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Once awake, Steve endears himself to everyone almost immediately.  He can’t speak right. It’s all fine in his head, but falls from his lips like his words have been run through a tumble dryer once or twice. The last time he was this bad, Billy Hargrove had been trying to kill him. So, Steve is scared. It’s reasonable. He thinks, for a small, painful moment, that the hulk of a man above him, wearing army fatigues and a mustache, is Hopper. And he cries, sure, because that was pretty unreasonable of him. Hopper’s gone.   Someone’s wiping the tears away with a hanky. Delicate fingers and a smell like melted butter. A pinch in the crease of his elbow, ice cubes in his mouth. Mopping his brow. Hair brushed back off his sticky forehead and a jolt of pain at his temples. It’s too hot. The sheets are turned down and he can breathe again, but he doesn’t feel free by any means.  Steve is cuffed to the bed, and he knows why. He totally gets it. It’s just that everything gets a little too blurry when the pretty blonde tries to check his temperature. Lucas is there, book in hand, soon calling for the others. He can see each of them with his own eyes, no longer in twisted dreams where they all died over and over in the worst of ways. He does a head count: three. No Erica.  “Hey, buddy,” Dustin whispers, and for a second he’s in the backseat of a car with Max at the wheel, Mike – Jesus, fuck. Mike – next to him. That same panic swells like a tsunami. His breaths are coming too fast. Mike and– where’s Erica? El was supposed to be safe from all of this but Steve can’t see her. He can’t–  A curly head falls onto his chest. The weight of it grounds him. Slows things down. A woman with dreadlocks is undoing the cuffs – she’s strong, dangerous, could crush Steve like an ant under her boot any day – but she smiles at him. Bright, white teeth.  “We’ve got it from here, Steve,” she says, and he’s just desperate enough to believe her. “You rest. We’ll keep them safe.  No choice but trust, Steve falls back into the darkness.  — “This place is just like Loch Nora,” Max tells him. “You’ll fit right in.” The kids are on rotation. All except Erica, who has point blank refused to visit Steve in a move that feels decidedly petty. It’s not a big deal or anything, just that when Steve first shot awake in a bed he did not recognise, his cries of fear were for the kids. Where were his kids? Not seeing Erica had him thinking the worst, inconsolable, that she had somehow caught his sickness and didn’t make it. Because that’s what she is, that’s what they all are: his kids.  On his third day of consciousness, Denise – kind, funny, doesn’t give herself enough damn credit – deems him well enough for a slow and easy walk onto the porch. Max helps him, hovering at his elbow with a kind of obsessive care that he’ll tease her for later. He knows that when they hear he is up and about, Lucas and Dustin will come running, but for now he’s content to enjoy the peace and quiet (it’s been so long without it, he finds the feeling hard to remember). It’s pure and utter suburbia, closer to what the Wheelers had than his own neighbourhood. Except for the fact that, down the road, a woman with pigtails – Rosita, Max informs him – is teaching Denise’s girlfriend how to knife fight.  “That your uncle?” He nods towards a dark haired man who’s sitting on the opposite porch and skinning what could be a rabbit. Jesus . “He looks like the kind of guy Hop would arrest.”  “You’re the kind of guy Hop would arrest.” Max says, rolling her eyes. Steve mirrors the action, though it hurts his head too much for him to try again. It’s so hot out. “Not anymore,” he says, once the pain ceases. It’s okay to talk about these kinds of things. He has to normalise it for them. “We’re cool now.” “He cuffed you to Jonathan that time you tried to face off a herd on your own.” “I think that was to punish Jon more than me,” he says. And, suddenly, things don’t feel quite right. Not at all. “Fuck.” It’s his head and his ears and they just won’t stop ringing. It’s nothing. There’s no point thinking about it, but once he starts he can’t stop. Steve’s not normally like this – he is so, so cool about keeping it together – but it’s his head and the pulsing inside it, the feeling like all those times before when he tried to hold onto things but he just couldn’t. Maybe Hopper was onto something with the cuffs.  A dark shape blurs across his vision, Steve shrugs away from it. Hands in his hair, squeezing tight. Someone hushes him, another says: “Steve.” It’s Max. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” But everything has gone to mush inside of him and he can’t regain focus. Absently, he is aware of short, shallow breaths that must be his own, hands lifting him from under his armpits. Steve takes one step, then another, and there is that soft and unfamiliar mattress beneath him again.  “ –kid. Just breathe.” The air smells of stale cigarettes and motor oil. God, he’d love a smoke. Where the fuck’s his pack? He’s laying back on the mattress and red hair swings around his face like a curtain. A small hand smooths across his forehead and it should hurt, but it doesn’t. There are more voices now, softer and softer, but his whole world is muffled to an amber glow. Max is there and she is safe and tough enough to make sure the other kids will be too.  She sings: “Can’t start a fire, worryin’ about your little world fallin’ apart…”  “Max...” “Sleep, Harrington. They can’t hurt us anymore.”

– When Henderson hears what happened, the doors of the infirmary are knocked down. Still, no Erica. <i>Jeeze,</i> hasn’t the kid ever heard of knocking? Claudia didn’t raise him in a damn barn, or however that saying goes. “What the hell, Steve? Didn’t you listen to a single thing that Dr. Cloyd said? You’re no spring chicken anymore. This isn’t like that time with Billy, or that other time that I’m not going to talk about right now. You can’t keep bouncing back forever, without life bouncing right back at you.” Here, Dustin takes a single, great breath. “When– When will you learn that your actions have consequences?!” “Is this allowed?” Steve asks the nurse. Beth. Who is sorting meds or something official looking in the corner of the room. She laughs, a light and airy thing that carries across the room like a breeze.  Beth says, “Dustin, remember what I said about inside voices?” Dustin waves a hand. “Steve is half deaf. I have to modulate.” “I can literally hear you just fine.” “You’re hard of hearing?” Beth asks. “No,” says Steve. “Yes!” says Dustin.  Steve sighs. “One concussion too many,” he tells Beth. “Besides, Henderson, Max said not to mention Billy.” “Why not?” Dustin asks. “Because of her uncle.” “Oh. Him.”  “Him?” “I may or may not have insulted him in front of everyone because I thought he was Max’s dad. You know, the one who went to jail a tonne and was racist and did drugs and– ” “Merle did right by us in the end.” For a short moment, they’d both forgotten Beth was there.  “You knew him?” Dustin asks.  “Briefly.” Beth shrugs. “He stayed with us a while before he died.” “Was he everything Max said?” “Dustin…” “Sure,” says Beth. “But there was more to him than that. I think, in the end, he was only tryin’ to right all his wrongs. For Daryl, y’know? I guess for Max too.” “Nicely put, Beth.” “Thanks, Steve.” “Well, of course you’d agree with that,” says Dustin. “Excuse me?” “Look, King Steve, I’m only saying that we don’t know how far the apple fell from the tree, so… maybe I wasn’t all wrong.” He asks Beth: “Has Daryl ever been to prison?” Beth laughs. “Never ask him that if you wanna live to see another day. Also, it’s rude," she chastises. “But no, he’s good as gold.” “Dustin, man, be cool.” Steve sits up higher in the cot, punches his pillow into a more agreeable shape. “Mr. Dixon helped me out this morning. ‘Else Max would have had to drag me in here all by herself.” “Mr. Dixon,” Beth says. She rolls her eyes with a kind of snark that surprises him.   “Hey,” Steve balks, hand to his chest in mock offence. “I have manners.” “Unlike somebody, huh?” She nods toward Dustin. In response, Steve shoots Beth a wink and immediately cringes down to the very depths of his soul. God, Robin would roast the shit out of him for that one. “Well, sue me for being a little concerned about someone we barely know because until two weeks ago Max hadn’t even informed us of his existence.”  Steve’s not entirely certain how lucid he was for that conversation, but it’s better not to mention that little tidbit right now. “Okay, dude, one: you can’t sue people anymore – and I’d know, because my parents used to sue people all the time. And two: you know how Max is. She’s not exactly forthcoming about the… difficult things.” “Oh,” snarks Dustin. “So, we’re using words like forthcoming now?” “Hey, don’t belittle me because you can’t deal with the fact that I’m right.” To his left, Beth snorts.  “Look,” Steve starts again, properly this time. “I trust Red. So, if she says he’s good, then he’s good. If he says this place is good – which by my limited perception, it sure seems like it – then it’s good. It’s not like we have any other option right now.” “Well, we could be out there looking– ” “Dustin—” “Steve, we can’t just give up!”  “I’m offended that you think I would.” And he could stay offended, but the look Dustin is giving him is the kind that had Steve doing his hair for the Snow Ball, teaching him to shave. It’s the kind of look that breaks his heart a little every time. “This is an opportunity to plan, alright? You love a good plan. We have a base of operations that we can work from and return to and, judging by what Lucas told me about the maps, we can cast our net way wider. We will find them, Dustin. Capiche?”  Sad eyes peer out at him from under the double defense of curly bangs and a cap. “Capiche.” “Okay.” Steve holds out a fist for him to bump. “Now scram. Nurse Beth doesn’t need you dancing around under her feet.” In favour of the gesture, Dustin dips in for a hug. When he pulls back, his eyebrows are raised. “Nurse Beth?” he asks, again not using his inside voice. 
“Go!”
 Dustin salutes him on the way out the door. “Yes, my liege!” “Christ.” Steve slides down in the bed. Exhaustion washes over him in a way that he’s now come to expect – turns out dehydration, starvation, and a high-grade fever will do that to a guy.  “King Steve?” Beth asks, fetching him a glass of water before perching on the edge of the cot.  With the kid gone, Steve allows himself a grimace. “Oh, god. Please don’t.” He sips the water carefully. “I like it.”  “Why?” he asks, some of the water not yet swallowed and dribbling down his chin. He cringes, while Beth pats at his chin with the edge of his quilt. She shrugs. “Seems like a fitting title. A king is supposed to take care of his people, make sacrifices. A good king, anyways.” “Not sure I was one of those.” “Who were you, then?” Beth challenges. He has a feeling that he couldn’t lie to her even if he wanted to.  “An asshole. A serious one, like, a real bully, Beth. I don’t think you would have liked me very much.” And it’s the residual fever talking, because yeah, Steve likes to be upfront about most things – unless lying benefits the emotional or physical wellbeing of his kids – but he left that person behind long before he ever left Hawkins. “I dunno,” says Beth. “I think there’s more to you than that. Besides, I like you now just fine.” “Oh, well, gee,” he tries, still mortified and reeling from every little thing that has happened since he woke. The charisma levels aren’t quite at King Steve, but Just Steve might suffice. “You say that to all your patients, Nurse Greene?” “Nah.” She rises and swats a hand in dismissal. The cup is placed at his bedside, next to a jug full of water. Beth tucks the quilt up around his shoulders and turns to leave, a smile tossed over her shoulder like she’s got them to spare. “Just the teen dads with zero self-preservation.” She shuts the door with a gentle click and Steve grimaces. “Yup, Harrington,” he says to the empty room. “Can’t escape that one, can you?” –

Steve’s got a room now. He shares it with Dustin, who won’t share with Lucas and Max, who share with Erica because she simply can’t stand the idea of sharing with Steve even after she literally spent seven months using his legs as a pillow but, whatever.  Steve can shower too, which is pretty nice. He cringes at the thought that Beth (or Denise) ever had to give him a sponge bath, but he knows somebody wiped him down at some point and gave him new clothes. His hair is pretty disappointing, but some blonde lady spots him a scissors to sort out his ends, so at least it’s not droopy or weighing him down anymore; once his hands are still enough to actually make the cut. He’d have Max do it, but she’s been pretty busy with her uncle and learning the ways of this place (which Steve greatly appreciates, seeing as he wasn’t awake to actually make a good impression). Erica, maybe, but he’s not sure she wouldn’t just cut it all off to spite him; if she deigned to speak to him at all.  Given everything, though, he’s looking pretty good. He’s just taken his third (very slow) lap around Alexandria’s perimeter when he returns to Michonne’s kitchen for a glass of water. It’s fairly hot out, and he’s sweating a little at his temple from the exertion (Beth said he’d been out for five days total, which is just… it doesn’t bear thinking about). The kitchen’s pretty full, set up like a war room of sorts – with a high chair for the baby (a baby!) and some toys on the table, still. Carl (the kid who was shot in the stomach, Lucas had excitedly informed him, which sounded all kinds of tragic, until Steve was actually interrogated by Carl while in his sickbed and quickly came to the conclusion that it simply made Carl badass) has got one in a vice grip as he argues with his dad – Rick, he thinks – about something or the other. Steve approaches from behind and places his glass on the table. “Cool it, Sheriff.” Steve musses up Carl’s hair and puts the hat back on his head. The kid grumbles a little, but it’s all for show. He knows when he’s won someone over. “So, what’s this I hear about a run?” “Eavesdropping?” Michonne asks with a smile. She’s been pretty straightforward about the whole thing. Once Carl was finished giving him the third degree, she wasted no time in explaining their situation to Steve – how Daryl is family, so Max is too and, by default, the rest of them are also family. Family who must stick to the rules and contribute to the running of Alexandria to the best of their ability (once fit and healthy enough to do so, she carefully added).  It’s weird, in a lot of ways, sure, but mostly because Steve quite quickly went from being a kid with no family, throwing ragers in a mansion and smoking like a goddamn choo-choo train, to a man with more family than he could have ever imagined once the apocalypse came knocking. Silver linings, they say. Though, he does miss smoking like a choo-choo train.  “I happen to have excellent hearing,” says Steve. Happens to be excellent at lying too.  “Explains the ears,” says Rosita. He’s pretty sure she is the one who helped Denise bathe him, but Max might have been yanking his chain just to see him blush. Well, it worked. Steve pats at his ears like his damp hair will provide acceptable cover. “Really?” “No,” says Beth. “Don’t listen to her.” Steve salutes her. “Thanks, boss.” “Anyway,” Beth continues. “You’re not well enough for a run just yet.” Steve sputters, ending the stream on a poorly concealed cough. Others around the table – Daryl, Abraham (who carried him like a fucking bride, Dustin informed him), Glenn, Rick, Carol (she brought him soup with a smile as fake as his own), Carl, Rosita, Michonne, the baby – aren’t buying what he’s selling right now. Some even laugh, which, rude – though he’s pretty sure that Max and Lucas, who are doing a jigsaw on the living room rug, started that. It’s not like he’s new to the whole seizure thing. It was just easier to keep from the kids than to start a whole pow-wow about it for no reason. Besides, he’s not going to drop down in the middle of a herd – that’s never happened. It was because of the fever, which he no longer has.   “Are you a real nurse?” Steve questions, crossing his arms. “I don’t trust your judgement.” “Beggars can’t be choosers,” Beth sings. She gathers the baby into her arms and heads towards the stairs. “And that is my professional opinion. C’mon Judy, let’s get you out of that stinky diaper.” Steve grimaces, more from the dismissal than the description. “I’ll talk to Denise about it.”  “Nah.” That’s Rick. Which, like, yeah he’s technically the boss here or whatever (feels like more Michonne’s gig, honestly), but he’s not in charge of Steve. He’s certainly no Hop. “You’ll stay put,” he says. “Rest up, and then we’ll talk.” “Right,” Steve snorts. From the living room floor, Lucas perks up, rising onto his knees. “I don’t think you get how time sensitive this is. You people can go on your run, I’ll help you load up, and then I’m gonna head off and pick up where I left off on my search.” “Not happening,” says Rick.  Steve’s hardening gaze turns to Michonne. “I thought you said we could leave whenever we want.” “Sure,” Michonne says. “Doesn’t mean we’ll let you be dumb either.” “Look,” says Steve, hands on his hips. “Bottom line is: I’ve got more kids out there. They need to be brought home.” “You’re only one person,” says Glenn. “Damn kid at that,” says Daryl. “I’m not a kid!” Steve snaps. And doesn’t he sound just like Mike? A sob longs to rip from him at the thought of it, but he can’t give these people any ammo.  “I haven’t been a kid for a long, long time. I don’t need you all babying me when I know what I’m doing out there. I’m used to going it alone.” There is a silence that hangs heavy between them. It’s nothing like what Steve is used to – the clink of cutlery, the crispy ash that burns at the end of a cigarette, his father’s slow and heavy breathing. Instead, there are half a dozen sighs, a snort and eye rolls; though some of the eyes are sad and heavy in a way that he chooses to ignore. They’ve all been there; Steve’s not special. He just wants to do his part and bring everyone back together again.  “People ain’t made to live like that,” Daryl says. His face is blank, but the words hit Steve pretty hard. “Shouldn’t be alone if you don’t have to.” Steve’s not sure what that feels like – to have a choice in the matter. This has been a fairly consistent theme throughout his life which, fine, for the most part was fairly cushy. He had a roof over his head, which was more than a lot of people could say – can say now – but he had to learn a lot about keeping it all in one piece. He can cook, he can clean, he can defend four kids from a herd in an underground tunnel system without any help. He can take a plate to the head and 18, 19, 20 … hits to the face. He can have his ribs broken and his brain drugged and keep it all together with enough glue and tape that he’ll drive the kids for waffles after. Only there are no waffles and almost half of his kids are gone. He’d gotten so used to everyone being around, deferring to Hop and Joyce, Nance and Jon, that the absence is a chasm in his chest. It’s hard being alone again, but he’s done it before. Heck, with his remaining kids safe and sound in this place, his search for the others will be a cake walk.  But it’s not, and his head feels funny again and he can’t quite figure out why it’s different this time. Maybe Beth is right, though he desperately wants her not to be. Steve’s spiralling a little, which is so embarrassing. He hasn’t spiralled this bad since that night with Nancy and Jonathan at the Byers’ house – the elevator doesn’t count, because they were all spiralling then. Jesus, he can’t think about that right now. “Robin. My best friend. I don’t know if she made it. There was a herd when we got separated and I couldn’t hold onto her.” “Sit down,” says Michonne. He complies, only because it’s her. Max is right there, again. Hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight — doesn’t placate him by saying their friend is okay, because such a thing can’t be promised. Because she’s a fucking realist. “She’s kind of a disaster, to be honest,” Steve laughs, combing a hand through his hair. “But who isn’t these days?” “Daryl,” Lucas states firmly.  “Chill out with the hero worship, Sinclair,” says Steve, a little breathless. “You’re embarrassing me.” “Michonne,” Max adds. After a moment, Steve nods in agreement. “Fair.” Michonne smiles, all teeth. How does she keep them like that? Her hand finds his other shoulder and she keeps it there for a moment.  “Has everything slowed down?” Steve sighs, nodding. He wonders if the group dispersal was her doing, seeing as almost everyone – Rick, most notably – has moved to the kitchen to start on lunch; which is such a novel concept that Steve can’t wrap his head around it just yet. “Anybody seen Erica?” If he could at least lay his eyes on her, it would make things easier. Then he could stay here and not worry that he’s completely useless.  Max and Lucas look at each other in that way of theirs – like that time they dropped a tray of chicken fingers in his pool, or got face paint on his mother’s imported rug.  “She’s hanging with Dustin,” says Lucas.  The front door swings open. Enter: Dustin.  Steve’s head swings around, much like the door. “Try again, dickheads.” “What’s up?” Dustin asks, heading for the kitchen counter where Carol is chopping carrots. He tries to snag one and she smacks the back of his hand.  “Where’s Erica?” Dustin, to give him some credit, gives lying a fair shot. “She’s uh…” He looks to Max, then Lucas. “She’s with Eugene!” “Who the fuck is Eugene?” Steve asks, screw inside voices. Abraham releases a single, vibrating bark of laughter.  “You don’t wanna know, Tom Cruise.” “Well,” Steve huffs, pulling himself up to stand, hands on his hips and butt leaning against the table. “I kinda do wanna know. You people are strangers.” “Ain’t no stranger,” says Daryl, shoving a successfully stolen carrot between his teeth. “Used to wipe this one’s ass.” Next to Steve, Max turns as red as her hair. “Can you not? Good Lord.” “Oh, wow, man.” Glenn nudges Daryl as he walks by with a stack of plates. “You sure she’s not yours?” “Max,” Steve interrupts before an argument can start. “Nobody cares that Daryl used to wipe your butt. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out the two of you are related– ” “The hell does that me– ” “ – my point is, I need to know who Erica is spending her time with and, like, vet them.” “Everyone here’s vetted,” says Rick, then seems to think better of it. “More or less.” Steve slumps back down against the table, Glenn working around him to set it. “What kind of shitshow are you people running here?” Whining sounds from the staircase as Beth returns with the baby. She bounces the little girl on her hip with no success. “I’m gonna go find her.” He’s a tad wobbly on his feet still, like Bambi on the ice, especially after his morning laps; but Steve reckons he could make another in search of the kid.  “Give the baby to Steve,” says Dustin, blocking his exit. 
“What?”
 Dustin shrugs, making Steve sit again with too much ease. “I’m trying to see something here.” “Dustin!” Max barks. “Leave Judith out of your social experiments.” “What? It’d be cute.”  “Dude, Steve just had a major freak out about not being allowed on a run,” says Lucas. “It’s not the time.” “Well,” says Dustin. “Judith looks equally, if not more upset. Let’s fight fire with fire.” “I’m right here– ” “Mr. Grimes?” Apple in hand, Rick’s bow legs irritating Steve merely by association – there are no horses here. “May Steve please hold Judith?” Rick takes his sweet ass time contemplating this. It’s not like Steve is dying to hold an allegedly stinky toddler anyway. He’s actually never held a toddler – one time, Mrs. Wheeler tried to pass Holly off to him so she could clean up the girl’s puke, and he’d made up some excuse about his Pop being in the hospital and fled the scene. But Rick’s feeling generous, decides to throw him a bone after denying his demand to go searching for the rest of his family.  “Sure,” Rick says. “We all need to get better acquainted if we’re gonna be livin’ together.” And then, she is simply deposited in his arms. Judith, with her big doe eyes boring into his very soul. Steve can hardly stand straight and yet, here he is, holding a pretty hefty toddler who certainly hasn’t missed any meals. It’s pretty impressive in the current climate, he’ll give her that. He hikes her a little higher on his hip and Steve can tell by how Daryl tracks the movement that he’s ready to intervene if Steve’s body decides to wipe out again. Judith whimpers at the sudden movement, banging a spit-soaked fist against his chest. Steve sighs. “Me too, Stinker.” Seeing her so upset irritates Steve in a way that he can’t quite explain. Panics him, slightly. Erica cut her knee on a rusted sheet of metal while climbing over a wall last year and he thought he was going to pass out, but Judith’s just being a little whiny. He can deal with that. Rocks her a little. Walks toward the living room so she can look out the window. Even better, he makes for the mirror by the fireplace and, yeah, Steve’s not overjoyed by the sight of himself but Judith seems to like it. She grabs for her reflection and Steve’s, before seeming to realise that it’s him who is right next to her, holding tight. She paws at his hair like his grandma used to after she finally went blind. He resists the urge to jerk away because Judith’s smiling a little, and his own panic is starting to soften at the edges. “Yeah, no wonder you like me,” he says, like it’s just the two of them. “I smell like green apple shampoo and your father smells like walker guts and man sweat. Don’t these people know about the showers? Yeah, yeah, well I know you do. Got your pretty dress on and these dweebs didn’t even get the memo. Well, I got a pass because I was sick, you know, but I don’t have germs or anything so you don’t need to worry if you haven’t gotten your jabs yet— wait!”  Steve whips around, Judith on his hip, to address the others. If his vision wasn’t so tunnelled right now, he’d notice that they have all been staring. But he has to ask: “Can we get her, like, vaccinations? Isn’t that shit important?” Max smacks a hand to her forehead in exasperation. Daryl snorts and  draws her attention.  “Oh, shut up,” she snaps. “You’re totally not vaccinated.” “I took you to get all yours, so quit glarin’ at me.” Steve frowns. Will an adult need a higher dose? Don’t these things need to be refrigerated?   “Okay,” he says, as everyone settles for a bite to eat. “Nobody have any more babies.” “So,” Lucas says, prepared to count off his fingers. “Your shopping list includes: the Party, vaccines, condoms– ” Steve carefully puts one hand to Judith’s ear, the other muffled by his chest. They are like tiny seashells.  “Shit, Sinclair, don’t say that word in front of the baby.” “Only if you don’t say that word in front of the baby,” says Lucas.  “Shit?” Steve asks. “Shit means nothing, these people say it all the time.” “Trust me,” says Lucas. “I’ve got a little sister. They’re like sponges. She’s gonna say words way worse than condom.”  In that moment, Steve is reminded of precisely how alike the Sinclairs are. Lucas’ snark sends a painful shot of nostalgia right towards Steve’s heart and he is struck again with the urgent need to even set his eyes on Erica. “Tell your sister to come and eat something.” “Steve– ” “I’ve got my interview with Deanna, anyways. She doesn’t have to see me.” “It’s not about that, man. She’s just… I don’t know. It’s Erica!” Lucas says this like it explains everything. Dustin nods sagely in agreement. The others look completely confused yet not all that concerned. “Lucas,” Steve says. “Just get her to eat something, okay? She can hang with Eugene or whatever when she’s done.” “It’s not that simple. She’s, like, super mad at you right now.” “Yeah,” says Max. “And you also need to eat something, dumbass.” “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, ma.” Steve holds Judith a little tighter in a kind of half hug before passing her back to Carl. He grabs some dry crackers from the table, knowing it’s all he’ll be able to stomach anyway. “I’ll be back later. Go get Erica or your ass is grass, you hear me?” “Jeeze,” Dustin complains, some kind of crusted bread halfway to his mouth. It’s going to be way too tough on his gums.  “We’re dead,” Max parrots in an offensive impersonation. “We know.” “Sinclair!” Steve points for the door.  “I’m going!” Lucas slides from his seat with a slice of ham in hand. “I can miss my lunch but precious Erica’s gotta eat.”  “Boo hoo,” Steve says to his back. “Henderson, spit that out.” Dustin, who is tearing into the bread with the ferocity of the dead, frowns at him. “Gross, dude.” Steve holds a hand out and awaits the soggy bread. Dustin relents and deposits the slice in Steve’s hand with buckets of disdain in his gaze.  “You’ll thank me later,” says Steve. He takes the bread for himself and ignores Max’s noise of disgust. “It’s lunch.” He smiles at her, at the novel concept, and presses a kiss to the crown of her head which she does her best to avoid.  “So, yeah,” Steve says to the room as a whole, to Rick in particular. “I’m gonna go do my interview now, turn on the ol’ - pow, pow - charm. We can talk about that run later, see if we can’t work something out.” He heads for the door that Lucas left ajar – this place is already making them soft – and yanks it open to the early afternoon light. “I’m feeling much, much better.” Steve likes to be upfront about most things now – skip out on the false charm and the sarcasm, the jokes about his parents and their affairs. He stopped trying to wear that mask when Nancy called his bullshit in Tina’s bathroom, when he and Robin puked up drugs together in the restrooms of a seemingly abandoned mall. But what’s a little white lie every now and then? Especially when it’s the difference between him fainting like a girl and the death of his entire family. So, he pastes a smile on, stands a little straighter. He chucks his crackers and bread into the hedges outside Deanna’s house and knocks three times on her front door.  “Steve Harrington,” she says, smiling up at him, every bit the politician. “I’ve heard so much about you.” Steve braces himself on the doorframe and hopes it looks like boyish confidence. "All bad, I hope."

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

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Citizen: Steven James Harrington

Deanna:

It is five to the hour on the seventh of July. I’m here with one of our newest residents, Steven Harrington, who accompanied Maxine Mayfield, Lucas and Erica Sinclair, and Dustin Henderson to Alexandria. How are you today, Steven? Feeling better?

Steve:

Much. Thank you for your hospitality.

Deanna:

It was the least we could do. You brought four children safely to our gates.

Steve:

More like they brought me. Dragged me by the sound of it. Thanks for the treatment, by the way.

Deanna:

It was no trouble. Really. Now, tell me, how long were you out there?

Steve:

Can you be more specific?

Deanna:

How long have you been shepherding these children alone? Were there other people in your group?

Steve:

Sure. There’s always other people, right? They come and go.

Deanna:

And when did they go?

Deanna:

Steve?

Steve:

Me and the kids have been alone now for coming up on eight months. I think. You’d have to ask Henderson.

Deanna:

Was that when you first met them?

Steve:

I wish… Sorry. No, I’ve known them since Before.

Deanna:

Did you meet them at a refugee camp?

Steve:

No, like… we went to school together. Well, they were in the middle school. My… my ex-girlfriend – her little brother was their friend.

Deanna:

Was?

Steve:

I don’t know.

Deanna:

That’s alright, Steve. Were there any adults around in the beginning?

Steve:

Look, I– there were two. But some of us were old enough to help lighten the load.

Deanna:

Teenagers?

Steve:

Yeah. Like six or seven of us, I guess. One time or another.

Deanna:

Do you remember how you got so sick?

Steve:

No. I just stopped feeling good. Usually I’m fine, walk it off, but I guess this time I needed a few days off.

Deanna:

Almost three weeks, by Mr. Henderson’s count.

Steve:

Wiped me out.

Deanna:

Has that ever happened before?

Steve:

No. I’ve never been sick like that in my life. You have to understand, Mrs. Monroe–

Deanna:

You can call me, Deanna.

Steve:

Thank you, Deanna. And you can call me Steve. But you have to understand that the five of us were under tremendous pressure to find shelter and, as you well know, the closer to D.C. you travel, the more congested it gets. Just like the good old times.

Deanna:

You’ve been to D.C. before?

Steve:

Oh, sure. Family vacations and all.

Deanna:

So, you’re nothing to James Harrington?

Steve:

Nothing feels a tad dramatic, don’t you think?

Deanna:

Grandson?

Steve:

Son.

Deanna:

Hm. I heard that he and his associates headed for a bunker out in Maryland when the world changed. What brought you to Indiana?

Steve:

That’s– it’s where I’m from.

Deanna:

I see. And your mother?

Steve:

What about her?

Deanna:

Do you know where she is?

Steve:

Do you? Does it matter? Seems like you know more than I do about all this bullshit anyway, so–

Maggie saves him. Cuts the whole thing short with a request from another citizen to talk to Deanna about something or other that Steve can’t quite register. He’s sweating, palms clammy and slipping against one another as Maggie grabs him by the elbow and steers him toward the guest bathroom. The door clicks shut and Steve promptly hurls into the toilet bowl. He white knuckles the lip of it and feels the scorch in his throat as more spills out. He hasn’t eaten a bite since Beth plied him with an apple earlier. It’s all gone. He’s an empty tank, and still his stomach threatens to revolt. Steve shakes, freezing cold and burning all at once. He heaves again, and regrets not eating the crackers and bread to settle his stomach. 
 
He slumps back, leaning against the panelled walls with his head tipped to the side. The toilet flushes and the faucet runs and for a moment, it’s all a party and Tommy H. keeps pouring him bigger shots than anyone else. Carol’s fingers running through his hair, tilting his chin. He never got like this with Nancy – never let it get this bad. He parts his lips to a glass, to sips of water and calming words. 
 
“Please, Nance,” he says, water dripping down his chin. “I don’t know anything.”
 
“It’s Maggie.” And it is, crouched above him with a smile that’s nowhere near pity, closer to actual sadness. 
 
“Sorry, I– shit. Sorry.” Steve tries to stand, get his feet under him without falling flat on his ass; without needing her help.
 
“Steve, c’mon,” Maggie says, looping her arm through his. “Let’s get you back to Beth.”
 
“I’m fine,” he tries. “Honestly.”
 
Maggie doesn’t buy it one bit. She’s got a flat frown that looks nothing like the scrunch of her sister’s – Steve feels thoroughly scolded. But he can’t be

that

again. Not anymore. Being indisposed is a tad more acceptable when Hopper’s got the reins, when Joyce is herding the kids around and making sure they stay where they’re supposed to. But he’s the adult here, their guardian. He can’t just go back to laying around the infirmary for another week because Deanna upset him to the point of hurling. That wasn’t even her fault. What did he expect? That his parents died on their way back to Indiana? Fat fucking chance.
 
“I just want to lie in the– in my bed, if that’s alright?” He tries. Maggie checks the hall discreetly before calling to Deanna that she’s heading to check the guard rotation. After receiving confirmation, she leads Steve out the front door and closes it behind them. 
 
“And you’re gonna sleep, huh?” Maggie asks, entirely disbelieving. They make it to the bottom of the porch steps and through the gate. The sun still shines bright and blinding in the sky and Steve struggles not to squint at it.
 
“What the hell else am I gonna do? I share a bed with Henderson,” he says.
 
Maggie hums. “You sure Beth ain’t gonna swing around, make a house call?”
 
“Shut up,” Steve grumbles. If he weren’t already weak on his feet, he might have made a better retort. But Rosita approaches the pair, and if he’s not careful it will soon be two against one.
 
“The interview went well, I take it?” She smiles at them, cap shielding her eyes from the sun. 
 
“Steve here made quite an impression,” says Maggie. “Help me out? He’s lagging.”
 
“Am not,” Steve objects.
 
“Sure thing,” says Rosita, linking his arm on the other side. “Back to the infirmary.”
 
“Nah,” Maggie says. “He wants to head back to the house for his nap. Might even line up with Jude’s.”
 
Steve groans. Rosita coos. 
 
“Don’t you worry, sleepyhead. We’ve got you.” 
 
They all seriously see him as some kind of child. Like he’s incapable of managing on his own. Did Rick send Maggie after him, or did she decide herself that he looked pathetic enough to be in need of some help? Did Rosita? 
 
He swings his head around to look at the latter. “Is Abraham your old man?”
 
“My boyfriend?” she asks with a smirk. “Yeah. He is.”  
 
“Bet you he has no clue how to wine and dine a lady like you.”
 
Either side of him, there is laughter. One more muted than the other, thanks to his bum ear. Steve smiles to himself, a shy thing tucked low. He can feel the vibration of Maggie’s chest from where it’s pressed against his shoulder, how Rosita’s laughter is deeper, closer to a chuckle. He may not have the moves anymore – Robin is right about most things – but if he can make them smile, at least he is capable of something. 
 
They track up the porch steps and through the front door. Mercifully, the kids are nowhere to be seen as Rosita and Maggie lead him past the living room and kitchen, upstairs. Absently, Steve can hear Carl’s voice humming a broken tune a few rooms over – the soundtrack to their nights here, it seems – and he gets lost in it for a moment. He thinks of Will and those songs he used to sing under his breath to calm down. How Jonathan would sing along, coaxing an even exhale from the vice of his little brother’s chest. If Steve thinks about Will, he might actually lose it, so instead he focuses on the

My Little Pony

backpack that lays open on he and Dustin’s bed.
 
When he crawls on top of the covers, Steve tugs it towards him, holds it close like a stuffed toy – though he has little basis for this, the feeling is comforting nonetheless. Maggie forces him to lay on his side, Rosita fills a glass of water from the bathroom and places it on the nightstand. He won’t be sick again. He won’t. He’ll wake up and he will feel better, because he has to. The door closes softly, the room is very dark. It smells of bubblegum and nail polish. It should make him feel sick, but mostly Steve just feels sad. 
 
—
 
He goes on the run. Of course he does. Steve clips his walkie to the belt loops on his jeans – they have two left, he deserves one. He catches Glenn on the way out, loading up some checked-out weapons, walking back and forth with Daryl. Daryl who doesn’t

seem

to care one bit at all about what Steve’s deciding to do with his time, but likely cares a whole lot if it means Max might follow his bad influence. 
 
“Got room for one more?”
 
“Rick said no.” Daryl shuts him down immediately. Great.
 
“What did Rick do before this?” asks Steve. 
 
“Sheriff’s Deputy,” says Glenn.
 
“Pig,” says Daryl.
 
Steve snorts. “Yeah, well I only take my orders from the Chief himself. Or Michonne.”
 
Daryl knows what he’s talking about, that much is clear to him. Max might have told him, but Max doesn’t tell anyone much of anything. Maybe Lucas spilled the beans – not that Steve minds all that much. Hopper was more than he could ever put into words – his meagre ones that fumble and catch, that caused him to scrape by in English class. Steve thinks that maybe there are no words to describe the hole that Hopper left behind – because it’s a vacuum, void of anything. He shouldn’t be glad that one of the kids took care of it, but it can be good to talk; Steve’s just not ready to talk about

him

yet. 
 
“Look, man. Glenn. I just wanna help. You get that, right?”
 
Glenn looks like he might cave, eyes rolling in exasperation that is clearly just an attempt to avoid eye contact. “Man, I– ”
 
Daryl cuts across him. “Take it up with Rick,” he says, nodding to the man in question, who’s steadily approaching their trio. 
 
“We all set?” Rick asks the other two, who nod and seem to think it best that they leave Steve to it. 
 
“Rick, look– ”
 
Rick raises a hand. “Answer’s still no, kid.”
 
Steve bristles, resisting every urge to put his hands in his own hair and

yank;

the urge to grab Rick by his shoulders and shake him. 
 
“You need me.”
 
“That so?”
 
“These people are so, so

pathetically

underprepared for what’s out there. I’ve been conscious for less than a week and I can tell you that much, man. This is some suburbia shit where we’re supposed to have potlucks and bake each other cookies? It’s not gonna work, especially if you sideline me as just another one of the kids.” Here, Steve takes a single, deep breath. “I’m not a kid. I kept four of them alive

by myself

for almost a year. I used to run track, was co-captain of the swim team,

captain

of the basketball team. Baseball, football, freakin’

volleyball,

man. My aim’s better than half these guys’ put together– ”
 
Daryl scoffs.
 
“ –and yeah, okay, I was sick last week– ”
 
“Maggie said you threw up at Deanna’s,” Glenn says. 
 
“Well, maybe Maggie needs glasses. Which I can get. I can get lots of stuff. I’m fast, and I already know the sitch on your teams and whatnot. I can

help.”

Steve’s got more in him, ready to go, convince Rick with as many words as he can force out of his mouth, but there’s no need. 
 
“You got a weapon?” Rick asks.
 
“My bat. It’s back at the house.”
 
“You g’on and get it. Then we’ll head out.”

Ha.

Like Steve is going to fall for that one. He smiles at Rick – smirks, really – and takes the walkie from his belt. 
 
“Henderson,” Steve says, releasing the button. A sound crackles through the speaker.

“Are you done?”

Silence, then another crackle.

“Because I cannot possibly know if you are when you refuse to say ‘over’! Over.”

“Fine,” says Steve, rolling his eyes at his observers. “Can you bring the bat down? Over.”

“You know,”

says Dustin.

“You really need to learn how to streamline your conversations. All this chatter is a huge waste of battery. Over.”

“Just bring me the damn bat or

else.

Over.” Steve turns the walkie off, clips it back to his belt loops, and gives Rick as unassuming a smile as he can manage. Down the street, Dustin hollers, very much using his

outside

voice, and runs towards Steve with his baby in tow. 
 
“Careful, dude. Jeez.” Steve takes the bat from Dustin before he can hurt himself with it. 
 
Dustin ignores him. “Will you

try

and find some candy? Three Musketeers, ideally, but I’d settle for some gummy bears. Or jelly beans. They don’t expire, right?”
 
“I don’t fuckin’ know, man. You better not eat any crap while I’m gone.” Steve checks the balance of the bat, gives it a swing or two. 
 
“But Ms. Carol’s making cookies,” Dustin objects. Ms. Carol is gonna wreck his kids if she’s not careful. It’s not like dentists are easy to come by in the apocalypse – Dustin’s teeth have been the root cause of most of Steve’s stress dreams lately.
 
“I don’t give a shit, man. Until I can get you some good toothpaste, you’re not eating junk food.”
 
“You can’t stop me!”
 
Steve unclips his walkie and switches it to their old channel. “Hey, dipshits. Over.”

“What the hell do you want?”

Max huffs through the other walkie. Steve’s honestly surprised that Dustin actually shared.

“Over.”

“Don’t let Henderson eat any sugary shit. You have my permission to, I don’t know, poke him with a stick every time he does. Over.”

“Roger that. Only if you make sure Dare doesn’t do anything dumb. Over.”

Said man scowls, throwing a leg over his bike. 
 
“Gotcha, Red,” says Steve. “Take care. Over.”
 
Dustin huffs, kicks at the dirt. Steve lands a hand on top of his cap and ruffles it around a little. “Catch ya later, Henderson.” Bat swung onto his shoulder, Steve makes it about five steps in the direction of the truck before he feels two arms wrap around his middle. 
 
“Be careful,” Dustin says, voice muffled against the back of Steve’s jacket. 
 
“I will,” Steve sighs, watching as the others get into the car. “Take care of each other, okay? I’m gonna find them.”  
 
“I know you will.” 
 
Dustin lets go, sees Steve off with a hopeful smile, waves at the car as it passes through the gate behind Daryl’s bike. This is right. It’s the only way Steve will ever find the others. It’s not like he’s leading Rick to a dead end – he can deliver everything he promised – but something feels slightly off about the whole thing that sets Steve off kilter. As the truck meets every pothole on the road, he can’t help the queasiness that takes control of his stomach. He moves his eyes from the window and shuts them against the daylight. The radio hums a quiet static as Glenn switches between dead stations.

–
 
They’ve got their own agenda – which Steve follows to the letter – that takes them as far as a quarry that’s been blocked by some trucks, caging thousands of the flayed in. Rick’s group calls them

walkers,

which is fair, because the ones around these parts seem pretty tame. But Steve’s seen runners, four-legged sprinters, ready to chomp him to the bone and infect his bloodstream, so the name feels a little naive. 
 
“Steve,” calls Rick. “You’re with Abraham, Sasha, and Daryl.”
 
There’s a comfort to it that he won’t admit – knowing he’ll be able to see Daryl, keep his promise to Max a lot easier than if they were split up. Daryl grunts at this and the other two appear entirely unaffected. There’s a weird tension between them that Steve’s not entirely cool with – he wonders if Daryl would let him ride the bike too. 
 
“Three and one makes no sense,” says Sasha. “Steve, you go with Daryl.”
 
“Yes, ma’am.”
 
“And don’t call me

ma’am.”

He salutes her. 
 
“This is where it all starts tomorrow!” says Rick, standing above the rest of them, the trucks behind him in the shape of a vee. “Tobin gets in the truck, opens the exit, and we’re up. Hops south, catches up with his team of

red,

staying on the

west side

of the road. Daryl gets on his bike– ” Steve’s presence goes unmentioned, or maybe it was about to be, but then there’s a loud crashing noise and Sasha is yelling, pointing to something in the distance. The truck, sitting high above the quarry, collapses front first, taking half the cliff face with it. 
 
The creaking is loud and ominous, but there’s no time to marvel at it when Rick is calling everyone to action. People are objecting, which is rich, because it’s now or never. But Sasha and Abraham are already gunning it for the car. Daryl grabs Steve by the scruff of his neck, pulls him back behind him, in front of Michonne. He’s got his crossbow high, aimed at the flayed that’s squeezing between the two trucks. So, Steve raises his bat and gives Daryl some space – ready to cover him if a long range attack goes awry. 
 
He’s standing there, feet planted, when Tobin starts up the truck, when the flares hit the sky. 
 
It happens all at once after that. Steve high tails it, throwing one leg over the bike, arms around Daryl’s waist. Whatever initial objection Max’s uncle had to the arrangement no longer matters. They have a job to do. A herd to lead. 
 
He remembers a trip to the butchers, the train tracks, Dustin, Lucas, and Max – all so tiny, he could have carried them from the junkyard. He remembers the tunnels and breathing through a bandana and a broken nose, dousing the place in gasoline and lighting up the hub. Steve’s led herds before. 
 
He’s really, really good at this. 
 
—
 
It’s boring for the most part, sitting on the back of the bike, bat swinging at his sides whenever the flayed get too close for comfort. They’re moving pretty slowly, so the chances of him falling off are slim to none. Despite this, his head decides to betray him every once in a while – maybe it’s the heat – and he gets dizzy. 
 
Daryl doesn’t question it when he slumps forward, cheek to his back. He figures Daryl would be the kind of guy to question it, but maybe Max was right and he really is cool. And it’s fine, peaceful really, until the horn starts. 
 
“What the hell is that?” Steve asks, then repeats into the radio. “Rick, what the hell is that?”

“It’s coming from home,”

says Rick. 
 
“Comin’ from Alexandria,” says Daryl. 
 
And he wants to go – to turn off the road and pick up speed, get back to the others as fast as he can – but Daryl is keeping the same infuriating pace. 
 
“C’mon, man. We can’t,” Steve implores. “We gotta go back.” 
 
They meet Sasha and Abraham on the road, converging into one at the fork. Daryl pulls up to the car window, yelling over the roar of his engine. “We gone five miles out yet?”
 
“Give or take some yardage,” says Abraham. “You got a reason for askin’?”
 
Daryl nods. “Next intersection, we’re gonna spin around and go back.”
 
“The plan is to go fifteen more,” Sasha objects. 
 
“Yeah, I’m gonna change that,” says Daryl. “Five’s gonna have to work.”
 
“The magic number’s twenty,” says Abraham. “That’s the mission. That’s makin’ sure they’re off munchin’ on infirm raccoons the rest of their undead lives ‘stead of any of us.”
 
“You wanna go, we can’t stop you.” Sasha looks at them for a moment before casting her eyes back to the road. She knows they won’t stay; knows they can’t. “But without you, they could stop

us.”

Steve gets it, he really does. Before all this, he was content with being the bait. The tank, the kids used to call him.

Their

tank. But that was back when they had more than one adult looking out for them. And while everyone in Alexandria seems fine, they won’t be fine if they’re dead; and they certainly won’t be able to protect his kids. 
 
Daryl seems to share the sentiment, eyes on a pretty and torn sign ahead that’s directing them back. 
 
“Nah, I got faith in ya,” he yells, speeding up. Steve holds tight. 
 
A while later, they’ve almost made it back when Rick calls over the walkie. Sasha’s pissed about the change of plan, about how they left her and Abraham high and dry.

“How ‘bout that, Daryl? He’s gonna be coming our way.”

Steve’s glad not to be lumped in on the blame, but it doesn’t seem fair that Daryl has to carry all of it. He’s about to weigh in, jump to his defence, when Daryl reaches up and smacks his hand away from the walkie.

“There’s gunfire comin’ from back home,”

Rick says.

“We gotta sit with it and hope they can handle it.”

And he knows they can – Nancy taught each of the kids, Steve did his best to refresh their training – but nothing would ever come close to being enough.

“I think they can. They have to,”

Rick says.

“We keep goin’ forward for them. Can’t turn back ‘cause we’re afraid.”

“We ain’t afraid,”

says Abraham.
 
Steve is afraid, he can admit it. And he has to turn back; even if Daryl hadn’t, he would have hopped off and ran the rest of the way there.

“This is for them. Goin’ back now? That’d be for us.”

Rick sounds an awful lot like he’s trying to convince himself. But call Steve selfish, because he can’t do it. He’ll consider the consequences later, when all four of the kids are safe in his arms. 
 
“Daryl,” he says quietly into the other man’s ear. 
 
“I know.” 
 
But that’s all thrown out the window when they hear gunfire coming directly from the walkie. 
 
“Rick!” yells Daryl. “Rick!”
 
He pulls over to a ditch, tries the walkie again. But there’s nothing. 
 
“Daryl, no…” He’s already turning back the way they came. “C’mon.

Please.”

“This is the mission,” says Daryl. “‘S what you agreed to.” 
 
“Yeah,” Steve barks. “Before I heard

gunfire

coming from the place my kids are.” 
 
Daryl turns his head just to scowl at him. He kicks the bike back to life, giving Steve no choice but to hold on. 
 
“She’s my kid, too. Carl and Asskicker, I… Rick knows what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.” 
 
Steve knows none of this is being done lightly, that Rick’s not just abandoning his kids; that he’s doing this very thing for them. Steve used to be like that, and maybe he can do it again on the off chance that one of these men survives long enough to take his place. The kids only had him, but they could have more. Surely, they’d be first priority in the event of an attack? And he has to trust that they can hold their own against some flayed, at least. 
 
“Fine,” he says, though his voice sounds weak to his ears. “Let’s go.” 
 
They rejoin Abraham and Sasha, moving faster now and keeping their distance from the herd. Left up at the intersection, just like Rick said, coming through a neighbourhood with wire fences and long grass. 
 
They’re almost at the meeting point, and he’s about to turn back and shoot Sasha a wink for proving her wrong when he sees it. 
 
“Duck!”
 
All at once, a shower of bullets rain down upon them from the baby blue car on their tail. More come from the side streets, shattering windows and hitting the bike. Daryl rides low and fast, but the bike slips and skids along the blacktop. It lands on his leg, and Daryl’s quick to lift it, pulling Steve up with his free hand. He rights the bike and, staying low, they both climb on. But when they turn back onto the road, two cars are after them. 
 
Abraham and Sasha are faring no better, when a bullet blows their tires and sends them swerving toward a fence and some large silos. It all crashes down on them, pulling their pursuers up short. Steve doesn’t notice he’s holding his breath until he sees them emerge from the crash, firing back. 
 
“They’re good,” he yells. 
 
But he and Daryl are decidedly not. Despite all of Daryl’s twisting, it’s a miracle they haven’t been hit. Steve knows well from Dustin’s ranting that it’s statistically unlikely that either of them will make it out of this one unscathed – road rash notwithstanding. And maybe he’d feel it better, the graze of a bullet, were his system void of adrenaline, but he can’t seem to feel a thing. 
 
When Daryl drives through the gravel, around the metal containers, Steve raises the bat and swings at any flayed that threaten to topple them. Their attackers aren’t as lucky, and crash into a bus. Steve chances a look back to see only one vehicle on their tail, Abraham and Sasha still on foot. Daryl sees them too, but he doesn’t stop. They go further out of the neighbourhood, through the trees; where Daryl turns off and waits for the car to pass. 
 
Leaves flutter in its wake, and they cross. Through to the other side and along a dirt track, the bike starts to slow down. Maybe because of the terrain, but he can see Daryl’s arm and how it’s all torn up; the blood that’s running down his face. Steve knows he’s no picture either, but they have to keep going. 
 
The trees turn to black husks around them as the bike sputters to a stop. Daryl all but topples off, leaving Steve no choice but to go with him, lest he get crushed again. 
 
“We can’t stop here,” Steve says, a frantic pitch to his voice. “Gotta go back.” 
 
The dizziness returns, so he rolls forward, palms landing on Daryl’s chest. It’s heaving, his attention drawn sideways to a figure Steve could hardly see, let alone make sense of. 
 
The flayed has, quite literally, been flayed. And it’s wearing a helmet? They can’t– they can’t stay here, not when everyone is being attacked from all sides and the kids are– 
 
“Kid,” Daryl’s voice is low, broken up from the exertion. “Breathe.” 
 
“I’m fine.” Steve stumbles to a stand, using his hands for support. There’s an awful tug in his side, an ache in his left leg that throbs painfully at being straightened, but they have to keep going. 
 
He helps Daryl get the bike up again, but they can only push it from here. Were it just Steve, he would have left it behind already and searched for something else, but it’s becoming clear that that’s not an option. 
 
They dodge skeletons made of ash and branches that snap into dust at the lightest touch, but Daryl begins to falter, tipping to one side and landing in some brush. Before Steve can check on him, Daryl’s got the walkie to his mouth, calling for Abraham and Sasha, but it’s no use. 
 
“You arm,” says Steve, just as more blood drips down Daryl’s sleeve and onto a corpse beneath him. Almost curiously, Daryl regards it as if it belongs to someone else, and then begins peeling his leather jacket off. It looks painful, and Steve wants to help but the world is spinning again and he has to grip the dry earth between his fingers in effort to make it stop. 
 
“Sit still.” 
 
Daryl unclips a bag from his bike and gets to work rooting through its contents, nudging Steve’s borrowed jacket off his frame and poking at his bloodied side – oh, that’s new – when they hear it. 
 
Daryl’s ready, pulling the brush over the bike, gesturing for Steve to hide under it too. Crossbow in hand, he moves toward the sound of snapping branches, expecting Steve to just sit there. Steve, who can do little else but crawl forward, bat under one palm, taking stuttered, little breaths and aching at every minor movement. 
 
He can only follow Daryl by the shock of red painting his skin against the black and white forest. There are two women, hands up, talking to him, but Steve can’t hear a thing of it. His brain is swimming in mud. Absently, he notes the taste of bile in his mouth and looks down to find mostly blood on his trousers. Great. He coughs again, doing his best to focus his stare on the women, to stand on his own to feet and get over there to help Daryl, but he’s about to throw up again and then– then there’s a man and–
 
“Dare!” he calls, but it’s too late. 
 
Daryl drops like a bag of rocks and Steve? Well, they don’t need to hit Steve. He’s pretty good at passing out all by himself. 
 
—
 
It’s light out when he wakes. 
 
Back to a tree, legs sprawled out before him. Steve feels, for a moment, as if they aren’t his. The hands tied together in his lap belong to somebody else. He sees Daryl’s hands too, large and stained with blood and dirt. He’s still unconscious. The man who knocked him out is talking to the women, and Steve wants to ask, needs to know, if Daryl is okay. Why hasn’t he woken yet? How long has it been?

He twists, struggles onto his knees and winces at the pain in his left leg, doing his best not to make any noise. It hurts. Everything hurts. Daryl’s arm has stopped bleeding, but there’s no doubt a nasty lump on the back of his head, and the tree can’t be helping. 
 
“Hey,” Steve whispers, raising his tied hands to Daryl’s neck, checking for a pulse and finding something slow, steady. “Man, you gotta wake up.”
 
If they make it out of this alive, Max is going to kill him. 
 
“Don’t touch him!” The man approaches fast, women hanging back. He’s got a gun and he’s waving it around like he means to use it. 
 
Steve knows how they look: two guys wearing survivalist gear and armed to the teeth. He knows how it feels to want to protect someone from guys wearing survivalist gear, armed to the teeth. So, he tries to make himself smaller, lets the sting of his wounds curl him closer to Daryl; looking fit to keel over and like he needs the hunter to support him. 
 
“My uncle,” Steve starts, voice hoarse from all the retching. “He won’t wake up.”
 
Because he wouldn’t pass for Daryl’s kid, not by a long shot. But Daryl is Max’s uncle, and Steve knows Max better than almost anyone. 
 
“Your uncle?” the guy asks, disbelieving. 
 
Steve nods. “You hit him pretty hard.”
 
The guy looks him up and down, eyes catching somewhere around Steve’s middle. “And what happened to you?”
 
Steve won’t look – it’s best not to. If he keeps his eyes elsewhere, he can pretend to himself that none of the pain is real, and only a figment of his imagination; like a nightmare. 
 
“Those men,” he says. “They w– they was shootin’ at us.” 
 
“Which men?” the woman asks. The one with the long hair, tied back at the nape of her neck. 
 
“You saw ‘em too, right? With the cars and the guns.” Steve’s not really trying for an accent – Max doesn’t have one, and sounds a lot more California than Georgia – but the pain in his throat, the heavy feeling of his tongue, and the sheer exhaustion is helping. “We jus– we’re tryin’ to get home.” 
 
The man opens his mouth to ask another question when Daryl begins to stir. “Hey, get up!” he says, crouching over Daryl. He points the gun right to his face, and Steve is quick to lean over, hands raised to placate. He looks like he’s praying. 
 
Daryl is completely still, staring down the barrel of the gun with a sulky expression on his face. 
 
“We’re movin’,” says the man. “Here’s the deal: you don’t say shit, and I don’t kill you.” 
 
“We ain’t who you think,” Daryl says quietly, shoulder pressed to Steve. 
 
The man clicks the hammer of the gun, “Say somethin’ else.” Daryl blinks steadily. “Go ahead.”
 
Steve is pulled to stand first, then Daryl, who is something solid to stumble back on. They have to follow the women – the one with the long hair taking the lead, a large bag slung over her shoulder. They’re both so slight, gaunt looking. The man is too. The pallour of their skin is so stark against the black of the forest; branches misted with moisture as they weave through the trees, the man taking up the rear. 
 
Steve trips a few times, gets caught on a gnarled root or a rock. And Daryl tries to help, he does, but with their hands tied, there’s little he can do. 
 
“You’re supposed to stay hydrated,” the woman with the long hair tells the other. “It all works together.” 
 
She begrudgingly takes a sip, but when she passes it back, the woman with the long hair gestures to Daryl. “Have it.”
 
The man swipes it, holding the bottle in Daryl’s face. “We don’t need you fallin’ down.” 
 
“The kid,” Daryl says, even though he sounds worse. 
 
Steve shakes his head. “‘M good.” 
 
Daryl takes the water from the man, pushes it up to Steve’s face. He scowls, taking the bottle in his own hands for fear of being fed like a baby. One sip, then another. Though he’s dying of thirst, he’s not sure he can stomach any more. 
 
Daryl looks at him, clearly not pleased. Steve shrugs. “Only gon’ puke it back up. You have the rest.”
 
And if he notices anything about Steve’s voice, he doesn’t comment, only downing the rest of the water. 
 
“They find us, maybe we give you to them,” says the man. “They let us call it even.” Daryl swallows, looking on blankly. “You see, we’re reasonable people. Everybody’s got their code. You feel you gotta kneel, that’s fair enough. We don’t.” He grabs the bottle, pointing ahead. “Let’s go.”
 
Steve has no idea what’s going on, and Daryl seems none the wiser. Still, one look at the hunter and it’s clear that he’s assessing the situation, doing his best to piece it together. 
 
The man has Daryl by the back of his vest, pushing Steve along by proxy. His head is spinning, and such a small amount of water seems to have done more harm than good. Along their path, blackened skeletons are sprawled; the others follow them like markers. It’s their home, he soon realises. 
 
“This is a pit stop,” says the man, shoving Daryl forward. “We pick up Patty, nothing more than that.”
 
There’s no way anyone is living here, it’s a total wasteland. 
 
“How’d you do it?” the woman with the short hair asks. She looks closer to Steve in age, her voice making her sound even younger. 
 
“You saw where we left the truck?” the man asks. She hums. “We opened the valve and drove all the way in from Farmview Road. Ran from the treeline ‘til we got to the pavement. Lit up a matchbook from the Sweetwater and dropped it on the trail. Then we just ran for the car.”
 
Steve’s head dips to his chin. None of it makes any sense, and figuring it out is not his area of expertise, not when his brain feels like it’s dripping out of his ears. He’s better at the cues, the dynamic that’s emerging between the trio: if he were to guess, he’d say that the women are sisters – not because of looks or anything, but because of how the woman with the long hair is fussing over the younger, like how he fusses over the kids. 
 
“... just the fire,” the woman says. “Burning them all away.” 
 
He knows that feeling and what it can do. Often, it was the only thing he could do. 
 
“You did all this?” Daryl asks. 
 
The woman hitches the bag higher on her shoulder. “It was at the start. Everything stopped… the TV, the radio. We were here. The forest was full of them. And the other ones in town, they were drawn to it. They just walked right into the flames.”

Blind, like a hive mind. Tumbling down into the hole, one after another. Dominoes, predictable.
 
“We got most of ‘em,” she says. “Thought we ended it for us, and she was in D.C.” She points to her sister. “We thought everyone was fighting them wherever they were.”
 
“You were in D.C?” Steve blurts, cutting across whatever the man was about to say. It earns him another shove for his efforts. 
 
“That’s what she just said.” The tumble forward on his feet jars Steve's already addled brain, the thought slipping away as quickly as it had landed. “Anyway, we thought that’s what everybody was doing. Fighting it. That we’d all win together. We were stupid.”
 
The man just lets go of them, keeps walking on ahead while Daryl pivots on the spot, looking around. “Y’all don’t think you’re being stupid right now?”

Oh, please don’t make a run for it,

Steve thinks. He wouldn’t be able to keep up. But the man takes the gun out from the front of his pants again and points it right in Daryl’s face; who looks at it head on, while Steve squints away from the light of the sun. 
 
“Are you sayin’ I should kill you?” He looks back to the women, like someone is about to jump out of the naked trees to ambush them. “I mean it. Are you about to pull somethin’ on us? Are we just bein’ thick here by not removing all doubt? Right now, by me not pulling this trigger, is that a mistake?”
 
Daryl squares up and Steve could laugh, hysterics to the point of tears, at how all of this has turned out. Max gave him one job, and he can’t even do that right. 
 
“You made the choice to kill someone for a roof over your head and three squares.”

What?

“So maybe I’m not considering all aspects here. You tell me, am I being stupid?”
 
He steps in front of Daryl, close to his chest so that the barrel of the gun is flush with his chin. 
 
“Yes,” Steve says. “You’re bein’ stupid. We literally have no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”
 
“No,” says Daryl, tied hands coming to rest on Steve’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Look, we got somewhere to be. We can make a deal, I can help you out.”
 
“You’re one of them,” the man says. “You’re hurt and you’re alone and you’d say anything. We should have never trusted you people to begin with. G’on, get moving.” 
 
And Daryl does. He doesn’t even try to correct the guy, say he’s got it all wrong. Steve bristles, swaying into him with extra heat, not even bothering to try and steady himself. “Tell them,” he whispers. “We have to get back.” 
 
But Daryl remains silent, letting himself be manhandled through the trees which are growing greener by the second. They emerge onto a fenced off yard with some of the flayed wandering aimlessly, and Steve knows how this is going to go. 
 
“Daryl. Daryl,

please.”

But the hunter is watching the trio up by the fence, waiting. He’s ready to pounce, muscles wired taut, he crouches and leaps out of Steve’s hold. The moment the younger woman falls, he grabs the bag, kicking at Steve's ankle so they can make a run for it. 
 
Bullets are once more being fired at their backs, and it’s a miracle that no one is hit a second time. Daryl is faster than he looks for the size of him, zigzagging through the brush. He leaps over a log and lands in a burnt out creek beneath it, dropping the bag and working on the knots around his wrist with his teeth. 
 
Steve follows suit, biting until there’s some give, using the broken off ends of a branch to finally pry himself loose. Daryl’s got a walkie from the bag.
 
“Sasha, Abraham. Are you there?” he tries, but it’s fruitless. They both lay back, breathless, sweating and bleeding in the punishing heat. 
 
“He’s gonna find us,” Steve says. “We need better cover.” 
 
Daryl heaves great breaths, rolling to his feet at the sound of something Steve can’t yet hear. He struggles on the way up, watching as Daryl frantically roots through the bag in search of a weapon. 
 
“My bat,” he says. “Gimme my bat.”
 
But Daryl takes his crossbow out instead, already loaded, and twists around to fire it right at the brain of the flayed that was about to land on him. Steve pulls his foot away from the thing, cursing his ears. It’s been too long a day, too much going on for him to keep focus. With aching hands, he rubs at his head in frustration, doing anything to ground himself other than acknowledge the pain. 
 
Daryl’s got his bat out of the bag and is looking down at something else. It’s a small red and white cooler with a label on it. For insulin. 
 
Steve sighs, taking his bat. “We gotta go back, don’t we?”
 
—
 
The trio are sitting on a burnt out log, the sister between them. Daryl approaches carefully, Steve at his flank, and tells the man to lower the gun, hand it over. The bag is theirs in exchange for some dumb little carved figure that the man had in his pocket, which is just so petty, but the kind of things the kids would love for DnD, so at least he’s not returning empty handed. 
 
It’s all good, it’s totally fine, until the day decides to throw them another damn curveball: a group of armed men, breaking the wall of trees down with their beat up truck. Daryl grabs him and hides, crossbow raised. He gives Steve the gun; who does his best to take aim while holding the bat. 
 
They argue and, for a moment, Steve feels really bad for the assholes that took them. Seems Daryl does too, because they’re not leaving. Soon, it becomes clear that they can’t: men are converging from all sides, clearly trying to trap the trio and take them back to wherever it is they came from. 
 
“C’mon,” Daryl says, gesturing for them to follow. “Go that way.” 
 
He helps the sister up while Steve keeps watch, gun up and steady the way Hop taught him. They move fast and at a crouch, and it’s not right, none of it, but they have to help. The man crouches in a small cluster of branches, he and the woman protecting the sister as Daryl takes the gun from Steve and hands it over. The man takes it, which is whatever – since he was only pointing it at them like ten minutes ago – and nods gratefully, eyeing their assailants through a gap in the shelter. 
 
Daryl shoves him down. “Watch yer head,” he says, remaining at a stand. He leans forward and rustles some branches as a distraction, while the woman hovers over her sister. 
 
“Can I help?” Steve asks, reaching for the bag. 
 
“Wade, I’m bit!” One of the men yells. “Take it off me, just take it off!”
 
“I’ll get your watch after,” says Wade, wielding a machete and swinging it down, severing the limb as the man screams wildly into the trees. “Time to go home. Cam got a boo-boo. He only wanted to take it so far,” he says into his radio. “And he only wants ass that’s willing.” 
 
Which.

What?

The woman opens some sachets with her teeth and watches the men carefully as they leave before injecting the insulin into her sister’s arm. 
 
The man, still sitting on the ground, sighs at Daryl. “We thought you were with them! We knock you over the head, tie you up, threaten to kill you… why the hell did you come back?”
 
“Was wonderin’ the same thing,” Steve mutters. 
 
Daryl grunts, nudging Steve. “Maybe I’m stupid, too.”
 
Steve’s got him all wrong – sure, Daryl’s this big, tough guy; burly and surly and quiet as hell, but he wants to keep going. He’s almost as stubborn as Max, with tunnel vision to boot. When the sister is set right, they all head in the same direction, and the man tells them about the place they came from – where those men came from – and how messed up it all is. How people will trade anything for safety; how they’ll

take

anything too. 
 
Steve knows more about the taking. 
 
“Hey, Tina. Hold up!”
 
The sister – Tina – runs toward a burnt out shell. A greenhouse or a shed, where everything has melted and caved in.
 
“Carla and Delly,” she says, frozen at the sight of two bodies encased in glass. “That’s them.”
 
“Me and Tina used to babysit them when they were kids,” says the woman. Which made them, what? Younger than Steve? Older than his kids? Tina grabs some flowers that have, against all odds, sprung up at their feet. She crouches by their heads, and Steve’s about to tell her to step back when she screams, crashing down and shattering the glass. 
 
He jumps forward, swinging at the head of one while Daryl gets a knife in the other. But it’s too late. Everyone is screaming. Tina is bleeding from her neck and Steve tries to make it stop, kneeling above her head and holding tight. Her sister is crying, apologising, cradling her face. She’s gone. 
 
Later, they dig a grave. The woman – Sherry – sits with her bloody hands in her lap, crying quietly as they go. Steve chips away at the dry earth, his side on fire, and wants it all to be over. He wants to go home – wherever the kids are, that’s where he needs to be. 
 
Daryl’s hand is once more heavy on his shoulder, coaxing him to sit down. His ass hits the dirt and it’s like all the energy drains from him, sapped into the earth. 
 
“How many walkers you killed?” Daryl asks the man – Dwight.
 
Dwight looks at him, frowning. “I dunno. A couple dozen maybe.”
 
“How many people you killed?”
 
“None.” 
 
“Why?”
 
Dwight shakes his head and gets back to digging. “Because if I did, there’d be no going back. There’d be no going back to how things were.”
 
And he’d be right. The beginning didn’t give Steve too many options, and he had to be the one to do it. They all took it upon themselves – the older ones – with that mutual understanding that the kids could never ever be the ones to kill living people. 
 
It was easier, at first, because it felt like he had no choice. Getting out of Hawkins was near impossible, and anyone that tried to stop them deserved to be dead

way

before the world ended. The bad men. The Russians. Neil. Steve couldn’t let himself feel bad about it because it was something he had to do – and do gladly – for the kids. But it’s different when you sit with it for a while, when all of the adults are gone and the responsibility is solely yours. He knows that the kids would do it for him – they’ve tried, Max most of all – but he can’t let them cross that line, not when he knows, better than any of them, that there’s no going back. 
 
“We come from a community,” Daryl says, like it’s rehearsed. “Where people are still like they were… more or less, better or worse.”
 
Dwight looks to Sherry, then back again. Once the bodies are all buried, Daryl leads them back to where he hid the bike. Steve wants to argue, urge Daryl to think about this, but it feels like the right thing to do. Sherry just lost her sister, and they’re on the run from these men who take women to what? Force them into situations they have to pretend to want for the sake of survival. 
 
“I can walk it from here, ‘till we meet up with my friends.” Daryl grunts, yanking the branches off his bike. Steve tries to help, but Daryl takes one look at him and he gives right up. “They got a car, you can ride with them.”
 
“How many friends you say there were?” Dwight asks. Daryl never said. 
 
“I didn’t. There’s two of ‘em.”
 
“Where are they?”
 
“We’re gonna find out,” Daryl says, nodding to Steve. 
 
“How do you know they even got away?” Dwight asks. “That they didn’t get taken.”
 
Steve snorts, “Try takin’ Abraham.”
 
“I don’t,” says Daryl. 
 
Steve catches up and helps Daryl with the bike if only for something to lean on. Behind them, a hammer clicks. 
 
“Aw, shit.”
 
“I’m sorry,” Dwight says, gun aimed at Daryl’s head. “Give her the crossbow.” 
 
Steve has the bat up and ready, but he doesn’t want to hit Sherry. Not when she’s– when they’re just like him. Dwight won’t kill Daryl, he won’t, but he’s still got a gun to his head. 
 
“You gonna go back?” Daryl asks Sherry. “You gonna be safe? Ain’t nobody safe no more.”
 
“Shut up!” Dwight spits. “Give her the crossbow.”
 
“You gonna kneel?”
 
Dwight fires a shot, wide and hitting a tree. It’s a threat, and Steve made Max a promise. So, he feints, acts like he’s going to swing, and Dwight whips the gun in his direction. 
 
“Don’t!” It’s Daryl, not Dwight. He pulls Steve back, arm around his chest to cage him in, and passes the crossbow off to Sherry. She puts it on her back and takes the gun from Dwight, keeping a steady aim while he stands the bike up. Daryl’s bike – the one he built himself, Max said. 
 
The engine starts, fills the clearing with fumes. Sherry tosses them packs of sterile gauze. 
 
“Patch yourselves up.” She wavers, eyes darting down to Steve’s side, Daryl’s bloody arm. “We’re sorry.”
 
Daryl growls, low and dark. “You’re gonna be.”

Head in hands, Steve hears them go. Kicks at the dirt and curses himself, Daryl, whoever the hell those guys were that chased them into this place. 
 
Calloused fingers pry his hands away, but Steve can’t look at him. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Nothing about the last nine months was supposed to happen. Daryl lifts his shirt, pokes at the wound in his side that’s still weeping – only a bullet graze, but a deep one at that. They have no water, nothing to clean it out from all the dirt and ash that’s accumulated over the hours, but Steve can’t find it in himself to care. He’s sick, anyway, stomach cramping with nothing to fill it but a drop of water that he’s probably sweated out by now. 
 
Daryl opens the gauze with his teeth, placing it against Steve’s side with surprising care, flattening the edges so they don’t catch on his shirt. 
 
“You’ll live,” he says. “Now we’re matchin’.”
 
Before Steve can wonder what that means, Daryl’s off again, heading back towards the flayed motorcyclist in the first clearing they collapsed in. Steve kicks at the dirt again, his frustration simmering low but present at all times, and his shoe makes contact with something metal in the dirt. He falls to his knees, swiping away soil with his hands to reveal a metal sign.

Patrick Fuel Company.

Patty. 
 
Steve looks up at Daryl, who runs for a copse of trees gathered tightly and growing sideways. Beneath it: a fuel truck. 
 
He could smile, as Daryl yanks some flayed from the driver seat and beckons him over. He

does

smile, sliding into the passenger seat, all teeth at Daryl in the mirror. 
 
“Guess all that goodwill paid off, huh, Mother Teresa?”
 
“Shut the hell up,” Daryl says, starting the engine. Maybe now, they can finally go home.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Help.” 
 
For a moment –  one single, beautiful moment – Steve doesn’t hear it. That’s somebody else, another voice that belongs to a total stranger from much further afield. It’s not the voice of a little girl who regularly snipes and demands, kicks at his heels and sleeps in his lap, lectures and rants and trots dutifully at his side carrying her

My Little Pony

backpack. 
 
He can live in this moment for as long as it takes for Daryl to slam his foot on the accelerator, for Sasha to grab the walkie and say things he can’t hear, because his head is full of static whining loud enough to cut across all thought. But Sasha jostles him, and before she can press the button to relay her previous message, Steve is grabbing the walkie, and all the words are spilling out. 
 
“Erica, c’mon! Answer us, yeah?”

Static.

“If you can’t answer us, you gotta use Morse code or somethin’, ‘kay?”

Static.

“I need you to answer me, baby.”

Static.

His breaths are coming in quick succession. Gone is all the pain of today – the split in his side, the jolt through his leg – as he presses his feet into the footwell, willing Daryl to drive faster. 
 
Daryl surpasses any expectations and flies down the road, despite its bends. He won’t spare a glance in Steve’s direction, not when the look that will greet him there is so dire and desperate that it might make him forget to hope at all. 
 
Because, even when Erica is frightened, she never lets it show. Steve’s seen the girl face off entire fleets of the flayed – alone, and with nothing but a cattle prod to defend herself – and not a single tear was shed; not during, not after – when Lucas made a point of lecturing her for being so reckless, when Joyce took the time to check her over for bites. He’s seen her run and hide from grown men who would think nothing of hurting her for their own gain, and still, she has been indignant and utterly offensive regarding the notion of their very existence. 
 
Never before has her voice sounded like that – not when he and Robin were taken, not when Lucas was beaten – and Steve wishes he’d never heard it. 
 
“We’ll get there,” Sasha says, sounding so sure. 
 
To his right, Abraham tenses. “Sons of bitches won’t know what hit ‘em.”
 
And, as it turns out, neither will they.
 
—
 
Steve stumbles out of the truck, caught by Abraham, who sets him right before leading him on. 
 
“It’s great! Going well right out of the gate.” 
 
The men on the bikes look like what Hopper used to make them hide from. Nancy would act all indignant, pissed, like she was fit to march right over and take each of them out herself, until Hopper placed a hand on her shoulder and silently begged her not to. Steve never had such conviction – sure, he allowed the kids to lead him into the tunnels, readily stumbled into the trap that was the elevator – he held no desire to stand toe to toe with the likes of these men and demand any kind of justice. 
 
He was never that brave. But right now, he doesn’t want to be brave. He just wants to get home. 
 
“Now, step two. Hand over your weapons,” says the leader.
 
“Why should we?” Daryl asks, and while Sasha and Abraham are plenty capable, Steve wishes he were standing beside him. 
 
His bat is still in the footwell, kept carefully between his knees as the tyres bounced beneath them. Daryl’s crossbow, Sasha and Abraham’s guns, are all in the back of the truck. 
 
“Well, they’re not yours,” says the man. 
 
“Who’s are they?” asks Sasha, her eyes hard and her voice cutting. 
 
The man’s eyes, even from this distance, grow wide and glaring. “Your property…” he starts. “Now belongs to Negan.”
 
Steve’s skin crawls, pulse thumping wildly in his chest and spreading down to his fingers and toes. 
 
“And if you can get your hands on a tanker, you’re people our person wants to know.” 
 
As the man approaches, he does his very best not to take a step back. To follow Daryl’s lead, Sasha’s planted stance; anchor himself by the feeling of Abraham’s hand briefly touching his back. 
 
“So, let’s get those sidearms, shall we?” The man moves for Daryl, casual as anything. “Right now.” He thanks Daryl and Sasha, almost meek in his actions, polite and calm. The act would be much more convincing were it not for the twenty or so men stacked behind him on motorcycles, armed to the teeth. 
 
“What?” he asks, stopping in front of Steve. “Nothing?” Steve scowls, shakes his head, plants his feet. “I would wonder if they’re keeping you here to look pretty, but there’s nothing pretty about how you’re looking right now, kid.”
 
Abraham’s fist tightens on the back of Steve’s shirt. 
 
“If you have to eat shit,” the man says to him. “Best not to nibble. Bite, chew, swallow, repeat. It goes quicker.”
 
When Abraham gives him the gun from his holster, he has to let go of Steve’s shirt, leaving him swaying on the spot. 
 
“Who are you people?” Sasha asks. 
 
“I get the curiosity, but we have questions ourselves. And we’ll be the ones asking them while we drive you back to wherever it is you call home. Take a gander at where you hang your hats. First though,” he says, pointing to the truck. “Your shit. What have you got for us?”
 
“Yeah, you just took it,” says Daryl.
 
“Come on.” The man rolls his eyes. “I mean, can we not? Okay? There’s more. There is

always

more.”
 
He calls one of the men from their bikes and it seems that he’s heading for Daryl. And maybe it’s the cowardly part of Steve that hopes it’s the case, because he has no idea what to do, but his hopes usually amount to nothing and aren’t going to change their tune today of all days. 
 
“Take pretty boy here to the back of the truck, start inside the back bumper, work your way to the front.”
 
Rough hands grab him by the scruff of his neck, shove him towards the back of the truck. He stumbles, catches himself on its sides. His leg, for all it’s holding up, begins dragging. His wound burns viciously. His eyes sting, blur his vision – at the sound of Erica’s voice on a loop in his head. The gunfire through Rick’s radio. 
 
His bat is in the front, there’s little he can do without it. He’s not the tank of this party – not with the size of those men, of Daryl and Abraham. The strength in Sasha’s stance, the words he can still hear her speak to the man, coming assertive and clear. He is under no illusion about why he was chosen to come back here, what with the state of him, and this fact only doubles in truth at the feeling of the biker pulling his belt, shoving him forward and into the truck bed. 
 
“C’mon now,” he says, pinning Steve in place with his hips. “You heard the man.” 
 
There’s very little he can reach from here with his limited range of movement, and were it not for the wound in his side, he might be able to stand straighter, reach forward and grab what he needs, but the man doesn’t seem keen on making it easy. 
 
“I can’t– ” he starts, letting himself struggle a little. Stall. “I can’t reach it.” 
 
Two feet away are the rifles Abraham dumped in the back of the truck when they found the pair in that run through town. Steve wants to take them, to do what he’s told, so he whimpers a little, allows the pain from the day gone by overwhelm him for a fraction of a second. 
 
“Christ,” says the biker. “Ain’t a pick on you.” 
 
Only recovered from a mystery illness, prone to seizing, multiple head injuries and a permanently dopey look on his face. Steve is bleeding all over, listing to one side, unable to support his own weight and at the mercy of an armed man, young and

pretty

and pathetic as he is, he’s not much of a threat at all. 
 
He slumps forward, cheek to the truck bed, as the biker huffs. Gun to the side and no longer pointing at the back of Steve’s head, he’s content to keep him there with the weight of his body and little else, as he yanks at tarps and lines the rifles up against the bumper. 
 
Short of a few rolling bolts and nails flattened under his stomach, Steve doesn’t have much to work with here. 
 
He doesn’t have much, but Robin always said he had a thick skull. 
 
Slamming his head backwards, putting all his body weight into the effort, he is ready for the man to drop, to curse on his way down. But Steve silences him, quick as anything, landing in a heap on the biker’s groin with a long nail gripped in his fist, slicing a short, deep cut across the jugular. He cuts his fingers on the man’s teeth as they bite down hard in an attempt to get any noise out, nose gushing blood, cracking like a glow stick as Steve squeezes with his other hand. 
 
His hips jump, legs kicking up in retaliation, but it’s futile for the red rivulets that come running out of him. Steve doesn’t even have to count for this part, not anymore, as the feeling of life – the thrum of a living heart – slows beneath him, Erica’s cry for help ringing in his head over and over and over until he forgets where he is entirely. 
 
The truck. 
 
Using the bumper for leverage, he stands. Eyes the rifles lined up and weighs their use against twenty or so men. The biker will turn soon, but Steve won’t be around much longer. The flayed are nothing to this. The flayed aren’t armed, threatening to barge into their home and commit acts far worse than death against their people. Against his kids. He knows this song and dance, even if the names tend to change. He sees a much, much larger looking gun, and knows precisely what he has to do. 
 
He only needs to stand long enough to shoot it. Whatever kickback there is will send him tumbling, but at least the men will all be dead. Back against the truck, he hides, uses it for stability, as he works his way back around. A quick peek tells him that things have escalated, the words all meshing together terribly in his ears. 
 
Daryl is there with his hands up, and Steve knows it’s bad. Knows that, more than anything, they have to get home. Each of them, as close to unharmed as possible. So, he steps out, stealthy as a ninja, and fires. 
 
And falls. 
 
Bloated clouds of orange, black, and red consume the road before them. He’s blinded, momentarily, ears ringing wildly from the hit to his head, the force of his fall. All at once, it begins to hurt, and he thinks that maybe he shouldn’t have used his skull to break the biker’s nose and that Erica won’t be happy with him, but Erica can be mad at him all he wants if it means he gets to see her again.
 
Hands are touching him, checking him over. Steve can’t see them, only the fire as it sinks lower in the sky and licks the pavement, the pink limbs strewn about in heaps. 
 
He scrambles backwards on grazed palms, bitten fingers, the world spinning around him; faces swimming and demanding his attention. For a moment, he thinks he’s seizing, or that this might be something worse, until there are hands on his cheeks and some more on his back; the sleeves of dress blues either side of him – Abraham, a brick wall against him.
 
“Up you get, Trigger.” 
 
He hauls Steve to his feet, hands under his arms. Sasha keeps a keen eye on their surroundings, while Daryl lifts Steve’s shirt, using a piece of fabric to better bind the wound. 
 
“Max’s gonna kill you,” Steve slurs.
 
Daryl lifts his bloody elbow as if to show it off. “Not if she kills you first.”
 
They bundle him into the truck, where Sasha – restless and impatient – claims the wheel on account of Daryl being more injured from the bike than he initially let on. Sandwiched between Daryl and Abraham, Steve watches the flames as they drive by, notes all the beautiful bikes – how they could have another for the one that was taken from them, if not for him blowing the whole convoy up. 
 
“‘M sorry,” he says, sinking as low as the seat will allow. 
 
“What you sorry for?” Abraham asks, stopping his slow descent towards the nails of his bat with a hand to the knee. “Saved us some bullets in our brains and some shit in our drawers.” 
 
“Max said you really like bikes.” Steve looks up at Daryl, jaw working the words out, forehead butting above his injured elbow. “Said you were in a biker gang.”
 
Overwhelming silence fills the truck for a minute, at the very least, before Daryl says: “Nah, that was her daddy. Merle was all in with the Savage Sons on the rare occasion he was outta prison.” Max didn’t mention that part. “Not me, though. Bunch’a assholes.”
 
“Still,” Steve sighs, the motion pinching at his side. “Dwight took yours.” 
 
Daryl grunts, eyes on the road. “Better’n the alternative.” 
 
Sometime along the way, between Steve’s eyes slipping closed and open again in long and heavy blinks – skull throbbing, side splitting, vision skewing toward unreliable at best – it grows dark outside. The truck is so loud and yet Steve, with his hearing admittedly quite impaired, can hear without problem the resounding hush of the flayed that travels, punctuated by stray bullets, a woman screaming. 
 
When Abraham and Sasha leave, he tries to follow them. But the doors slam, Daryl grabs him – one hand on Steve’s shoulder the other on the wheel. 
 
“They got this.”
 
Steve could scale the gate quicker than any of them with the truck as a boost, and while his aim is nothing close to that of Nancy, Hop, or Lucas, precision isn’t hardly vital. 
 
“Kid,” says Daryl, as Abraham and Sasha fire rounds of artillery over the gate – accompanied by an inexplicable whoop. “I got a plan.” 
 
Steve hisses, pulling himself forward in the seat. “Mind sharing?”
 
The gate opens and, slowly, the truck crawls forward. More footsteps land on the roof as Glenn runs their way. He hops in the truck, blood down his neck, breaths coming fast and hard. 
 
“What the hell happened?” asks Daryl. 
 
“Where are the kids?” asks Steve. 
 
“I dunno,” Glenn says. “I just got back.” The look he shares with Daryl doesn’t bode well. “Listen… we can– we can lead some of them away, but they’re scattered.”
 
“No,” says Daryl. “We get ‘em all together. Won’t have to lead ‘em away.”
 
He slams on the ceiling with his fist and starts off into Alexandria. Amongst the hoard, weapons fly, and in the dark Steve spies the whip of Rosita’s ponytail, Spencer’s tall frame, Aaron’s husband, maybe, and the lady from the armoury. 
 
No kids, until– Carl, hat nearly flying off his head with each swing he takes, each creature he knocks flat. No Lucas, Max, Dustin, Erica. No Judith. 
 
The moment the truck stops, Daryl having backed it up to the lake, Steve is flying out after Glenn, bat swinging. The flayed swarm him, their heads rolling as he catches them on the curve. His aim is sure, strong and steady. Eyes scanning the dark, there’s still no sign of the kids, and he ought to be glad for it – they’re safe inside, surely – but the feeling of something

wrong, wrong, wrong

spurs him on. Each hit takes a year from his short life, vibrates up his shaking arms. He can only keep going, nails lodging into rotten flesh and muscle, blood painting his legs. He plants his feet, swings down hard, voice sounding to his own ears as if it belongs to someone else, feels as if it’s coming from another throat entirely. 
 
“Steve!” Daryl is perched on top of the truck, the bazooka aimed towards the lake. “Get your ass up here.”
 
In the front, Abraham is crammed in beside Maggie, Sasha, Enid, and Glenn. The plan becomes clear, and while Steve wants to sprint in the opposite direction – further into Alexandria in hopes of finding the kids – he knows he won’t make it through the flayed on time.
 
“Fuck it.” 
 
His bat makes contact with rotten heads the whole way over, feet kicking back as he struggles to scale the ladder, Daryl’s hand reaching down to grab him. 
 
“I gotcha.” 
 
He hauls Steve up, and just as he gains steady footing, he fires the bazooka into the lake, setting the surface of the water ablaze. It burns their faces, sending hot orange light into the night sky. The flayed turn in unison, marching steadily in the direction of the fire. 
 
“Just had to go one bigger, huh?”
 
Daryl spares him a glance before sliding smoothly off the top of the truck. Steve fumbles, landing poorly on his bad leg, and bolts for the others, who are steadily making a dent in their so-called ‘walker’ population. 
 
“Henderson!” Steve shouts. “Sinclair! Max!”
 
But if he thinks too much on them and not the people fighting around him, the loneliness will catch. While what’s been found here is a family for certain, these children are the first family he’s ever had. They’re his to protect, to nurture. To coddle and kiss, nag and lecture. 
 
Steve fights and fights and fights, mindless of what is happening around him – a machine, really, slicing broad strokes and kicking, shoving, stomping, howling – until dawn breaks over the rooftops and white light floods through the clouds. Until Rick is talking quietly to Daryl and Sasha is doing her best to drag Steve to the infirmary. 
 
He struggles, casting his eyes around wildly for any sign of them, until they are right there. Under his nose. 
 
“Oh, fuck.” 
 
He crushes Lucas and Dustin to his chest, only beginning to check them over for injuries, when he hears his name from down the street. 
 
He sprints back down the steps of the infirmary, leaps across bodies and bodies and bodies. 
 
Erica is a splash of yellow on the horizon. His arms wrap around her, tight enough to bruise. He  sweeps her off her feet and holds her as close as he can. He can feel the frantic beat of her heart, his collar wet with tears. Lucas latches to his waist, to Erica’s legs, and then there’s Dustin; Steve can breathe again. 
 
“It’s okay.” Heart in his throat. He’s choking, he’s laughing. “You’re okay.” 
 
Gently, he puts her down. Lucas takes a moment to hold his sister, to check her over. She has a small cut on her forehead, and Steve wants to fuss, but his hands are dirty and bleeding and she is still so small. 
 
“Your hair is cool,” he says instead, to say anything. “Digging the beads.” 
 
“I’m mad at you,” says Erica, though she flushes happily with the compliment. 
 
Steve laughs. Can’t help it. Doubles over, clutches his ribs, coughs a little on what gets stuck. “I know.” Spits a glob of blood onto the cracked pavement. “That’s fine by me. Just be mad where I can see you, okay?”
 
Beth approaches their small group, her arm wrapped in bright white gauze. “You good?” Steve asks her. 
 
“You need to come with me.”
 
“I’m fine, really.”
 
“Steve…”
 
Lucas is crying then, sniffling into Steve’s dirty jacket as he tries to tug him toward the infirmary. “Hey, hey,” he says, hand on the boy’s cheek. “What’s wrong?”
 
But Lucas has no need to answer, not when Daryl starts yelling, arms swinging, shoving through the door of the infirmary despite Rick’s best efforts. 
 
“Ron shot her in the eye,” Dustin says, voice thick with upset. “But then Carl shot him, so…”
 
Steve must fall, because Erica’s jelly rings catch in his hair as she holds him there. Beth is quick to join him, kneeling on the pavement among the dead. 
 
“Come inside,” she urges, beckoning somebody – Abraham, maybe – over. 
 
He’s all hollowed out. Insides cold and empty. Absently, he is aware of the world moving, shifting from beneath his feet. He’s being held, much like a baby, brought up steps and past faces that are painted in muddy red. Dress blues and butter yellow. Beth’s white bandages as she whispers a quiet rhythm close to his ear.

Denise has her.

She’s going to be okay, Steve.

She’s alive.

Max is alive.

And he’s gone again: eyes rolling back, mind in the clouds, heart on fire.