GIVEN TO FLY [Daryl Dixon]

XIV.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
[ burning ]

Misty is sitting outside of her tent with Addie when Lori comes running down to the camp, screaming her name. "Misty!" Her head turns, and in an instant she is on her feet. Lori stops at the edge of camp, urgency in her eyes, in her voice. "Misty, you have to come now!"

Without question, she follows Lori back to the house. Into the house, and into the bedroom, where Beth is sitting on her bed crying, hand clamped over her wrist. Her wrist, soaked in red. Maggie has already brought her the medical supplies.

She doesn't waste any time. She pulls up the chair and starts stitching up her wrist. The cut isn't deep, thankfully, and she sews it up without difficulty. Once it's closed up, she washes the blood away, and offers Beth a smile.

"It isn't all sorrow, you know," she says. "I thought it was, thought it might be, now. But it's not."

Beth nods, the only indication that she'd heard, and Misty leaves the girl alone in her room. She is met by Maggie in the living room, worry in her eyes. "Is she okay?"

"The cut wasn't deep. She's just fine."

Maggie lets out a sigh of relief. "Thank you." She brushes past Misty to go find her sister in her bedroom.

Misty exhales a long breath, and walks back to camp.

Rick and Shane don't end up leaving Randall where they'd driven him out to. He knows where the farm is, they explain. But they don't know anything else about him. So, the next morning, they wait patiently for Daryl to come back. He's in the barn, with Randall, getting information. Torturing him.

When he returns, his knuckles are red, blood trickling down the back of his hand. "Boy there's got thirty men," he tells the group. "They have heavy artillery and they ain't looking to make friends. They roll through here, our boys are dead. And our women, they're gonna," he pauses, risking a brief glance at Misty. "They're gonna wish they were."

Jesus. Daryl stalks off when he finishes, as he always does. Misty lets out a breath, and follows. She grabs her medical supplies (Hershel had given her some to keep with her, in case of an emergency) and walks down to his camp.

He sits outside his tent, bloody knuckles standing out against the background of browns and grays. When she approaches, he glances up, but doesn't say anything. "I'm here to clean and bandage your hands, and you're gonna let me," she tells him, leaving no room to argue.

And he doesn't. She pulls up another log that sits nearby and sits herself down on it, across from him. She takes out a rag, pours some water over it, and takes his right hand. She cleans the blood off, taking care not to press too hard against his split knuckles. She doesn't talk. Doesn't say a word, even though he expects her to.