning into shapes and her head pounded. “Just one more sip,” she pleased, voice breaking.

Carl and Bo looked up at her suddenly, both looking shocked. Carl got over it first, his face softening as he watched Sophia fall apart.

His warm hand found herself, giving it a squeeze before turning back to Bo.

“C’mon,” he whispered, “just a couple sips.”

Carl kept looking over his shoulder at Sophia and she hated it, the way he watched her while hot tears burned on her cheeks.

Here they were, those two boys who relied on her, and she was crying over some broth.

“Just eat it, Bo,” she sniffled, trying desperately to sound stern while she struggled to draw in a full breath.

Bo sat up slowly, gingerly, and took Carl’s bowl. He glared down at it, putting up a token protest. “Still ain't hungry,” he said, before taking a delicate sip.

Carl tucked his shoulder against Sophia’s again and Bo stretched out his legs so they crossed over theirs, until they were surrounded by each other.

Sophia took a shuddering breath.

Bo slurped the soup noisily.

Closing her eyes, Sophia thought back to the woman in the shelter. She was so small and scared and fear kept her stuck fast like a chain and anchor. Maybe that's just how it was now.

But then Bo dropped his empty bowl in her lap and groaned, clutching his stomach in exaggerated misery. Carl leaned harder on Sophia and laughed and, despite the tears, Sophia couldn’t help but smile.

Fear didn’t go away, she thought with a grip on both their hands, but it didn’t have to keep them small either, not when they were together.

Chapter Text

“This is stupid!” Bo hollered, over the sound of water.

Carl laughed at his friend, hurrying to wash his hair under the lukewarm water.

“No it's not!” Sophia shouted back, from outside the shower room. “We have to take turns!”

“Ain't nothin’ you ain't seen before!” Bo kept yelling, scrubbing his skin harshly.

Carl’s gaze caught on the sharp angle of Bo’s ribs. They stuck out even more now than they had over the winter. Carl prodded his stomach and felt the soft give of fat over muscle.

“Don't say it like that!” Sophia interrupted his musings, her voice high-pitched and annoyed.

Bo snickered. “I ain't wrong! You ‘n me ‘n Carl’ve been ass deep in the same creek a dozen times, naked as jaybirds!”

They rinsed quickly and shut off the water.

Carl tossed Bo a towel and winked. “Glad we went first!” he said, loud and purposeful. “The hot water ran out quick!”

“You didn't!” Sophia shouted, almost falling over herself coming around the corner.

She was met with Carl and Bo howling in laughter, leaning on each other and clutching their stomachs. It felt good to laugh, after the days they had.

Sophia just huffed and threw a soggy washcloth in retaliation.

“Ha, ha,” she snarked. “It's my turn now.”

Carl kept laughing, even while he grabbed his and Bo’s clothes. Bo stuffed their toiletries into a caddy and followed him into the changing room.

Behind them, they heard the showers start up again.

“We're, um, we should keep watch,” Bo said, once they passed through the walkway.

Carl looked over his shoulder to see an expression he and Sophia privately called Bo’s pre-panic-look.

“Sure,” Carl said, forcing a careless tone.

Sophia shouted over the water, “Get my clothes wet, and I'll wring them out over your crossbow!”

“Do that ‘n I'll hide your firin’ pin!” Bo shouted back, relaxing into the easy flow of their teasing.

Carl and Bo got dressed quickly and made sure to strap on their holsters.

Axel and Brooks had finished rigging the showers a few days ago and everyone was taking turns to use them, careful not to put too much strain on their system.

Their assigned slot had finally come, and Sophia had insisted they showered separately.

“Girls,” Bo said, rolling his eyes. “They jus’ don't make sense.”

They laced up their boots, leaning against each other on a bench in front of the little cubbies the prisoners used to use to store their clothes.

“She's gotta hurry,” Carl looked at the clock on the wall, ticking away with fresh batteries, “Zach and them are next.”

Bo bristled. “I’d like to see ‘em try ‘n rush ‘er.”

Carl shoved him with a shoulder, pleased that Bo just bumped him back with a good-natured growl.

Sophia took a little longer in the shower, especially since Beth gave her a little basket full of smelly things they found in a sorority house.

Now, they could smell roses and vanilla, thick in the damp air.

Bo frowned thoughtfully, “Maybe we should’a used some’a that stuff. It smells good.”

Carl snorted, “Merle would have a cow if you came out smelling like that!”

The water shut off and Carl could hear Sophia's bare feet slapping against the tile. “Don't even think of using my stuff!” She poked her head out just enough to stick her tongue out at them.

From where Bo’s shoulder still pressed against his, Carl felt him relax just a touch as soon as he could see her again.

Sophia ducked back into the shower room to finish the endless ritual of girls getting ready.

“We gotta start somewhere,” Sophia had whispered to him the night before.

A side effect of Bo’s insomnia meant that, once he fell asleep, he stayed asleep. Carl was sure that, as long as they stayed on the bed, he and Sophia could have played a round of slap-Jack on his chest and Bo would snore away. Once they left though, that was a different story.

They took advantage of that fact and had grim little meetings on the rare nights Bo stayed asleep.

“I’ll just tell him I want to shower separate,” Sophia said.

Carl nodded along. “Then I can take a watch shift the next day.”

He could see her eyes glint seriously in the low moonlight. “Baby steps,” she said, “and he can learn to stop being afraid.”

Carl was brought back to the present by the loud group of college kids.

Zach bounded through the doorway, followed by his whole pack of friends. Patrick came through last, the quietest and youngest of the bunch. He walked with quick, little steps and clutched his bundle of clothes and a towel to his chest.

“Ain't your turn yet,” Bo snapped.

Carl shoved him with his shoulder again, even while Zach gave him that look they got from a lot of newcomers: an annoying mix of pity and condescension.

“It's okay,” Zach said, using a tone to match his expression. “We'll wait.”

For a second, Carl tried to imagine how he and Bo looked to the older boys. They were finally clean now, but Bo had his crossbow leaned against his leg and his hair hung in wet clumps in his face. Carl probably didn't look much better, with his dad’s oversized hat and sunburn on his cheeks.

Bo, thankfully, sounded a little less hostile when he spoke next. “Sophia’s still finishin’ up,” he said, squinting up at Zach, “ain't gonna be long though.”

Patrick’s flushed cheeks darkened. “Sophia's in there?” he asked, perking up.

This time, both Carl and Bo bristled.

“We're keeping watch,” Carl said sharply. At the same time, Bo let his hand ghost over his bow. He wouldn't use it, not here against weird little Patrick, but Carl knew the crossbow helped to ease some of the weight Bo felt.

Zach laughed, but it was awkward and forced. “He's just kidding!” Zach said, "Don't worry!”

He put his hand down on Patrick’s shoulder, pushing him backwards.

Two of the other boys pulled Patrick even further and whispered to him urgently. Carl heard the words “murdered” and “crazy.” While they spoke, Patrick went pale and scared, his eyes darting back and forth between Carl and Bo.

Carl ignored the whispers. They’d heard it all before: strange, dangerous, traumatized, callused.

What did they know anyway? Carl told himself that they didn't carry the same scars, feel the same terror.

He glanced at Bo, whose jaw was tight with simmering anger.

Zach looked back and forth between them, chewing his lip. "I'm, um, going on that run with Daryl tomorrow," he said, forcing another laugh.

Carl felt Bo tense even more, like he wanted to throw himself at the older boy.

Sophia chose that time to emerge, her hair done up in a towel. She stood tall, wrapped up in a fluffy robe probably scavenged from the same sorority house as the lotions.

“C’mon,” she took Bo’s sleeve and sent the newcomers a cold glare. They shrank away from her, from whatever they saw in her hardened gaze.

Carl gathered her clothes and felt satisfaction when the older boys parted to let them through.

“Assholes,” Bo muttered, when they were back in the hallway.

Sophia sighed, letting her shoulders slump. “Why does that boy always make it weird,” she complained, “he's acting like a little kid.”

“He's a shithead,” Bo agreed.

Sophia smacked him for his trouble. “Not like that,” she said, “he's just…”

Bo wrinkled his nose up at her, “What? You wanna defend that asshat?”

Carl laughed and steered them back to their cell. Sophia had shoved her feet into her unlaced boots and had her holster hanging precariously from the tie of the robe, but her bare legs made the back of Carl’s neck prickle with anxiety.

Carl and Bo were protected by a thick layer of denim and their leather boots. But Sophia? One bite and she was a goner.

This side of the prison was well trodden and clean. Above them, naked bulbs shone brightly and the floor had been scrubbed of blood, but Carl remembered clearing it not that long ago. He remembered the way walkers hung around every corner, just waiting for them to mess up.

Carl walked faster, focusing on getting his friends back to the safety of their cell block.

Behind them, Bo kept his head on a swivel, probably thinking the same thing. Carl watched him trace his fingers along his crossbow, habitually, mindlessly.

“It helps ground him,” Leroy had told Carl once, “something familiar and safe.”

“I'm not defending him,” Sophia’s voice went a little softer. “I just don't think we should be so mean when we don't know what he's going through.”

Bo huffed, reading into her words.

Carl heard the meaning just as clearly. If you don't want them to judge you, then give them a chance.

They went through the heavy doors to C-Block and ignored the way Carol watched them with a bemused look.

The block was quiet, almost everyone else was outside enjoying the sun. Carl watched Carol disappear into the pantry and come out just as quick, carrying some herbs and spices.

Sophia took her bundle of clothes from Carl and hung their curtain. Unlike Glenn and Maggie, their curtain was usually pulled to the side and they only closed it to get dressed.

Hershel called them down one night and gave them a grave speech about the dangers of unintended pregnancies. With their faces burning, all three of them swore to keep the curtain open.

Carl blushed at the memory, shivering with leftover embarrassment.

“Pricks,” Bo mumbled around a stifled yawn.

Carl looked down and saw his friend squatting and leaning back on the bars to their cell. His hands ran across the string of his bow and tapped each of his bolts.

From experience, Carl knew he carried clean bolts for hunting and older, more disposable bolts for walkers.

“Ain't gonna chance eatin’ somethin’ shot with the same bolt that killed a walker,” Daryl told them, back at the beginning.

Now, Bo kept a careful inventory and marked any that might be contaminated by walker brains.

Satisfied it was still in working order, Bo sighed and let his head fall back against the bars.

“Fuckin’ pricks,” he repeated, his voice a higher version of Daryl’s growl.

Carl gave him a little smile. They both knew the newcomers weren't actually that bad, they were mostly just loud and dumb and naive in a way Carl, Bo, and Sophia were too experienced to feel. No, the real problem was the way they reminded them of other people.

Patrick’s shy little smile reminded Carl of Bobbi’s and Josh had the same color hair as Eli.

It wasn't the newcomers fault, but after Woodbury and Bobbi and the fire and Jason and the smoke and Eli’s screams and –

A warm weight thumped against Carl’s leg.

Carl looked back down and saw his friend lean against him heavily, hooded eyes watching him carefully. Carl wondered what his friend saw, what weaknesses or cracks he could read as easy as the forest floor.

Shaking off the thought, Carl huffed and used his knee to bounce Bo back, silently telling him to leave him alone. Carl knew that Bo worried that they would lose themselves in their thoughts the way Bo sometimes did, knew it made his fear even stronger.

Bo didn't budge and just watched him, serious and quiet.

Carl felt like prey, like the deer Bo and Daryl hunted last spring. Those observant, narrow eyes missed nothing, not in the underbrush and not on Carl’s face.

Feeling exposed, Carl huffed and bounced Bo away again. He pushed away from the bars and called over his shoulder, “You ready yet?”

Their curtain was drawn again and Sophia emerged with her hair brushed and still dripping water onto her new top.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on,” she shot him a smile and breezed past them.

Bo rose behind her silently and, by unspoken decision, their steps turned to the yard.

They stepped out into the fresh air blinking in the bright sunlight. The driving sun was broken by a few lazy clouds drifting on a slight breeze and they could hear their group existing around them. For summer in Georgia, the weather was nearly perfect.

Across the yard, Michonne was riding Flame back and forth, breaking her in. Hershel and Maggie had helped her, but the mare seemed to only accept Michonne onto her back.

Some of the other kids – a pair of sisters, if Carl remembered right – were by the pigpen and cooing at the piglets.

Rick had told them not to get attached, but Carl felt a soft spot for the little pink things they gave wilted vegetables and gristly meat.

They turned from them to the fence, watching a pair of newcomers struggling against the mounding dead.

Bo huffed. “Ought’a help ‘em, I guess.”

They made their way over, giving clipped hellos to anyone who caught their attention.

Since the last incident at the fence, Daryl and Merle had been almost hovering around them, always just out of sight.

Bo swore he heard them sometimes, a few turns ahead in the tomb or sneaking away right before he opened his eyes in the morning, but Carl and Sophia maintained that the older Dixons moved as silently as mist.

They hadn't confronted them yet, over how Bo had flinched from Daryl or how Carl nearly drew on him. Looking back, Carl didn't quite know what even happened.

One second, he saw Bo flinch, then some instinct pulled him forward to stand between his friend and the threat. Even when that threat was a man who had protected them all with his life a dozen times over.

Carl knew it was coming, felt it in the weight of the air, but decided to put it off once again.

At the fence, the newcomers turned out to be Leroy and another man. Leroy seemed calm, but the man next to him looked red-faced and sweat was beading on his forehead. Carl wrote it off as nerves paired with the heat but Sophia pointedly told him to drink some water and sit down.

Carl, Sophia, and Bo watched him sag and drop his weapon in the dirt before trudging off. They shared a shrug with Leroy then grabbed their knives and went to work.

The first few were old and half-rotten, falling easily to Carl’s blade.

They fell into an easy rhythm: stab, pull, stab, pull.

Bo was between Carl and Sophia, plying his blade with practiced ease. So long as Sophia and Carl were right beside Bo, he didn't lapse into the same carelessness that got him grabbed last time.

Laughing a little at the irony, Carl turned his attention back to the task at hand. No matter how routine working the fence could be, they had to stay present.

The next walker was fresh, turned within a few days at most.

Carl lowered his knife for a moment, watching it with uneasy curiosity. Fresh walkers meant there were still survivors out there, maybe holed up in houses or sheds or campgrounds.

This one was a young woman, maybe Maggie and Glenn's age. Her skin was pale, paler than most walkers, and dried blood ran little rivers from her eyes and nose. She seemed unharmed, almost more sick than dead.

“Gross,” Bo said, stepping up to stab her efficiently through the chin.

Over his shoulder, Sophia wrinkled her nose. “That one looked weird. We should tell Hershel later.”

Carl nodded absently, turning to the next walker.

The fresh one lingered in his mind, her unbroken skin and bloody tears. Something was coming and Carl could feel it getting closer.

Patrick woke up sweating. He was so, so hot.

He stumbled out of his cell, burning up from the inside.

It wasn't his turn for a shower, he thought, but they would understand. He staggered in, primed the pump, and collapsed on the shower floor.

Chapter Text

“Carl? Carl.”

It was Rick, from the hall.

Bo heard him coming up the catwalk, the rhythm of his cowboy boots was distinct against the metal. He heard the change in his step, heard the sway Rick adopted when he held Judy.

As had become usual, Bo lay awake during the night, listening to his friends breathe.

Carl stirred when his dad called, stretching and groaning. Sophia woke quicker, eyes open at the first sound.

The prison slept around them, weak daylight telling Bo it was still early. Rick must need them in the garden.

They dressed efficiently, hanging holsters off their belts and Bo slung his crossbow onto his back.

The semi-running water meant they could splash their faces, brush their teeth, and play pretend that the world hadn't ended.

Bo didn't mind, it was nice to pretend sometimes.

Outside, Rick put them to work shoveling compost and feeding the pigs. Bo moved the heavy buckets, keeping an eye on Carl petting the pigs and Sophia digging her hands into the rich soil.

He wasn't stupid. He knew they were testing his limits.

Bo felt like a dog yanking on its chain, but every day that chain got just a little longer.

It was pitiful, but Bo internally celebrated that Carl could go as far as the watchtower before Bo’s throat tightened and he could even sit through Sophia’s entire after-shower ritual without laying eyes on her “just to check.”

Coming towards the gate, Michonne waved at them. Flame followed her, all deceptively docile.

“Bring us back some good books!” Sophia shouted, playfully.

Carl joined in, “I just want Skittles!”

Bo just grunted, his head bowed under the weight of his buckets.

She laughed and agreed and went out the gates on another hunt for the Governor and Will Dixon.

Bo continued his chores, walking back and forth between Carl and Sophia and mourning when wheelbarrows were plentiful.

Then, gunfire, shattering their fragile peace. Bo’s heart clenched and he dropped the buckets with a crash.

Rick ran through, shoving Carl towards Bo. “To the watchtower!” he ordered, "Stay with Maggie!”

Bo was exactly halfway between Carl at the pigpen and Sophia in the garden. Guns were going off and they were both so far away.

He froze, locked into himself once more. Bo saw only narrow pin-points, his limbs paralyzed.

He felt like he was about to go away again, to lose time to the distant in-between that was becoming more and more familiar.

Carl and Sophia sprinted toward him, Carl clutched his hat in one hand and his pistol in the other, while Sophia moved low and quick, gun raised like a SWAT officer.

Carl reached him first and barreled into Bo shoulder first, hard enough to snap him out of it.

They ran together to the watchtower, only to be cut off by Michonne's whistle, Incoming!

Carl broke away to the gate, Sophia took the rifle off the fence, and Bo finally acted.

His heart pounded in his ears, his hands shook, and adrenaline pulsed through his limbs.

The fear that had settled into his bones threatened to paralyze him, but some fine-honed instinct put everything into sharp relief. Without a thought, his heart slowed and his hands stopped shaking. For a split second, Bo felt like himself.

He loaded his crossbow, leveled it at a walker trailing Michonne, and fired as easily as breathing.

Bo slung it back over his shoulder and drew his knife, throwing himself out of the gate as soon as Carl had it open enough.

The crack of Sophia’s rifle behind him felt like a comforting word, reminding Bo his friends were safe behind the fence.

Michonne dismounted Flame and turned back to the walkers.

Two of them grabbed her shoulders, forcing her backwards. Michonne couldn't draw her sword before her boot caught on a rope.

Bo watched her fall and disappear under the walkers, a cry of pain and frustration echoing in his ears.

Before he had a chance to think, Bo dove in and grabbed the closest walker by its rotten clothes. Once he had a grip, he rolled and pulled it off of her. Michonne used the room he gave her to launch the last walker with a well-placed kick.

Bo buried his knife in the soft skull of his walker at the same time Maggie shot the other.

Sophia got to him first. With a grunt, she threw the corpse away and hauled Bo onto his feet. She practically dragged him back to the safety of the gate by his shirt.

Carl slammed it shut then fell between them. Both of his friends ran their hands along Bo’s arms, feeling for a bite before they let him stand on his own power.

Maggie had Michonne, supporting her in a frantic run back to the tower.

Carl stood up, hauling Bo and Sophia up with him. He checked his handgun, hat tilted down over his eyes.

In the moment, Carl looked just like Rick – his mouth set in a decisive tilt.

He answered their unspoken questions. “D-Bock,” he said, “not a breach.”

Bo struggled to catch his breath, watching Maggie and Michonne hobble to the tower. Michonne was standing, but she wouldn't be able to climb the ladder.

A buzzing anxiety prickled at Bo. His hands felt unsteady.

“C’mon!” Carl’s sharp command cut through Bo’s panic, bringing him back from the edge.

“Sophia,” he ordered, “cover them and watch the gate. Bo, with me – we'll back up Dad.”

Bo didn't even think to argue. He sent Sophia a nod and let himself get caught in Carl’s wake.

They ran to D-Block, weapons slung low.

Acting on pure instinct, they burst into the block. Carl swung to the left and Bo covered the right, moving seamlessly.

“Up here!” Glenn hollered.

Bo bounded up the stairs, two at a time, Carl’s steps echoing close behind.

“Down!” Bo barked.

Once Glenn was clear, he loosed his bolt into the head of a newcomer, freshly turned.

Carl hurried past and Bo felt a magnetic draw.

They cleared each cell, mirroring Uncle Daryl and Rick.

“This side’s clear!” Carl called. Rick echoed him from across the way.

Bo breathed out, letting his crossbow tick down.

A small buzzing, like a mosquito, told him he was too far from Sophia, but Bo bared his teeth at the feeling and glued himself to Carl’s side.

“Aw,” Uncle Daryl sighed, “it's Patrick.”

Bo told himself he didn’t feel guilty for shutting Patrick out, but the thought lingered, unwanted and heavy.

As if he knew what Bo thought, Patrick stared up at him with empty eyes. The bolt that stuck out from his forehead was one of Bo’s.

The chaos around them had settled into an uneasy silence. The survivors were evacuated and it was just them and the dead.

“Looks like the walker at the fence,” Carl whispered. His voice still felt too loud in a block that had been full of life just a few hours before.

Bo reached forward to trace the still tacky blood, but Uncle Daryl batted his hands away.

“Don't touch ‘im,” he grunted.

Despite the awkward way they had been dancing around each other, Bo listened.

Sophia found them, after everything.

It was a good thing, too. Once things had calmed down enough, the tremor returned to his hands and Bo’s thoughts raced with what-ifs.

Until they were reunited, Carl let Bo knot his hand in the back of his shirt to keep him steady.

The adults knew better than to try and keep her from them and just sent all three to make the markers for the graves.

Once they saw her, Bo felt relief like breaking through water to draw breath seconds before drowning.

They huddled up together on the floor, pressed into each other and comforting themselves with steady heartbeats and warm hands.

“You did good,” Sophia whispered in his ear. Her hand soothed through his hair, making Bo a boneless pile.

Bo snorted. “Ain't a damn dog you gotta praise,” he complained, even while he sagged against her.

Sophia grinned.

“Fine, then you sucked,” Carl laughed and dug his elbow into his side in mock reproach.

Bo, too tired to retaliate, just resorted to dropping his weight on Carl’s stomach.

“Oof,” he huffed, when Bo’s shoulder dug into his diaphragm.

Sophia laughed and followed him down, both curling up against Carl. They could relax together – play pretend that they were safe for just a little while.

Karen was dead.

Karen and David were murdered.

The foster mother to four little kids was stabbed and dragged out and burned.

And Bo’s father had done it.

“They were sick!” Merle snarled, up close to Uncle Daryl. “And I'm the only one with the balls to do what needed doin’!”

Carol put a hand on Daddy’s arm, “Merle, don't!”

Daddy looked at her and, for a second, he looked almost betrayed.

“Didn't you wanna protect the little mouse?” he asked, his tone swinging cruel and low. Turning from Carol, he rolled back his shoulders and shouted louder, “Y’all seen what it did! To D-Block, to the damn four eyes kid!”

Bo was frozen in terror, Carl and Sophia pressed into his flanks, their arms holding him back, but his world narrowed down on his father.

Rick and T-Dog held Tyreese back while he wailed his grief.

Uncle Daryl had tackled Daddy as soon as he opened his mouth, struck him with a brutal fist and Bo just heard himself screaming.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?!” Uncle Daryl shouted, one fist curled into Daddy’s collar.

“Our kids is in there!” Daddy hollered back, swinging wildly, “‘N they was good as dead already!”

Uncle Daryl ducked under his fist and shoved his shoulder into Daddy’s stomach. Bo’s vision blurred at the edges.

Daddy landed punishing blows on Uncle Daryl's back and shoulders, driving him away.

“Karen!” Tyreese screamed, struggling under the weight of both T-Dog and Rick. “Karen! She didn't deserve this!”

“I did it for them!” Daddy's arm swung out, his bayonet glinting sharp and deadly. It pointed at Bo, Carl, and Sophia where they were curled on the ground. “They were breathin’ on ‘em, sweatin’ and spewin’ their sickness!”

Uncle Daryl just snarled and looked for an opening. “You weren't thinkin’ ‘a nobody but yourself,” he snarled, “jus’ took the easy way like you always do.”

“Easy way!?” Daddy puffed himself up big. In this light, he looked just like Pop-pop Will. “You think killin’ them was the damn easy way?!”

Their shouting attracted more people. Glenn and Axel and Oscar skidded to a stop in the courtyard. Glenn and Oscar threw themselves at Daddy and Axel knelt next to Bo, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Between Uncle Daryl, Glenn, and Oscar, they got Daddy down to his knees.

“I was doin’ right by my boy!” Daddy spit the words like poison. His frenzied eyes caught onto Bo’s, “I did it for you!”

The words hit him like a slap, sending Bo reeling.

He couldn't understand. Daddy couldn't – no, he wouldn't murder someone just because they were sick.

Bo’s thoughts spiraled.

He wanted to shout back, to tell his father that Karen was good, she was kind. She didn't deserve to die.

But his heart raced and his words got stuck in his throat until Bo felt like he was choking on them.

Daddy shook off Oscar and Glenn, his bayonet shining as he swung in wild arcs getting dangerously close to Uncle Daryl. “Ain't no one else gonna make them calls! No one’s gonna get their damn hands dirty to keep us safe!”

“Bring him to me!” Tyreese spat, his voice low and howling. “I'm gonna kill him for what he's done!”

“I protected them kids!” Daddy roared, “I did that!”

Daddy looked so sure of himself. He wore the same expression of ruthless pragmatism on his face the day he put down Mrs. Wallace back at their trailer.

Bo shook in his friends’ hold.

Everything was too much.

The once gentle sunshine streaming down on them turned blindingly bright. All the sounds – Tyreese sobbing, Daddy’s snarls, and Uncle Daryl’s growls – got louder and stacked on top of each other until Bo was lost in the roar.

Carl’s hand braced against Bo felt miles away, he couldn't hear Sophia’s breathing over the crashing waterfall he was caught in.

Between one wheezing breath and the next, he floated away into merciful silence.

Carl felt the second Bo checked out.

His friend went from as tense as a live wire to near dead weight, sagging suddenly and heavily on Carl and Sophia.

His eyes were still open, but they were vacant – a house with the lights on but no one home.

Sophia shoved Axel away to wrap her arms around Bo’s shoulders, trying to keep him upright.

“Stop it!” Carol yelled, shoving herself between Merle and Daryl.

For a terrifying second, Merle’s blade kept going, only turning inches from Carol’s side.

“Mama!” Sophia cried.

Her voice was enough to break the adults out of their rage.

Daryl and Merle had blood on their faces, Rick and T-Dog were bruised, and Tyreese’s cheek was rubbed raw on the unforgiving concrete.

Carol stood tall amidst all of them.

Daryl paced, standing down in deference to Carol, but Carl could read the tension in the set of his shoulder.

Tyreese had settled into low sobs, shaking Rick and T-Dog on top of him.

Merle was rigid behind Carol, she had one hand resting on his flesh wrist.

Sophia’s soft gasp told Carl she saw the odd connection, her mama reaching out to a murderer.

Carl pulled Bo a little tighter to his side, thoroughly unbalanced.

In the end, Daddy was locked up in an unused cell.

Carl and Sophia worked together to bring Bo back to himself, speaking to him in low words and parroting the questions Uncle Daryl usually asked.

It took a while for them to reel him back into his body. It didn't help that Bo almost wanted to stay in that strange soft in-between place where everything seemed too far away to hurt him, where he was just an audience watching his life go by.

Their words came muffled, like he was hiding under a pillow from the morning sun.

“C’mon, Bo,” Carl shook him, “we gotta figure out what happened.”

His friends needed him.

No matter how much Bo wanted to stay in the safety of the fuzzy far-away, Carl and Sophia couldn't do it alone.

Bo fought through the fog in his mind, pulling himself back to reality with a white knuckled grip.

Sophia whispered, “Bo, I think Mama did something. I need your help!”

Chapter Text

Sophia watched the whole scene unfold silently. Those huge men spoke with their fists and her mama waded in, unafraid.

When Merle scoffed and said he had done it – that he had killed Karen and David – Mama looked at Merle like she wasn't surprised.

She instead looked disappointed.

Mama sighed when she looked at him. It was the same way she looked at Dad when he opened his third beer for the night – when Sophia knew to blend in with the shadows before his rage turned to her.

Both then and now, Mama looked like she was bracing for a beating.

When she came between the fighting men, Mama put her hand on Merle’s wrist. She touched him the way Sophia would touch Bo or Carl, like she needed to know he was there and safe.

Pressed up against Carl and Bo, Sophia’s mind raced, thoughts spinning in dizzying circles.

She didn't want to think it. She tried to tell herself it couldn't be true.

Karen was too good to Bobbi and Jason and Eli. Mama knew how good she was.

But Mama also knew Karen was sick. She knew how fast it would spread.

Sophia felt like she was plunged under ice water.

Mama knew.

She knew what Merle was going to do.

Every muscle in Sophia’s body locked up with fear, just waiting for Merle to say something, for Tyreese to break Rick’s hold, or for Daryl to fall upon her mama with righteous fury.

The moment stretched into eternity.

Even while Bo shook to pieces and Carl tried to hold them both together, Sophia searched Mama’s face for innocence, for any shred of truth.

She found none.

Mama wouldn't even look at Sophia. She just stared hard at the stains or the still smoldering bodies, her shoulders sagging under a weight Sophia didn’t want to name.

Sophia tried to tell herself her mama was still righteous, but she looked more ashamed than strong.

With the smell of burned flesh in Sophia’s lungs, she weighed out the evidence and felt her heart break.

Mama knew.

They were sent to the offices with the other kids.

Sophia had to work together with Carl to get Bo to follow them. They had to direct each unsteady step until they were safe in the office they claimed as their own.

Sophia and Carl distracted themselves by making a bed with old linens and left their friend in a pile of blankets while they got everyone else settled.

Then came the process of calling him back to himself.

Carl and Sophia took turns asking the questions Leroy coached them on, offering quiet encouragement to lure him back.

The sun crawled slowly, making shadows stretch across the floor. Through the thin walls, they could hear the other kids rustling around and heard Beth singing to Judy, but Bo still sat listlessly.

Finally, Sophia huddled close to his ear.

“Bo.” She hesitated to put the words out into the world, like speaking them would make them true.

Maybe she was wrong, she thought. But then she remembered the way Mama grabbed Merle’s wrist, the calm way she turned her back to his bayonet.

Carl watched her, his gaze heavy.

Sophia gathered her courage, all of her faith in her friends. “Bo, I think Mama did something,” she whispered. “I need your help.”

Bo gasped like a drowning man. His eyes snapped into focus when his gaze met Sophia’s.

They sat staring at each other for a long moment, neither moving. It was like Sophia’s words brought him back to life and knocked the breath out of him all at once.

Then, the moment broke and Bo just flopped backwards.

“Fuck,” he groaned, “did it happen again?”

“You've got bad timing.” Carl tried for a teasing tone, but mostly sounded relieved.

Sophia shoved at Bo’s shoulder until he moved enough to let her curl into his side. Carl stayed sitting up but shifted around so that Bo’s head was on his lap.

Sophia didn't have to look up to know his eyes were fixed on the door to keep watch.

“Do you remember what happened?” Sophia asked.

She hated how small her voice sounded, how easily she folded down into Bo’s side. Sophia wondered if she was trying to comfort him or if he was comforting her. Maybe they were both pretending to offer comfort – pretending either of them were in the position to help anyone.

Bo hummed low in his chest. “Bits,” he said.

Sophia felt him shift; he didn't like to admit when he lost time.

“Think there was a fire, maybe.”

He sounded uncertain. Sophia knew he was there, that he had drifted back outside of the house in Woodbury, with the smoke burning his lungs and Bobbi’s screams in his ears.

Sophia tugged on his hand, trying to keep him anchored to them.

Carl sighed. “Kinda,” he said, “we mostly saw the results though.”

Sophia decided to start at the beginning. “Tyreese came running in, said someone killed Karen. We all went running after him, Rick, then Daryl and Merle and Mama.”

“I remember that much,” Bo grumbled.

“Shut up and listen.” Carl flicked Bo’s ear gently.

“Someone burned them,” Sophia said, her voice breaking, “and your daddy said he did it.”

Bo took a shuddering breath. “I kinda hoped I dreamed that.” His voice was so low, Sophia nearly didn't hear him.

“He burned ‘em?” he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. “Fuck,” Bo lifted his head just enough to thump it back down in futile frustration.

“Fuck!” he shouted again, raising a hand to press to his eyes.

Sophia and Carl let him work through it, offering quiet words and gentle touches until he brought himself back under control.

“Fine,” Bo huffed eventually, like he had decided to deal with it later, “‘N what about Carol?”

Sophia's eyes suddenly burned, Bo’s words too blunt and the feelings too raw.

Thankfully, Carl had seen the same things. “It was weird. She wasn't scared,” he said.

“She didn't even look at Tyreese when he was screaming. Then your dad was fighting Daryl and everything and she just,” he trailed off for a second. “She acted like it was already settled, like she already decided it was how it had to be.”

“And she–” Sophia’s voice cracked, a tear tracing hot down her cheek.

Bo held onto her a little tighter and Carl dropped a hand to rub on her shoulder.

“She grabbed Merle’s wrist, like she wanted to pull him away from Tyreese,” she said through silent tears. “Like she wanted to protect him.”

They sat silently like that, letting each of them turn it over in their minds for a while.

Sophia kept her face buried against Bo’s chest to hide her tears, his breath even and slow.

She almost thought he had fallen asleep before he spoke. “Where’re we now?”

“Admin,” Carl answered, “we’re apparently ‘vulnerable’ –” he made sarcastic air quotes around the word “– and we have to stay away from everyone else so we don't get sick.”

Bo grunted.

Their conversation lapsed.

Outside they could hear the rhythmic sounds of a shovel in dirt, someone outside was digging graves. Down the hall, one of the younger kids was crying.

“Who else’s grounded?” he asked.

“All the kids,” Carl waved a hand to indicate the other offices, “Beth has Judy and I think Dr. S and Hershel brought Shane and Nate up too.”

Sophia stilled, ready for the mention of Nate to throw Bo back into his panic, but the boy under her just sighed.

“Makes sense,” he said, begrudgingly, “we’re locked up with the kids ‘n cripples.”

Sophia smacked him half-heartedly, “You're not supposed to say that word.”

Bo shrugged, “Don’t make it less true.”

“That was a stupid thing you did, Merle.”

They froze, half crouched in the hall leading to Merle’s cell. They huddled in the shadows, their hands clasped for strength.

Sophia saw the way Bo and Carl both went tense when Rick spoke.

They had come to let Bo see his dad and were still hidden behind the last turn before his cell. She felt the cool block through her socks since Bo made them leave their boots behind.

“Tyreese wants to kill you,” Rick continued. His voice was quiet, Sophia couldn't tell what expression he wore. “The council agreed to wait til Daryl gets back before they decide about you.”

Bo looked over his shoulder, frowning. Sophia caught his eye but he shook his head and tapped his ear, like he thought he had heard something.

“Needed to be done, Friendly.” Merle still sounded sure, even cocky, while they had a dozen dying in A-Block. “Ol’ Merle don't sit around when shits threatenin’ his son.”

“You just don't get it, do you?” Rick growled. “Now it's you that's a threat to Bo. Do you really think they're gonna let you stay here? After what you did?”

Sophia flinched at the sound of a body hitting metal bars.

“You ain't gonna throw out my boy!” Merle raged, “He’s innocent!”

Sophia looked over at her friend and watched his jaw work, like he was biting back words. Carl put his free hand on Bo’s shoulder, half to comfort and half to hold him back.

“So were Karen and David,” Rick hissed.

Sophia flinched again. Karen used to sing to Eli and rocked him gently, the way Beth did for Judy.

Now she was dead, as dead as Eli and Bobbi.

And Merle and Mama were the ones to do it.

“They were good as dead, Friendly,” Merle's voice dropped low again, “you know that. Fuckin’ sickness took the D-Block in a night. If I didn't do it, they'd be walkers by now, maybe chowin’ down on Carl or Bo or your lil’ girl.”

Rick made a wordless growl at the back of his throat at the mention of Judy, his boots scraping the concrete like a bull ready to charge.

Merle latched onto it. “Or maybe they'd still be limpin’ along. Sweatin’ and coughin’ and bleedin’ on everyone, touchin’ everything in sight. Spreadin’ that sick ‘round like Mardis Gras beads.

“Maybe they'd go get some dinner and cough all in the broth, huh? Then where'd we all be?”

“It wasn't your call to make,” Rick said.

Sophia heard his boots again, she imagined he was pacing and tugging on his hair the same way Carl did when he was stressed.

“You didn't see it, Rick.” Merle’s voice lost the taunting edge and Sophia heard the ancient springs of the bunk squeak as his weight settled down. “They was already dyin’. She was coughin’ up blood. David weren't even awake.”

The three of them barely dared to breathe. Sophia’s heart pounded so loud she would have swore that Merle should have been able to hear it.

Bo and Carl’s grips on her hands were white knuckled. Sophia wanted to run back to the office and hide in their bed, but their suspicion kept them rooted to the spot.

They needed to know.

Rick and Merle lapsed into silence.

Sophia could hear Rick’s harsh breathing, panting like he'd run a marathon. Merle was quieter, sagging on his bunk as if the fight had drained out of him.

“Still can't let you stay here, Merle.”

“‘N I can't let you throw out my boy.”

“Guess y'all're at a’ impass, huh?” Jess Dixon’s voice made Sophia gasp, she hid the sound in her fist just in time.

“Don't remember askin’ your opinion, Jess.” Merle growled, but it was an exhausted sound.

Jess hummed low. “I ain't never done right by you boys –”

“Damn right,” Merle muttered, hardly loud enough for them to hear.

“ – but I might be able to help you out now.”

“This doesn't involve you.” Rick stopped pacing, his voice once more strong and decisive.

“Way I figure, it does.” Jess spoke low and slow, like he thought about each word before he said it. “You can't let my nephew stay, can't leave ‘im out on his own, ‘n ain't gonna let Bo ‘n Daryl leave with ‘im, right?”

The adults were silent.

Bo shifted at the front of the line, impatient. Carl let go of Sophia’s hand to tug him backwards and have a silent argument in glares and expressions.

Don't you dare, Carl’s expression said.

Bo responded with his own glare. I'm not gonna let them make him leave.

Sophia glared at them, silently telling them to shut up and pay attention.

“Lil’ Daryl’s gonna wanna know what you decided when he gets back,” Jess said, breaking the silence. “‘How you think he'll react to watchin’ y'all throw out his brother.”

Merle laughed flatly. “He'll bring the prison down ‘round your ears, Friendly.”

“But if he's already gone?” Jess prompted.

“He'd have to stay here, with Bo,” Rick finished, his voice heavy.

“Ty couldn't complain much,” Merle slowly added his voice to the debate. “Leavin’ here might as well be a death sentence.”

“Not for you,” Rick said. “Not if you have someone watching your back.”

“We’d go far enough Daryl couldn’t find us,” Jess added, “but stay close ‘n keep an eye on that boy.”

They went quiet again, but this time the silence held something heavy.

Rick stopped pacing, Jess was as silent as a ghost, and even the springs under Merle stopped squeaking.

“Fine,” Rick finally said, “but you'll have to move quick. I'll find you a bag, some weapons – but we can't spare food.”

“Don't you worry, Boss Hog, Dixons don't starve.” Merle spoke with the same swagger Sophia came to expect from him, but this time it felt forced.

Rick’s boots beat against the concrete again, this time going straight to C-Block.

Once the heavy metal doors slammed shut, Jess’s voice raised again. “C’mon out, you three’re too big to play hide’n’seek.”

Sophia froze, they were caught. Carl was already tugging them away, back to Administration, but Bo just shook off his hold and stepped into the light.

Carl cursed and followed him.

Sophia felt clumsy, but made herself follow the boys, hurrying to reclaim Carl's hand.

They were greeted by Jess crouched outside of Merle’s cell, Merle himself reclined on the bunk and shot them an easy smile.

“Three little mice creepin’ in the dark. Thought I raised you better’n that, Bo.”

“So you just gonna leave?” Bo asked, blunt and flat.

Merle growled, “It ain't like that, ‘n you know it. Don't act like I wanted this to happen, kid.”

Bo bristled, rolling his shoulders back and puffing out his narrow chest. “You're runnin’ off! Jus' like you did when Uncle Dare was little!”

Merle leapt to his feet and slammed into the iron bars. “Don't speak on what you don't know, brat!” his lips were flecked with spit, his face red with rage.

Jess sat silent and still, his calm eyes watching his family like he was watching an old, familiar movie.

“You killed ‘em!” Bo shouted, no longer concerned with staying hidden. “You killed ‘em and now –” his voice broke into a sob, “and now you’re runnin’ off ‘n leavin’ us again.”

Sophia threw herself at Bo and he let her pull him against her side. Carl came up even with them, silently supporting Bo against his dad.

“Why the fuck would you do it?” Bo asked. Sophia watched tears sliding down his cheeks. “You ruined it, just like always!

“You ran out on Uncle Dare, you left my ma, and now you killed Karen!” Bo’s chest heaved as he hurled the words at Merle.

“You don't even care, do you!?” He broke off in a sob. “You’re jus’ gonna run off again!”

Merle twisted his lips into a snarl. “You fuckin’ brat! You don't know what I –”

“Stop.” Jess’s voice cut through Merle’s, the quiet command stopping him in his tracks.

“You've done enough, boy,” he said, his serious, down turned eyes locking onto Merle’s.

Merle growled, but pushed away from the bars to pace behind them like a caged lion.

Bo shook, his voice breaking. “You weren't gonna say nothin’ to Uncle Dare?? You jus’ gonna leave us again?” His breath caught and a sob tore out of his throat.

“Your daddy said his peace,” Jess said soothingly, turning those mournful eyes on Bo. “He ain't leavin’ to hurt you, not this time.”

“Then why the hell can't he stay?! Why won't he even try?!”

“Tryin’ would hurt you ‘n lil’ Daryl a hell’ova lot worse,” Jess said, still measured and slow.

“Bullshit!”

“Look at ‘im!” Jess finally snapped, some fight flickering in his eyes. “You think he wanted to turn out like this? It weren’t his fault Will fucked him up so bad.

“Spent my life watchin' Dixon men ruin their kids,” he said, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’ve gotta live with that. But now? Now I'm doin’ somethin’ ‘bout it.

“Us leavin’ right now, how it is, is the only way to keep from ruinin’ you too. Don't you see that?” Jess’s tone evened back out to that same measured pace. “I didn't help your daddy when he was your age so’s I'm tryin’ to help you both now.”

Merle flinched from his words. Sophia watched him hang his head and wondered if it was shame that kept him staring down at the concrete underfoot.

“This thing I done, it needed doin’.” He scrubbed his hand through his hair.

“I know I fucked up before, kid, but I ain't gonna fuck this up for you.” Merle’s voice got strong again, a determination straightening his back. “You deserve to be safe here, Bo.”

Bo took a shuddering breath, Sophia felt him tremble against her.

They sat in that silence, letting it linger over them.

But then a growing urgency tugged at Sophia’s stomach, telling her they needed to get to the truth before Rick came back.

“Bo,” she whispered, “what about Mama?”

Jess’s eyes cut to her now. They were the exact same shade of blue as Bo’s and held the same observant edge.

“Didja do it alone?” Bo asked, his voice low and hoarse from tears, “We know it weren't jus’ your idea.”

Merle’s head snapped around, fixing them with a look that was half shock, half indignation.

“Did Carol tell you to do it?” Bo saw his hesitation and jumped onto it. He still sounded exhausted, but there was a bite to him now. “She tell you to go in there ‘n murder them?”

Merle sputtered, eyes wide.

Sophia watched his expression shift unreadably.

“That woman can't stomach shootin’ a walker.” Merle shook his head, avoiding Bo’s eyes, “You think her mousy ass could come up with this?”

Bo’s mouth shut with a clack.

Sophia looked over and saw the tears coming faster, snot clinging to his upper lip.

Bo shut his eyes tight and made a low, wounded sound.

“Is he –” Sophia stumbled over the words, scared at what he might tell her “Is he lying, Bo? Did Mama…?”

His exhale was shaky.

For a long second, the only sound was Bo’s muffled sobs.

Sophia’s hand in his was an unbearable weight.

With his eyes still closed, Bo thought about his dad, saw his face while he lied to them about Carol.

He could always tell with Daddy, with the way he looked to the side. He could never lie while he looked Bo in the eye.

But Sophia didn't know that. She couldn't see the shame and desperation in Daddy's face, the panic.

All she saw was a hope that, maybe, her mama hadn’t become a monster.

Daddy could live out there, with Jess, but Carol…

“Bo?” she whispered again. “Is he telling the truth? Mama didn't know?”

Her earnest words felt like a knife. Her bright eyes, filled with that same fragile hope, might as well have been pistols leveled at his heart.

Bo opened his mouth, the lie tasting like acid on his tongue. “He's tellin’ the truth.”

Sophia sagged against him, collapsing under the weight of her relief.

Daddy watched him with something close to pride and Carl’s grip on his shoulder tightened punishingly, like he knew what Bo did.

The heavy doors foretold Rick’s arrival, his boots beating a rhythm against the concrete.

He came around the corner and didn't even seem surprised to see them all huddled up outside of Merle’s cell.

Sophia watched him lean on Carl for a moment, shoulders curled like he was under some great weight, like he had to borrow some of his son’s strength.

Then he straightened up without a word and unlocked Merle’s cell.

They were allowed to trail after them through the tombs, to the entrance Tyreese and Sasha used those months ago.

No one spoke until they could see daylight streaming in from the busted wall.

Then Jess turned around and crouched down to Bo’s level.

“Know you're mad, kid, ‘n you got every right,” he said.

Sophia watched Bo close his eyes tight and reached out to grab his hand again.

“Your daddy’s a damn fool, but he ain't cruel, not like his pa is. You bes’ remember that. He's as good a man as he can be, but you're a whole hell'ova lot better ‘n smarter ‘n either of us.”

Rick was silent, his gaze stuck on Carl.

Bo didn't respond to Jess, just clutched onto Sophia’s hand as more tears slid down his cheeks.

Jess stood up. “I'm taking’ ‘im far enough you ain't gotta worry ‘bout us no more,” he told Rick, shifting his rifle on his shoulder.

“You want me to tell Daryl anything?” Rick asked, his voice raw.

“Jus’ tell ‘im I left,” Merle said, already staring out, “he's used to that.”

The two men gathered their bags and weapons. Merle kept his steely gaze locked on the horizon, his shoulders square.

Bo let out a single sob, and Merle froze mid-step. Then, with a sharp breath, he walked on and never dared to look back at his son.

Then, they were gone.

Sophia, Carl, and Bo sat by the entrance to the tombs until long after Merle’s broad shoulders disappeared from view. They sat and watched the sky go dark overhead and saw the stars blink to life.

Rick watched them, some unreadable pain around his eyes.

“Better get y'all back to Admin,” he said, once the summer air turned cool. “Then I'll go back to the cell and break the lock.”

He wanted to make it look like Merle escaped with Jess, like he was running from what he had done.

Relief settled over Sophia, heavy and selfish. She was so glad her mother didn't have to join Merle and Jess in their exile.

Once again, they walked in silence. Rick stopped at the door and told them to wash their hands well.

Exhausted, they all fell into the little nest they made and curled together until Sophia didn't know where the boys stopped and she began.

It almost felt familiar. Sophia was comforted by their presence, grounded and assured.

But something nagged at her.

The way Merle looked just past Bo when he said her mama didn't know about his crimes.

Sophia shut her eyes tight.

She should wake Bo up, make him swear to tell her the truth. Was Merle lying? Was he covering for Mama?

She should, but Sophia was frozen, too afraid of what Bo might say.

If Merle was covering for Mama –

Sophia buried her head in the blankets, cutting off the thought. She had to trust Bo and Carl, she decided. They were all she had left.

Chapter Text

That night, Carl and Sophia slept in shifts, like they did over the winter.

“I ain't tired,” Bo swore, “not like I can sleep with Daddy out there.”

He was out within minutes of hitting the pillow.

Carl took first watch and promised Sophia he would wake her. She was curled up by his legs, bunched up with Bo.

They clung to each other, both mourning a parent in different ways.

Merle was as good as gone, Jess promised that, and Sophia still had suspicions that Carol had destroyed something irreparable.

Sure, Sophia had forced herself to believe Merle and Bo now, but Carl knew it wouldn't last.

She was smarter than people gave her credit for. She noticed things about people that Carl or Bo usually wrote off, if they saw at all.

No, that lie wouldn't last unless Sophia wanted it to.

And Rick.

Carl felt like he saw his dad for the first time since his mom died, like the Rick that had been haunting them was just a ghost and now he was back from the dead.

From the way he handled Merle and Jess, Carl knew that gentle Farmer Rick was well and truly gone and the father, the leader, that stood tall outside the ashes of the Greene Farm with firelight in his eyes was back.

And it was a good thing. They needed the man who swore to keep them safe, not a farmer raising pigs.

Bo might not have agreed, not with the way he watched Merle walk away with tears in his eyes, but Merle hadn't given them much choice.

The night passed slowly, dragging like a legless walker. It gave Carl too much time to wrestle with his thoughts.

Looking back, Carl was pretty sure Carol wasn't upset that Merle had murdered Karen and David. No, she was upset that he had announced it – especially in front of Tyreese.

He could almost hear her telling Merle to keep his mouth shut, to keep up appearances for the sake of the newcomers.

The old Rick – the one that told them they didn't live in a democracy – he would have understood.

Carl could see the logic when he heard Judy fussing at Beth, when he heard the younger kids crying.

He had seen Patrick’s body. Carl could imagine a man like Merle thinking it was a kindness to kill Karen and David before they ended up choking on their own blood.

It wasn't a good thing, but it was understandable.

Outside, second and third watch swapped places. It was about halfway through the night.

Carl shook Sophia gently, counting on Bo’s exhaustion to keep him asleep.

Sophia tried to snuggle deeper into Bo’s chest, like she was hiding from her mama on a school morning.

“C’mon,” he called, gently.

She just huffed and covered her head. “S’not time yet.”

“Is too,” he retorted. “I see T-Dog out there relieving Glenn.”

Another huff, then she sighed and sat up with a groan. “Fine, fine.”

“You'd be mad if I didn't wake you up,” Carl pointed out.

“I know,” she said, her voice warm and deep from sleep, “but five more minutes wouldn't have killed anyone.”

Sophia winced at her choice of words and they both instinctively looked to Bo. Thankfully, he still slept soundly, reaching back for Sophia and curling tighter to Carl's thigh.

“What do you think is going to happen now?” Sophia asked, her voice sounding young and small, like it did back at the quarry.

Carl paused before he answered. Sophia was smart, she knew what came next, but she didn't want the cold, brutal facts.

They sat in silence, listening for signs any of the other kids were awake. The halls echoed comfortingly with the sounds of light breathing and snores, practically background noise in the prison, but he couldn't hear anyone else stirring.

“I think my dad’s gonna make it look like Jess broke him out. If it was anyone else he’d tell Daryl but…” Carl let his words trail off.

They both looked back down at Bo. Carl traced his eyes across the features he shared with his uncle; the same cheekbones and jaw, the same hooded eyes.

Carl knew that face as well as he knew his father's, his mother's. He had seen nearly every expression across both his friends' faces and could impose those on Daryl.

When he came back to find Merle missing, again?

Carl pictured Bo’s most intense, twisted snarl on Daryl’s weathered face.

Back at the quarry, his mom and Carol had shielded him from the worst of the patented Dixon temper, but now they were too tangled up in everything to be able to stay separate.

“What about after?” Sophia said, her voice hardly louder than Shane’s snoring.

After. After the sickness, after the medicine run, after their little reprieve in their nest, when the sun comes up.

There were too many ‘afters’ for them to account for right now. Normally Sophia would have known that, she wouldn't even have to ask, but Carl had seen the way she clung desperately to the hope that Carol had nothing to do with the murders.

She wanted something to comfort her, like the way Carl used to drag his old blanket around when he was young.

Carl didn't feel up to it – he could hardly keep Bo from falling apart – but he steeled his resolve and offered her a shaky smile.

“We'll make it,” he said, “like we always do.”

Sophia smiled back at him, tiny and unsure, but reassured all the same. “Go to sleep,” she whispered, “I'll wake you up in the morning.”

Sophia shifted places with Carl, making sure to keep a sleeping Bo calm between them.

The boys curled up together and Bo slung an arm over her knee. Carl’s breathing evened out in just a few minutes.

Through the window to the yard, she watched the walkers wander around the fence and mill about in the treeline then cast her gaze up and up.

Not for the first time, she marveled at how clear the skies were at night. Even with their little generator and strings of lights, the stars shone brilliantly above the prison, blanketing them in infinity.

Over the winter, on a cold, hungry night, Merle had promised to show her the constellations hidden in those lights. It may have just been one of his impulsive promises, but Sophia liked to believe he meant it.

Carl wasn't sure what had woken him, at first.

Then he opened his eyes and took stock.

Bo was half sitting, facing the door, and Sophia was whispering something harshly.

“Well we gotta follow him!” Bo hissed back.

Sophia bristled, “What about Carl?”

“What about me?” he asked.

Bo whipped around to fix him with an almost manic grin. “Hershel's leavin'!” Without another word, Bo scrambled from their bed and started shoving his feet into his boots.

Sophia complained under her breath but followed his lead, leaving Carl no choice but to go along with them.

A quick glance out of the window showed daylight – it was later than he was used to sleeping – and an eerily quiet yard.

No one was working on the walkers at the fence and their garden stood empty.

“Where you goin’?” Bo shouted to the hall, practically falling out of their room.

Hershel stopped walking and motioned for them to stay back. “I have to go out.”

“To the cells?” Carl asked.

“No,” he answered, “to the woods.”

Hershel put up a fuss, of course, but there was little he could do in the face of Sophia’s calm logic, Bo’s glare, and a heavy dose of stubbornness that Carl’s mom always blamed on his dad.

Minutes later they were armed and starting up the noisy bird to move the walkers from the gate.

Bo and Sophia casually stabbed the walkers still lingering in their way and Carl stuck close to Hershel, watching his face pinch at each meaty sound of blade through skull.

Hershel seemed to know where he was going. It wasn't long before the vet knelt down next to an elderberry bush.

“You hear ‘bout my dad?” Bo asked, blunt as ever, once they had done a sweep. He held his crossbow like a shield, glaring out at the trees.

Hershel hummed. “I've been cooped up in Admin, same as you three.” Carl heard something conspiratorial in his voice.

“Bullshit,” Bo shot back.

“I've heard a lot of things, son,” Hershel said. His hand moved steadily, picking berries and leaves from the bush. “These are elderberries–”

“Know what they are,” Bo muttered. Sophia elbowed him hard.

“– if we can make tea with them, we can help the sick fight off the flu.”

All three of them kept their weapons up, watching the old man hobble around the bush.

“You're good with that weapon,” Hershel finally said, nodding towards Bo’s crossbow.

Carl heard that same conspiratorial tone, but Hershel looked calm, almost peaceful. A glance at Sophia told him she agreed so they let Bo answer.

“Daddy bought me my first one when I was seven,” he said proudly, running his fingers over his weapon in the same pattern as always.

“Seven?” More of that leading tone. “Seems a little young for something so dangerous.”

“Nah,” Bo’s shoulders relaxed a little and he had a little half smile even while he watched the treeline. “Him ‘n Uncle Dare went out every weekend, pawned me off on Mrs. Wallace for what felt like forever.

“Said I was ‘posed to help ‘er ‘round the house ‘n stuff. Helped her clean the shed ‘n organize her yarn ‘n cut her grass ‘n shit.”

Bo looked faraway again, but not like he did when he was hiding away, more like he was remembering something soft and good.

“Ran outta stuff the third week, ended up jus’ lookin’ at her old picture books. Told me ‘bout her husband ‘n kids ‘n pets.”

“Sounds like you were still helping her.” Hershel put down his bag and smiled at them happily.

“Til Daddy had to bash her head in after the turn,” Bo said. “Damn near broke our door down.”

Hershel’s smile faltered and his face pinched in something like grief. He ducked his head back down behind the bush for a moment.

Sophia elbowed Bo again, whispering for him to shut up.

“No, no, it's okay.” Hershel held up his hands and laughed, even though it sounded forced. “It sounds like she cared about you and your family, it's good to have people like that around.”

Bo stuck his tongue out at Sophia, then kept telling his story: “Turns out, whole time they were goin’ out ‘n huntin’ ‘n sellin’ hides ‘n meat. Saved up for weeks to get me a little second hand bow from the tanner in town. Gave it to me on the first day ‘a Junior Deer Huntin’ Season.”

Carl tried to picture Merle and Daryl selling hides to the man, probably surrounded by treated rawhide or leather, and bargaining for a child’s crossbow.

The image was at odds with the men he had grown to know over the winter: Daryl seemed like he would rather hack off a limb than walk into a normal store, and Merle could be charismatic, but he didn't seem to have the patience for such a long scheme.

Then again, the father he knew couldn't have banished a man away from his son, wasn't fierce and full of firelight, and wouldn't have locked a man onto a roof.

Hershel broke Carl’s thoughts, calling him over to use his shoulder to help haul him onto his feet – well, foot.

Carl signaled for Bo and Sophia to keep alert. With only one leg, Hershel wouldn't be able to run if they got ambushed.

The two spread out again, clearing the way. Bo pointed to where the next bush was and Carl stayed glued to Hershel's side.

The old man looked almost amused. “I would have been fine,” he said, “but it's nice to have such efficient escorts.” This time, his laughter sounded genuine.

Bo led them to the next bush, but his head snapped up and he crouched.

Sophia fell into the same stance and they prowled forward. Hershel went to follow, but Carl held him back.

Seconds later, they heard the rhythmic clink of metal on metal, sudden and jaring. Just ahead, a walker dragged its leg, caught in a bear trap.

Carl relaxed; it wasn't a threat.

Bo raised his crossbow and–

“Wait!” Hershel’s voice cut through the quiet woods, startling the birds quiet. “You don't have to.”

Bo huffed and pulled the trigger.

Hershel leaned heavily on Carl again, sagging like a puppet without its strings.

“You didn't have to.” His voice was weak. “It couldn't have hurt us.”

Carl watched Bo reload and Sophia dart forward to retrieve his bolt. On her way, she stabbed a rotting walker pinned under a tree.

“Couldn't have hurt us,” Carl pointed out, feeling like he was explaining to a child, “but it could have caught you.”

Hershel felt heavy on his shoulder, but Carl stayed upright under him. He could take the weight. Looking up, Carl saw Hershel’s eyes darting back and forth between the walkers, like he couldn't understand.

Maybe he couldn't. He hasn't gotten used to this world the way they had, Carl didn't even think he had killed a walker yet.

Bo and Sophia looked to him, as if Carl knew what to do to put Hershel back together.

As gently as he could, Carl guided Hershel to the next bush and helped him down to the ground.

Hershel stayed kneeling, silent, his eyes closed and head bowed. Finally, he muttered “Amen,” and heaved a heavy sigh.

Chapter Text

Hershel took his tea to the sick, and Sophia wanted to visit the graves.

The crosses were ugly, hastily constructed things. The day before, Bo and Carl had spent hours nailing cockeyed branches to roughly splintered planks while Sophia carefully painted the names. Only twelve hours old, they were already sagging into the dirt, weighed down by the ghosts of the dead.

All the names were newcomers or transplants from Woodbury.

Among them, Bo read Patrick, Josh, John, and Scott.

The college kids hadn't been at the prison long. Bo had never even learned who was Josh or John, but he could still see Patrick’s shy little smile at Sophia. Scott used to be Daddy’s favorite during combat training, tag teaming with his brother, Justin.

Since Zach had died a few days earlier during the run at the Big Spot, Justin was the only survivor from their group.

Another boy alone in the world.

Part of Bo felt vindicated by the names spelled out in blocky letters. They didn't let the group close, they had learned from Bobbi’s death. Patrick had been younger than the others, somewhere between Sophia and Beth in age. They had shut down each of his attempts at friendship with cold hearts and heated glares.

Beth was kinder. She let Zach in.

Bo had seen him trailing her like a puppy when she took Judy out for fresh air, saw the way he brought her flowers in the mornings.

Now Beth was alone again and they didn't even have enough of him left to bury.

Maybe Glenn and Uncle Daryl should have left them in the woods.

Bo shook his head, chasing away thoughts of his uncle.

Ever since Daddy left, Bo had been fighting back the soft, cottony feeling that crept in just before he lost time. It was a tempting thought, to just retreat into the blissful nothingness instead of facing the future.

Bo shook his head again, harder.

He picked at the string of his crossbow, tracing its familiar curves. He tried to focus on the sick-sweet scent of the rotting walkers, the freshly turned dirt underfoot, and the calls of summer birds.

He couldn't float away, not when walkers piled up at the fences and Sophia was lost in her own melancholy, kneeling over freshly dug graves.

Bo slid his finger across the tip of a bolt, the pain helping to keep him tethered.

Blood welled up from the little cut, blooming like a flower before Bo wiped it away on his jeans.

Sophia sighed, catching Bo’s attention. “Mama’s gonna look after Lizzie and Mika,” she said, practically whispering.

“When the hell’d you talk to her?” he asked, wrapping his finger in the hem of his shirt. Sophia would be mad if she saw.

“When you two were clearing D,” she said, her brows drawn up while she stared down at the grave. “Their dad died in there. He asked her to look after them, like she looks after me.”

The way she looks after Sophia? With a knife in the dark and a jug of gasoline.

“Is that him?” Carl asked, pointing at the name.

“Yeah, Ryan Samuels,” Sophia read. “You know, I always did want a little sister.”

“Instead, you got two shit brothers,” Bo said, trying to joke.

Carl shoved him with a glare, apparently it wasn't the time.

“Mama was pregnant, once, but,” Sophia trailed off with a sigh.

Bo could fill in the blanks, remembering the brutal man at the quarry. Ed had a big voice and bigger fists, Bo had seen Carol and Sophia flinch from both.

Instead of words, which he was never any good at, Bo sat beside her and wrapped an arm over her shoulders.

Sophia leaned against him and closed her eyes, but didn't shed any tears for her sibling that never lived.

Carl stayed standing behind them, keeping watch. Bo let himself relax.

Hershel disappeared into the sick bay and didn't come back.

With Dr. S already sick, a worry nagged at the back of Bo’s mind. It was hard enough to survive with two doctors – even if one was a vet – and Bo didn't want to think about what would happen if they died like Patrick.

Bo, Carl, and Sophia tried to keep themselves busy, helping Rick and Maggie at the fence. The adults wouldn't let them closer than half-a-dozen yards and shouted their orders over the growing sound of walkers.

There were more of the bloody-faced walkers coming from the woods, so Rick and Maggie made them use cloths to cover their noses and mouths.

It didn't help with the stink of them, the pervasive smell of rot and waste that clung to the older walkers and hung like a cloud over the fence.

Walkers piled up quickly without Karen and her crew spending long hours taking them out. Not enough of the adults were healthy enough to move the dead ones out of the way. The fresh walkers were just stepping on the fallen and making it harder for Bo and Sophia to reach their heads.

While they worked, Bo kept half an eye on the tree-line, waiting for Uncle Daryl to appear between the trees.

They had been gone the whole night, Hershel said it shouldn't have taken this long.

Bo let the work soothe him, focusing on the familiar burn in his arms from thrusting the fire-poker over and over again. Worrying wouldn't help, he reminded himself.

“We all have a job to do,” Hershel had told them.

Stab, pull, stab, pull.

But his mind wouldn't stop churning away.

Uncle Daryl’s lived through Daddy leaving a dozen times before, Bo thought. He'll be okay.

Even when Rick locked Merle on the roof, they survived.

Bo blinked back tears that threatened to fall.

His dad was gone. He had practically swore he wouldn't come back.

Daddy had left for good and Bo and Uncle Daryl were alone again.

The fence squealed as a walker pushed hard.

Sophia flinched away, choking on a gasp. She collided with Carl.

Without a thought, Bo slid his poker into its soft skull, through its brain, and out the back.

Sophia laughed awkwardly and Carl helped her ease onto the ground. She was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Bo realized, quite suddenly, that he was parched. His friends were red and breathing heavy and they hardly seemed to have made a dent in the walkers.

“Take a break,” he said, “I'll get us some water.”

His friends nodded and leaned back on the second fence to watch the walkers like a demented TV show.

Bo set down his poker and retrieved a jug of water for them to split.

“Thanks.” Sophia took the jug and dumped a little onto a rag to wipe her face.

The sun beat down on them brutally and the warm water did little to help cool them. Not for the first time, Bo mourned his refrigerator.

“It's hard to keep up with them,” Carl said, taking a swig before passing it back to Bo.

Bo grunted in agreement. “Once Uncle Daryl gets back, we'll have people to clear ‘em.”

“And they'll have the medicine,” Sophia pointed out, “so Glenn and Sasha and everyone else can help too.”

“It'll take longer than that, remember when Daryl and Bo got sick?” Carl stole the jug to gulp down more water. “They were still weak for a while after.”

Bo turned up his nose at the phrasing. “Weren't weak, Hershel just told us to rest is all.”

“You could barely walk.” Carl stuck out his tongue playfully.

A month ago, Bo would have knocked him down and fed him his hat, but exhaustion made his arms heavy so he just flipped off his friend and stole the water jug back.

At the grills, one of the Woodbury cooks started coughing, loud and hacking.

Bo, Carl, and Sophia all watched Carol quickly herd her away to disappear into A-Block, where the sick sat and waited for medicine or death.

The few remaining cooks looked scared; some pulled their shirts up over their noses.

On the other side of the fence, the walkers kept appearing, drawn by the quiet sounds of life from the yard.

Instinctively, Bo and Sophia looked to Carl.

He sighed and tilted down his father’s hat, it suddenly looked very heavy on his skinny neck.

“Sophia, you can go help your mom. Make sure to keep your mask on and reheat up all the food she was making.” He waved a hand at A Block. “Maybe the fire’ll kill whatever they have. Me and Bo will keep working here.”

At the thought of separating, a shiver worked up Bo’s spine, anxiety prickled at the back of his neck, but Carl put a soothing hand on his wrist and Bo forced himself still.

Sophia nodded, her face determined, and laid her hand atop of Carl’s.

Then, she was gone, jogging across the yard to reheat whatever that woman was working on. Carl urged Bo to his feet and they picked their weapons back up.

Between stabs, Bo could hear Sophia giving gentle directions, her voice steady against the sound of the chain link creaking and his and Carl’s heavy breathing.

With so many people sick or out on runs, they were back to one meal a day. It was fine, they had gotten used to a lot less over the winter, but the few healthy Woodbury survivors grumbled under their breath.

Bo snarled at them from where he was helping to serve possum stew.

He knew what he looked like – the feral boy who murdered Allen, the son of the man who murdered Karen and David.

Uncle Daryl used to say their neighbors had looked at them the same way, the no-good Dixon Brothers, sons of the local drunk.

Bo ignored their looks and whispers, even as they clung to him like spider's webs.

A cool hand pulled him from his thoughts. Sophia handed him another bowl and shot him a glance.

Right.

Bo dropped another bowl full of stew onto another Woodburian’s tray, showing his teeth in a way that couldn't be called a smile.

When it was their turn to eat, Bo dumped his stew in Sophia’s bowl and pretended he didn't see her frown.

After, they tried to do another shift at the fence, but Maggie chased them off to keep Admin secure. “And y’all get some rest, we need all the strength we can get.”

So they trudged off back to the offices. They checked on Shane and Nate, Beth and Judy, and the other kids through the doors.

Shane said Nate had woken up enough to eat and take some painkillers, but he hadn't stayed awake long. Beth told them Judy was restless and didn't mention her dead boyfriend or sick brother-in-law.

They were playing a game of blackjack over a stack of thousands of dollars of useless paper money when gunshots rang out from A-Block.

In seconds, they were on their feet, Carl hollered for the others to stay in their offices and keep the doors locked.

“I'll stay here,” Sophia said, as if she wasn't tearing Bo’s heart out with her words, “someone needs to keep watch.”

Carl nodded and tugged Bo after him.

Sophia had her gun unholstered and she stood tall and proud. She looked Bo in his eyes, like a promise, before he was pulled away around the corner.

“Carl!” Rick called.

Carl lead them to the fence.

“We need to reinforce it,” Rick said, wedging lengths of wood against the fence.

“Where's Maggie?” Carl asked, already grabbing another plank.

“Brace it here.” Rick pointed at a spot in the dirt before answering. “A-Block. She's checking on them now.”

“Just her?” Bo asked, wavering between the walkers piled against the fence and Maggie alone in A.

“If it was bad we would have heard more shots, or Maggie would have come got us. We have to do this.”

Carl looked up and nodded. He could handle the fence with his dad.

Against every instinct in his body, Bo turned away from his best friend and ran, feeling like he was leaving behind a limb.

Bo ran through the twists and turns to A-Block, to death row.

Normally, he could navigate those maze-like halls with his eyes closed, but more gunshots echoed, disorienting him and bouncing off of the block walls.

He counted each shot: one from Maggie’s Glock, then three shotgun blasts, one right after the other.

Bo ran into the viewing room. It was empty, save for the broken glass and the heavy smell of blood and sickness, but Bo didn't have time to waste. He vaulted over the now empty window frame, hissing when his hand was sliced.

“Daddy!” Maggie cried.

Bo rounded the last corner, eyes darting around the chaotic block. Hershel was above them, wrestling a walker on the second floor.

Maggie, standing on the ground, hesitated to fire.

With adrenaline in his veins, Bo cocked his crossbow and fired between heartbeats, burying his bolt clean in the temple.

Maggie practically collapsed on herself, shouting for Glenn’s location.

Bo ignored them, instead reloading and checking each cell for walkers.

He had to put down a few more and warned the living to stay put. Outside, the rifles were going strong, solid bursts that sounded like they could mow down a herd.

Upstairs, Hershel and Maggie tended to Glenn.

Bo cleared more cells, trying his best to ignore the nagging ache that said he was too far from Carl and Sophia, that something bad was going to happen.

Once the cells were clear, Bo checked with them one more time.

They knelt on either side of Glenn, Hershel pumping a bag of air to inflate his lungs. Maggie gave Bo a watery smile and dipped down to press kisses to her husband’s face.

Satisfied that they were safe, the tugging in his chest got more insistent. Bo finally relented and followed the feeling back to the yard, to his friends.

Outside, Carl and Rick were side by side against a surge of walkers, calmly firing on the closest line. Bo let himself relax a touch, watching their weapons fire, smooth and confident. Carl looked like an old hand, switching out his magazine without looking away from the walkers.

As much as he hated using the loud guns, Bo grabbed a manual rifle of his own, picking off the walkers on either flank.

Carl looked up after his first shot and gave Bo a little nod of acknowledgement.

Rick and Carl took out the bulk of them, while Bo just had to fire on the stubborn. It was almost boring, after the hasty missions over the winter. All of the walkers had been bottle-necked by the fence and it almost didn't feel fair. Almost.

It took hardly a half-hour before the last walker fell, even the ones drawn by the gunshots hadn't lasted long.

Bo walked amongst the corpses with his fire-poker, stabbing the ones that still moved, while Carl and Rick made hasty repairs to the fence.

Then, headlights.

Bo nearly fell over himself running to the gate, flinging them open to let the van in.

Tyreese practically fell out of the van. “Sasha?!”

“I don't know, I'm sorry,” Rick said, suddenly over Bo’s shoulder.

Uncle Daryl handed the bags off to Tyreese and sent him to A-Block. “Go! We'll handle this.”

He took over for Carl, his stronger arms and longer reach better for shoring up the fence. Carl retreated to Bo’s side with a concerned frown.

Bo kept stabbing the walkers, keeping his head down. Maybe if he didn't look, Uncle Daryl wouldn't notice Daddy’s absence.

Once the walkers in the yard were all dead, stabbed or shot or stomped, Carl drew Bo back to Admin.

Sophia was sitting by the door, silently crouched in the shadows with her gun held up and ready. The barrel ticked down when she recognized them, but she only put it back in its holster when they swore it was safe.

“They're back,” Carl told her, “they have medicine.”

Sophia looked at Bo, her words unnecessarily.

Bo just shook his head, Uncle Daryl hadn't asked yet.

They spread the news through Admin then stepped back outside, unified once more.

“Bullshit!” Uncle Daryl spat. He was with Rick, pacing on the catwalk. Bo, Carl, and Sophia huddled together in a cell, watching with wide eyes.

“He killed two of our own,” Rick said, low and soothing. He took a couple steps toward Uncle Daryl with his hands outstretched.

Daryl batted them away. “He wouldn't leave us, not again!” There were tears in his eyes, even as he viciously tried to wipe them away.

Carl’s hand tightened on Bo’s, this time for comfort instead of restraint. Sophia was warm where she hugged his side.

Uncle Daryl scrubbed his face with a red rag, his eyes cut from Rick to Bo and back, like he wanted one of them to say they were kidding and Daddy was just around the corner.

“He wouldn't leave us, not without a fight,” he said, lower. “Would’a waited for me to get back, would’a brought us with ‘im.”

Bo dug his nails painfully into his palm, holding onto reality.

“When you came back, so did Tyreese,” Rick pointed out. He tried to get close to Uncle Daryl, only to be dodged.

Uncle Daryl paced in front of their cell, chewing relentlessly on the bloody skin of his thumb. “Where’s Jess?” His words were sharp as hunting knives.

“Think he went with Merle.” Rick lied with his hands open, practiced and careful. “Way I figure, he helped Merle get out, slip the watch. He couldn't have broken the lock from the inside.”

They were lies by omission, carefully built so Uncle Daryl couldn't hear the deceit. Bo wanted to believe him.

By the looks of it, so did Uncle Daryl. He was still pacing, flexing his hands into fists at his side.

“Merle wouldn't’a left,” he repeated, his voice breaking and raw. “Not without us.”

Sophia took Bo’s hand and gently pried his nails from his palm. She made a soft sound when she saw the bloody crescents left behind.

“He's lettin’ it die down,” Uncle Daryl said, paying them no mind. “Then he's comin’ back.”

Bo didn't know who he was trying to convince.

“Daryl,” Rick’s voice was heavy with something Bo couldn't name, maybe sympathy or regret. “I think he's gone.”

“He ain't.” The words came out quiet and defeated. A token protest.

Carl and Sophia wrapped Bo up in their arms. At the same time, Rick reached out and Daryl finally let himself be pulled close.

Bo tugged his friends to their feet and they moved up until all three of them were huddled up against Rick and Uncle Daryl’s waists.

Looking up, Bo watched his uncle – the man who taught him how to hunt, and fight, and survive – collapse. Uncle Daryl’s knees gave out and he clung to Rick, muffling curses and sobs in his shirt.

Bo just hugged tighter, like he could hold on hard enough to keep them together.

Chapter Text

“C’mon, Bo,” Daryl called to his nephew, already holding their packs.

The boy sat up with his brows drawn together. He was leaned back against the fence with Carl’s head cushioned in his lap and Sophia was a few feet away, taking a turn killing the walkers on the fence.

Bo hesitated, looking at his friends first like he needed permission from them.

“C’mon,” Daryl repeated, firmer, “wanna check snares. Need your help.”

A silent conversation played out between the teens, one Daryl wasn't privy to.

Daryl remembered when Bo used to look to him and Merle for permission, instead of two kids his own age. Of course, that was back Before, when the world wasn't trying to kill them.

Finally, Bo scrambled to his feet and followed Daryl out of the gates.

Daryl told himself that they needed the meat, but it was a flimsy lie. In reality, the trip was a thin excuse to go looking for Merle.

Yeah, they needed to check the snares and had to go out and scout for outsiders, but he also wanted to find evidence of his wayward brother.

And Bo needed his daddy, as much as Daryl didn't like to admit it.

That was a second purpose to their outing. Bo was slowly finding his confidence without Carl and Sophia, and Daryl wanted to build on that. He wanted to gently stretch the limits of their strange bond, but Daryl didn't dare take him further than the first line of snares.

They made a crude circuit, resetting the traps and collecting what meat they could.

Even at just the first line, that left a good amount of woodlands he could search. Daryl kept half his attention down, tracking for signs of Merle’s distinct swagger or Jess’s shorter stride.

He wasn't even sure what he would do if he found them. Demand answers? Drag him back home to the prison? Knock him out for leaving Bo again.

The other half of his attention stayed pinned to his nephew, the way that it had been for the last fourteen years.

He knew what to look for, when they went out. Once Bo started looking over his shoulder or obsessively tracing his crossbow, Daryl knew they had to turn back.

Like he was now.

Daryl watched Bo’s eyes go distant, his hands tracing nonsense patterns in the fiberglass of his crossbow. He wasn't there anymore, not really, and Daryl knew he was on a timetable to get Bo to the prison before the panic set in.

“Let's go back, kid,” Daryl called, his voice softer than he meant.

Bo jumped, his big eyes turned to Daryl like he had forgotten where he was. At least he responded, was aware enough to look chastised. That was a good sign, Daryl figured.

They made a wide circle, going a different way home to maximize the number of snares they hit.

While they walked, the air was heavy with things unsaid, words that clawed at the back of Daryl’s throat. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath, almost unnaturally silent.

They both scanned the ground for any signs of Merle, but only came up with old game trails and disappointment.

At a few points, Daryl thought he saw some oddly broken branches – almost like the shadowy presence of a skilled tracker – but wrote them off as newcomers crashing through the undergrowth.

Bo had been subdued since Woodbury, folding in on himself until Daryl wasn't sure if there would be any of him left over. Even now, back at the prison, Daryl watched while Bo played with his food then just dumped it on his friends’ plates.

He was shrinking under the weight this world piled up on his shoulders.

Daryl wanted to take it, to pull all that shit onto his back and let Bo out from under it. He wanted the bright eyed boy from last year, the one who boasted and fought and faced the world with fearless confidence.

Then Merle’s dumbass did what he had done, what he always did.

He left.

Daryl wished he had thrashed Merle harder, had knocked in a few of his teeth, broke his arm, or done something to keep him incapacitated in the prison until he got back.

A flicker of old anger smoldered in his chest, a feeling he had been nursing since Merle first left for juvy. The feeling had grown each time Merle left, each time that Will’s belt lashed across Daryl’s shoulders in Merle’s place.

Daryl felt that little flame roar back to life and pump fire and anger through his body.

He wanted to fight. He wanted Merle to appear from behind the next tree so he could pour all of that rage into someone who deserved it.

But Merle wasn't there.

Instead, Daryl only had little, fragile Bo.

A bird called somewhere behind, loud and piercing. It sounded just this side of wrong, like a missed key in a familiar tune.

Daryl shook his head and chose to ignore it. He kept his focus split between Merle and Bo.

After the next snare gave them a young rabbit, Daryl lifted his eyes to his nephew, walking ahead of him.

Bo’s grip on his crossbow was sure, as natural as breathing, but his head was bent low and shoulders slumped.

Bo walked listlessly, dragging his feet and startling some little game off to the left. He didn't even lift his head at the sound.

More sounds of movement behind them, squirrels or rabbits, but they each had a good haul so Daryl kept his eyes on Bo.

Daryl wondered where Bo was. Was he lost in a memory? Somewhere softer and kinder than the present? Somewhere worse?

When he was little, Daryl did the same thing, escaping into himself to hide from Will’s belt. It made his chest ache that Bo needed the same crutch.

Daryl took a deep breath and banked that old anger, letting it smolder deep down. The last thing Bo needed now was to watch his Uncle Daryl break down again.

A second strange bird call. This time Daryl took notice, cocking his head to the side and holding still.

It was a mistake.

The twang of a crossbow firing.

Pain bloomed in his leg.

Daryl looked down and saw a bloody broadhead sticking out of the front of his thigh.

When he whipped around, teetering on one leg, Daryl’s heart sank when Will emerged from the trees with an evil grin.

Bo came back to himself when he heard the meaty sound of a bolt through flesh, a sound he had known since before he could walk.

He turned, just in time to see Uncle Daryl, pale and falling and bloody, and Bo’s body froze in terror.

His breath stuck fast in his throat and he couldn't focus, couldn't move.

But Bo couldn't tear his attention away.

He could smell the blood, spreading from the broadhead sticking grotesquely from a new hole in Uncle Daryl’s leg. Ice filled his veins and that nagging sense of wrong suddenly, frighteningly, became clear.

Bo’s heart raced and his body locked up, but he didn't drift away. No, he was completely aware when Will Dixon’s big hand clamped down on his mouth to stifle his delayed scream.

Will swaggered from the trees, crossbow loose at his side.

A few steps and he stood over his son. All he had to do was shoot out an arm and he had his soft little grandson easily in hand.

Satisfaction curled deep in his gut, telling Will he had made the right call.

“Whoever you can get from the prison,” Philip had said, had ordered. As if he was in a position to order Will around.

The audacity needled him, prickled under his skin.

That weasel of a man, the soft-handed asshole who thought he could order Will Dixon around.

Once Will had his kin back under his thumb, Philip was going to get what was coming for him.

Nothing could stop the Dixons, not even the Governor's little pissant army.

Daryl’s world went fizzy, he felt each beat of his heart throb in his thigh.

His knees hit the ground while he watched his massive father scoop up Bo under one arm, like his tiny nephew weighed nothing.

“Put ‘im down!” Daryl spat, even as he listed to one side.

In Will’s arms, Bo’s eyes went glassy, his breath coming in shallow pants.

Distantly, Daryl felt the delayed pain shoot up his leg.

He ignored it, instead doing his best to pull up his crossbow.

Daryl’s arms shook, his leg throbbed, and Bo swam in and out of focus in front of him.

The crossbow was impossibly heavy and it dipped low, low, low.

Daryl loosed his bolt in his pa’s direction as his vision faded to black.

Uncle Daryl’s bolt grazed Will’s shin, just enough to draw blood and change his sadistic grin into pure fury.

“Fuckin’ brat!” Will bellowed, dropping Bo to clutch at the shallow wound.

Bo landed awkwardly on his hip, a flash of pain knocking him back into the present.

Will hissed at the graze but his expression turned into dark amusement when he saw Bo’s worry. “Best get to work, boy,” he laughed, deep in his fat belly. It was an evil sound.

Bo scrambled forward, falling over himself to get to his uncle.

His mind tugged at him, trying to coax him into the soft nothingness, but he couldn't, not while Uncle Daryl was bleeding out in front of him.

“Stay awake,” Bo whispered, both to himself and his uncle.

His hands shook as he yanked his belt free, holsters hitting the ground unnoticed.

“Run,” Uncle Daryl hissed, his voice low and weak.

Run? Bo blinked back tears and shook his head, he couldn't leave, not like this.

Bo pressed his hand against the wound, around the bolt, soaking him in his uncle’s warm blood. His hand knocked into the broadhead, jarring it in his uncle’s flesh.

Daryl flinched and groaned under him, his eyes opening in slits while he hissed at the pain.

“Ain't leavin’ you,” Bo whispered, “not ever!”

“Fuckin’ pathetic,” Will snarled, pacing a circle around them. He had his rifle out now, all three of their crossbows slung onto his back. “I knew them boy’ld raise you soft! Can't do shit right, can ya?”

Dark, sticky blood welled up between Bo’s fingers, pulsing in time with Daryl’s heart beat.

Bo tried to focus on the wound, tried to detach himself in the way Sophia said she did to treat Hershel.

The bolt hit muscle, the bone was probably fine. If Bo could stop the bleeding, Uncle Daryl would survive.

Sophia said to think of it like a test, like questions written on a page.

But this wasn't facts on paper, it was Uncle Daryl and he was dying.

His leather belt was slippery with lifeblood and Bo struggled to pull it tight enough.

“Don't take out the arrow,” Sophia had told him once, and got mad when Bo corrected her with ‘bolt.’ Looking back, Bo frantically tried to remember what to do instead.

“You think that's good enough?” Will laughed, his hot breath prickling at the back of Bo’s neck. “Pro’bly knicked a’ artery, he's good as dead!”

Carl was too far away for a comforting word, Sophia couldn't come and hold his hand.

Uncle Daryl groaned again, weaker, and Bo choked on a sob.

Behind him, he could feel the barrel of Will’s gun parting his hair, but Bo did his best to focus on the wound in front of him.

“Artery means you got a minute,” Will said, poking Bo with the gun incessantly. “Maybe less. Might only got seconds til he's wakin’ back up ‘n chowin’ down on you, huh?

“Don't mean shit to me, I only need one ‘a you. ‘N one uppity brat’s a hell’ova lot easier to carry than two.”

Bo bared his teeth, anger and fear mixing into a sour taste in his mouth.

“Leave’m be,” Uncle Daryl slurred, his hands twitching by Bo’s knee.

Daryl couldn't see, could hardly hear Bo’s rabbit-quick breathing and Will’s taunts.

Merle was gone and it was up to him to protect Bo, even if he didn't even have the strength to open his eyes.

Tiny hands pressed against his thigh, but he could hardly feel it through the cold settling in his veins.

“Leave’m ‘lone,” he said again, as loud as he could. It was hardly a whisper.

Daryl twitched his hand again, trying to tell Bo to flee, to go back to safety.

Guilt clawed at him, more painful than the bolt. Should’a told Bo to stay at the prison, should’a never brought him out here, should’a never been born.

Daryl opened his mouth, sucking in a wet breath. “Run,” he tried to say, tried to shout.

“Uncle Dare!” Bo cried, watching him slip away.

Will had taken their bows as soon as Uncle Daryl hit the ground, but Bo’s fingers itched to trace the familiar scratches and curves.

The blood slowed, each pulse weaker, darker than the one before.

Bo braced his foot against Uncle Daryl’s thigh, trying his best to yank the makeshift tourniquet as tight as possible.

Daryl didn't even flinch.

“Alright, now get goin’, brat.” Will lost his patience and kicked out at Bo’s back lazily.

“Uncle Dare!” Bo shouted, ignoring his grandfather. “Wake up!”

He shook his uncle, Bo’s fists knotted in his ratty old flannel.

“I said, get up!” Will bellowed.

His heavy boot connected with Bo’s ribs, knocking him sideways and away from Uncle Daryl. Bo stayed on his side, curled around the hurt and gasping for air, his lungs fighting to inflate.

“Leave Daryl’s dumbass here. We gotta go!”

Bo wheezed around his bruised ribs, each breath painful and shallow, but he forced his arms under him to push up from the ground.

That soft space called to him again, but Bo grit his teeth and curled his fists, hanging onto reality by a thread of pure Dixon stubbornness.

Bo staggered to his feet. His hands, still coated in his uncle's blood, trembled.

Will laughed again, walking closer to Uncle Daryl. He looked down at him with nothing more than pure disdain.

“Wish you'd’a come out with Merle, atleast he has some balls.” Will cocked back his leg, ready to kick his unconscious son. “This one's got too much’a their whore mama in him!”

Snarling, Bo lunged at Will, flinging his whole body at the monster of a man. He hit shoulder first, the way his daddy taught him.

It wasn't enough to stop him, not even close, but Bo managed to knock Will’s girth back just enough to get him away from Daryl’s prone form.

Bo threw himself at his uncle, shielding as much of him as he could with his body.

He pulled back his lips and snarled, “I ain't leavin' 'im!”

Pop Will righted himself, then gave a smile that chilled the blood in Bo’s veins.

“You're even stupider than either’a those brats,” he said, with a laugh that didn't sound happy. “Fine, I'll take you both, if Daryl stays alive long enough.”

Chapter Text

Daryl floated in and out of consciousness. The inky darkness of blood loss and shock was an old friend, as familiar as Merle’s low drawl or Bo’s bright eyes.

Will’s voice was familiar too, enough to make Daryl's skin crawl.

His limbs felt like concrete, but he still felt himself get rolled onto his side. The cool ground felt good on his feverish skin.

“Hold on, Uncle Dare,” Bo said, his little voice hard with a determination Daryl hadn't heard in weeks.

“Ain't gonna carry his dumbass if he's just gonna bleed out,” Will growled. He sounded far away, like he was speaking under water.

“He's gonna be fine!” Bo snapped.

The world shifted, phasing in and out like he was drunk and trying not to puke.

Daryl let his forehead rest in the cool dirt. He had to close his eyes, for just a moment.

Little hands bound his wrists with rough twine, but the sting barely registered.

Bo hated binding Uncle Daryl's hands when he was already so weak, but he knew Will Dixon wouldn't carry him right. He'd probably take every chance to jar his wounds or even drop him on purpose.

The rough twine bit into Uncle Daryl’s wrists, but, morbidly, the still warm blood on Bo’s hands helped to ease the slide.

With Daryl’s hands forming a loop, Bo hoped Daryl would be able to stay more or less across Will’s shoulders regardless of whether he was conscious.

“You got til I finish this smoke, brat,” Will said, smirking past the gray haze of a cigarette he stole from Daryl. “Then we'll leavin’ ‘im for the biters ‘n wolves.”

Ignoring the brute, Bo tore the bottoms of his own shirt into strips to bind the bolt. He tried not to watch the dark blood soaking into the fabric, dyeing it black-red. His hands shook, but he wadded up the fabric and secured it to the broadhead as tight as possible.

Finally, Bo yanked on his belt once more, cinching it down to stem the bleeding. The leather was tight around Uncle Daryl’s jeans, nearly black with blood, and the still shiny buckle stood out like gold.

Will threw the cigarette butt into the woods and stomped over.

“Give ‘im ‘ere.”

Bo flinched away, the acrid smell of smoke threatening to tug him back to Woodbury, when he had to stand and listen to his friends burn.

In the present, Bo bit his lip to stay focused.

Will used leftover twine to tie Bo’s wrists and attach him to his belt like a dog on a leash.

Laughing at Bo’s hissed threats, Will slung Uncle Daryl across broad shoulders like a slaughtered deer and told Bo to start marching.

Uncle Daryl moaned quietly.

Bo’s stomach rolled with nausea.

Once he was settled, it seemed like Will didn't even notice his son’s dead weight across his shoulders. He slunk through the woods like a man half his size, both Bo and Daryl’s crossbows strapped to his back.

Will made Bo lead the way and kept prodding him with his gun whenever he slowed.

“‘N don't think ‘bout leavin’ no trail, boy,” he said, sounding almost amused. “Or I'll put one in Daryl's gut ‘n leave ‘im to turn.”

Bo wasn't even present enough to disobey. Now that the danger felt a little less immediate, he had retreated deep inside of himself. He was watching through unfocused eyes, like an audience for a cheap horror movie.

Each step was mechanical, brought on by barked orders or the muzzle of a gun between his shoulder blades. Even those felt far away, like a word whispered at a dozen yards.

Passively, Bo watched himself tread through undergrowth and yield to pokes and prods.

“Where’d your damn fight go, huh?” Will growled. “Expected more of a challenge from Merle’s boy. Guess you got soft behind them walls’a yours.”

Inside, Bo raged, gnashed his teeth, and told Will that it was his own cowardly fault for ambushing them. Outside, his body just kept walking.

Will just grunted. “Too much like lil’ Daryl. He used to do the same thing, pissed me the hell off.”

Bo had little choice but to listen, but the soft nothingness retreated enough for him to focus on the words.

“Jus’ knocked ‘im ‘round a little ‘n he'd go all glassy eyed and quiet, creepy lil’ fuck.”

“Fuck off,” Bo muttered. It felt like spitting glass, forcing the words out, but Bo couldn't stand listening to Will spewing poison about his kin.

“Oh, ho! It does speak!” Will sounded thrilled and shoved his gun hard into the back of Bo’s head, making him stumble. “There's that spark you had last time!

“We're comin’ up on the little shit camp the one-eyed bastard’s been schemin’ for, so’s you best go back to bein’ mute for a bit.”

“You still with the Gov’nor?” Bo grit his teeth, remembering the heat of the fire when Woodbury burned.

“Gov’nor my ass,” Will groused, spitting on the forest floor. “Dumbass couldn't lead a fly to shit without me.”

“He got a camp?” Bo asked, shrinking under the idea of a second Woodbury.

A big hand boxed his ear, just hard enough to sting. “Done told you to shut it,” Will said. “We'll get Phil’s pretty lil’ nurse to patch up Daryl a bit ‘n you'll see plenty.”

Bo showed his teeth, but kept walking, enticed by the idea of a nurse to look at Uncle Daryl.

Bo came back to himself when a woman braced one hand against Uncle Daryl’s thigh and went to remove his makeshift bandages. The cottony feeling evaporated in an instant and Bo was filled with protective rage.

Despite his bound hands, Bo threw himself forward.

He snapped his teeth inches from the woman’s exposed wrist, feeling cold satisfaction when she fell backward with a yelp.

Bo pressed himself up alongside Uncle Daryl’s side, snarling and snapping like a wild thing.

“Don't touch that fuckin’ bolt!” His voice cracked with hysterics. “It's keepin’ him alive!”

The woman hid her fright with professional efficiency, but maintained her distance and kept her hands up.

The blood against his side was tacky, cooling.

Distantly, he realized his leash had been tied to a tree. They hadn’t bothered to secure Uncle Daryl – just dumped him at the tree’s roots and trusted he was too weak to run.

Bo was scared they were right.

Wiggling, he flipped to his side, letting his bound hands knot into the warm fabric of his uncle’s shirt, gone stiff with dried blood. Under his shoulder, Bo felt his uncle’s shallow breaths.

“I'm a nurse,” she said, careful and patient, like Bo was a slow child she needed to soothe.

Bo hated that tone.

“I need to take out the arrow so I can see how bad he is hurt.”

“Means you gotta get your ass out the way,” Will snarked from a few paces away. He was puffing on one of Uncle Daryl’s cigarettes; Bo recognized the brand. “Move or get moved, kid.”

Bristling, Bo snapped his teeth at her again and huddled back against Uncle Daryl’s too still body.

He couldn't drive her off, couldn't spirit them off back to the prison and behind solid walls, but he could make sure they didn't get separated.

“Ain't gotta move for her to fix it,” Bo said, watching the nurse warily. “Gotta stay close ‘n make sure she ain't gonna fuck it up worse.”

Will spat into the ground and pointed his smoldering cigarette at Bo. “Don't make me come over there, brat. Learned you once, but we can make it twice.”

Bo froze.

He felt rivers of blood down his back, warm and viscous and stinging –

He shook his head. He wasn't being beaten in the clearing outside of Woodbury, he was outside of the Governor’s camp and his grandpa hadn't touched him with a belt… yet.

Still snarling, Bo wiggled a little further up, until his shoulder dug into Uncle Daryl’s chest, his hands still knotted in his uncle’s filthy button up.

The nurse came a little closer, lowering her voice and making slow, exaggerated movements.

Bo felt a little like a wild animal being coaxed into a trap.

“I'm going to remove the bandages now,” she said, low and soothing. It grated on his nerves. “I have to see how bad the wound is.”

“Damn bad,” Bo answered, watching her with narrowed eyes.

She was pretty. Her hair was clean and fluffy and her face was full with fat that they lost over the winter.

Compared to her, he and Daryl looked like half-starved mutts, with their hollow cheeks and sunken eyes and twitchy kind of paranoia.

Bo hated her.

Will came closer, his big form looming over them. She knelt at Uncle Daryl’s side and Bo was still huddled up on his chest, rising and falling with each weak breath.

“Think I knicked the artery,” Will said casually, as if he were discussing a prized deer instead of his own kin.

“You did this?” the nurse asked. She turned her head to fix him with a questioning stare. “You shot him on purpose?”

Will leaned back and laughed, choking on the smoke from his stolen cigarette. “Sure I did! This ‘ere’s my boy ‘n my grandson. Caught ‘em sulkin’ round, sniffin’ at our borders like stray dogs.

“Belong to that group Phil- er, Brian’s been on about, at the prison?”

She scoffed and went back to unwinding Bo’s makeshift bandages. “That's no reason to shoot someone, let alone your son.”

She sounded disgusted, but Bo didn't trust it.

“Fuckin’ liar,” Bo muttered, forcing the words out past clenched teeth.

Inside, he felt like he was swimming hard to keep his head above water, trying desperately not to lose himself in the haze of smoke and pain and blood. He bit his lips, dug nails into his palm, and focused on the metallic tang of blood in the air, anything to stay present.

“Fuckin’ hunted us,” he continued, still low and quiet.

She looked at him then, big green eyes so much like Sophia’s and searching for something Bo didn't want her to see.

“Fuckin’ hunted us ‘n shot Uncle Daryl like a fuckin’ coward,” he snarled, turning his eyes back to Will. “Couldn't even do it out ‘n the open, like a man!”

Will tsk-ed at him quietly, like a puppy that had chewed his shoes. “See what I said, Lilly,” he sighed, his smile looking slimy. “Those boys raised this little hellion, just imagine how they are. My oldest, his daddy, is a methed out Nazi.” He hummed and hawed, the way Daddy did when he was spinnin’ a story.

Bo drug himself up, coiling his legs up under himself. “Don't talk ‘bout my daddy,” he warned.

Will just snorted. “Been snortin’ the shit since he was twelve,” his grin grew goading and sharp. “Smokin’ it ‘fore that. Surprised the kid can speak bein’ raised by them two.”

“Shut up!” Bo snarled, staggering to his feet.

“Them useless shitheads couldn't raise a chicken, let alone a kid,” Will sneered.

The nurse opened her mouth to intervene, but it was too late.

Taking a deep breath, Bo pursed his lips and let out a loud, piercing, desperate whistle.

Help!

His whistle was cut off by sharp pain blooming in his cheek.

Blinking slowly at the trees above him, Bo realized Will had hit him with his own crossbow.

Will chuckled. “See? Half wild thing, ain't he.”

The trees started to spin, making Bo dizzy.

His head ached from the blow.

Merle stoked the low embers of their fire.

They'd learned not long into this new world that big fires were to be avoided, especially now that Daryl was motivated to find them.

He wouldn't come out this far, Merle reassured himself, not with how Bo was tethered to his friends.

Across the little fire pit, Jess’s long face had a serious set, thrown into harsh lines by the early evening light. It wasn't something Merle had seen since he was a youngin’, back when Jess took him hunting to get away from Will.

“Pick a hell’ova time to step up, Jess,” Merle muttered.

Jess stayed silent, the bastard.

“Couldn’t’a done that couple’a decades ago, huh?” Merle asked, needling. “‘Fore Will went’n fucked us both?”

Their dinner was a handful of edible roots and boiled water, but Merle’s stomach still turned. Gritting his teeth, Merle poked at the coals a bit more and wished Jess had even an ounce of fight.

Instead, he sat, still and silent. Hollow eyes watched Merle, thin cheeks hidden behind a smattering of stubble.

Then, he heard their family signal.

Help!

Distant, weak.

Merle and Jess abandoned their camp with just the weapons on their back.