[ ONE AND A HALF YEARS BEFORE ]

"Don't move."

Daryl flinched anyway. Not much — just a twitch in his shoulder, but enough to make Sybilla glare at him like she was considering smacking him upside the head.

The rag she pressed against his back felt like it was peeling him open from the outside. His muscles went tight, every single one.

It had been nearly midnight when she heard the taps at her window. Three soft clicks, like someone flicking pebbles against the glass. Sybilla knew who it was before she even got up, and when she peeled the curtain back, she could just make out his shape under the streetlight, shoulders slumped, face hidden by dark hair and shadows of the night.

And so she climbed out her window without thinking, same way she always did. Same way he always did for her, when it was her turn to show up bruised and quiet.

That was their routine. Their fucked-up, secret little ritual.

Sybilla huffed. "Told ya not to move." She dipped the rag back into the stolen bottle of antiseptic and wrung it out. The water in the bowl between them was already pink, little ribbons of blood swirling inside it. She tried not to think about how much of it had come from him. "Ya could at least pretend like I ain't killin' you."

He exhaled sharp through his nose. "Ain't killin' me."

"Yeah, well, ya just jumped like I stuck a cattle prod up your ass, so excuse me if I got confused."

They both knew this routine better than they knew their own birthdays. Almost seventeen years old and they knew how to patch each other up better than most doctors. Her from cleaning up after her own messes, him from living in a house where broken skin was just part of the wallpaper.

Normal friends didn't do this. Normal friends hung out after school and talked about stupid crushes and bad movies. They went to parties together or they spend hours on the phone just for the hell of it. They didn't spend half their nights sneaking out windows to scrub blood out of each other's clothes.

Two screwed-up kids, drunk more days than they were sober, crawling out windows and disappearing into the woods when their houses got too mean or too dangerous. They didn't talk about the future because neither of them believed in one. 

They weren't best friends. They weren't dating. They weren't anything you could stick a label on. They were two kids clawing for an exit, and the only way out was each other.

They were screwed up and half-wild and holding each other together with spit and duct tape.

The sun was rising now, slowly spilling gold light through the branches, turning everything soft. It didn't match the scene in front of her, but maybe that was just how life worked. Beautiful things sitting right next to ugly ones.

"Where'd you even get all this shit?" he mumbled, eyes flicking down to the bottle of antiseptic. Sybilla's fingers brushed against his shoulder blade— just barely, just enough to make him realise how cold her hands were. Or perhaps he was too warm, body running hot from the sting of fresh wounds and cheap antiseptic.

Almost proud, she smirked. "Five-finger discount."

He shifted, wincing when she pressed the cloth to another raw stripe. He should've known. Sybilla had quick hands and even quicker feet — good at slipping things into her pockets when no one was watching. Not because she liked stealing, but because she had to. Because Christian drank rent money and groceries were optional.

"Figures."

"What? Ya thought I had a secret stash of medical supplies? Got a whole damn Walgreens hidden under my bed?"

That made him snort, but he winced when it made his back pull tight. She could feel the muscles twitch under her hands, a hint of pain he tried to hide and failed. Something in her chest squeezed hard, sharp enough to hurt — but she shoved it down where it belonged. There was no use feeling sorry for things you couldn't change.

At least, that's what she told herself. That nothing cracked her open.

But she knew that was a lie. She felt sorry for spiders getting smashed under someone's boot, and how it wasn't their fault they crawled into the wrong corner. She felt sorry for those stupid birds breaking their own necks flying into windows they couldn't see.

She felt sorry for Meredith. The woman who came closest to being a mom, even if she never called herself one. Meredith, who tried to smile through a busted lip, who made breakfast one-handed because the other was too swollen to hold a spatula.

And she felt sorry for a boy she knew. A boy who always came back to the same hell he was born into, because he didn't know how to leave it. A boy with skin that never had time to heal before the next hit landed. A boy who looked angry enough to punch a hole in the world, and hurt enough to crawl into one if he could.

But the ones who caused all that hurt? The ones who left the marks on his skin, the ones who made him knock on her window in the middle of the night, the ones who cracked Meredith open until all her soft parts spilled out?

She didn't feel one drop of sorry for them.

"They only got one camera in the store. In the front. Not in the aisles," she said absently, like they were just talking weather. "Ya slip a few things in your bag while you browse, pay for somethin' small at the register, 'n no one looks twice."

Daryl turned his head just enough to catch her in the corner of his eye. "And you know this how?"

She snorted. "Because I ain't a complete idiot, Dixon."

She pressed the rag against another cut, and he stiffened again, shoulders jerking up before he forced them back down.

"Would ya stop that?" she muttered.

"Ain't my fault you're heavy-handed."

"Heavy-handed? I am treatin' you like a damn porcelain doll right now. Ya want heavy-handed, I can—"

"You can what?" he cut in, glancing back at her with a lopsided smirk.

She narrowed her eyes, pressing the rag down a little harder.

"Fuck—alright, alright," Daryl hissed, twisting away from her hand, which only made it worse. "Sadist."

Now she was the one smirking. "That's what I thought."

Letting go of the rag, she rocked back onto her heels, eyes sweeping over the mess of his back. The bleeding had slowed to a sluggish trickle, the raw skin shiny and red, lines crisscrossing like a roadmap. He'd be stiff as hell tomorrow.

Not that he'd ever admit it.

Sybilla reached for the roll of gauze she'd swiped — another five-finger discount — and started wrapping the worst of the cuts. It wasn't like she knew what she was doing. She wasn't a nurse, wasn't even passing biology half the time. But she knew enough. Keep it clean. Keep it covered. That was good enough.

She wasn't trying to touch more of him than necessary, but her knuckles skimmed his side when she shifted, and he twitched so fast it startled her.

Her hands froze. One eyebrow quirked up slow. "...You ticklish?"

Immediately, he scowled. "No."

A grin bloomed across her mouth. "You so are."

"I ain't."

"You so are."

"Sybilla—"

Before he could see her coming, she poked at his ribs. Just to test.

Daryl damn near jumped out of his skin.

Sybilla's grin turned feral. "Hell yes."

"Cut that shit out," he growled, twisting around to swat at her, but she was quicker — ducking back just out of reach, laughing so hard she snorted.

He was scowling, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile — and that only made her laugh harder.

"Nope. This is real important information."

"It ain't."

"Oh, it is." She went back to wrapping the cloth around his ribs, but the smirk never left her face. "Just imagine all the ways I could use this."

Daryl scoffed. "You ain't usin' shit."

He grunted in pain when she pulled the bandage tight.

"Quit bein' such a baby," she muttered.

"Quit bein' rough," he shot back.

Sybilla smirked. "You want me to kiss it better too?"

Daryl groaned. "Jesus."

Just because she knew it annoyed him, she let the smirk linger. "Bet you'd like that, huh?"

He gave her a flat look over his shoulder. "You're high as hell."

She gasped, hand over her chest like he'd just accused her of war crimes. "I am a law-abidin' citizen, Daryl."

"Law-abidin' my ass. Ya just admitted to robbin' a Walgreens."

"That don't count," she said, waving him off. "Stealin' medical supplies is practically charity work. It's like... like a public service. Robin Hood shit."

Daryl snorted. "Yeah? Ya givin' 'em to the poor and needy?"

"Uh, yeah. Obviously." She gestured at his sorry, beaten-up self. "Exhibit A."

"Wow." He rolled his eyes, grumbling under his breath. "Real fuckin' generous."

"I'm just sayin'," she went on, wrapping the last bit of gauze around his ribs. "Don't worry. I'm poor and needy too."

Daryl gave her a look. "You done?"

"Yes, actually."

Finally, she tied off the bandage and sat back again. It was a little lopsided, maybe, and she was pretty sure the gauze wasn't supposed to be this loose, but it would do.

Daryl shifted like he was trying to find a position that didn't make his back feel like it was made of raw meat. He failed. Every move sent another flash of pain up his spine, lighting up his nerves like a busted power line.

Instead of saying a single thing, he watched Sybilla pick up the bowl of bloody water with both hands. The pink-tinged liquid sloshed against the sides as she stood.

She tipped it over, dumping the mess onto the thirsty dirt below. The ground soaked it up quick, like it'd been waiting. The little ripples in the puddle settled, the earth greedily pulling it down, down, down. And then it was gone. Like it had never been there at all.

She wiped her hands on her jeans — mostly for show, since all she'd done was pour water, but still. She watched Daryl from the corner of her eye as he yanked his shirt back over his head. Slow, careful. His back probably felt like it'd been skinned alive, all raw and stinging.

Then she sat back down next to him, resting her hands behind her and stretching her legs out in front of her. The ground was still warm from the sun, but the air had that evening cool creeping into it, brushing up her arms.

Above her, the sky was turning dusky purple, stars starting to blink awake, little freckles against the dark. Cicadas screamed from the trees. Somewhere way off, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

"Y'ever look up at the stars too long and start freakin' out 'bout how small you are?" she mused.

Daryl only huffed. "No."

"Well, I do."

"Shockin'."

She ignored the dig. "I'm serious," she went on, eyes still skyward. "We're just these stupid little dots on a floatin' rock in the middle of fuckin' nowhere. And the universe? That shit does not care about us. At all. Don't even know we exist. Ya ever think 'bout that?"

"No."

Her gaze swept over to his stare, and she let out a groan. "Ya got the soul of a brick, I swear."

More silence. The wind sang, rustling through the trees, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and pine. And the hints of weed rolling off her skin. Daryl didn't comment on that, because what would be the point?

"Guess it don't matter, though."

Barely looking at her, Daryl raised a brow.  "What don't?"

"Bein' small."

He frowned, but didn't say anything. She always explained eventually.

And indeed, she stretched her arms up, cracking her knuckles. "I mean, yeah, we're just stupid little dots or whatever, but..." She flicked a glance his way, smirking. "Some stupid little dots matter more than others."

Daryl shifted, pretending like he wasn't listening too hard. Like the words didn't sink into the cracks of his ribs and settle there, warm and cozy.

But Sybilla could see the way his fingers twitched where they rested on his knee. The way his breath stuttered just a little too sharp, like he was trying to cough something out of his chest before it had a chance to make itself at home.

He huffed a half-assed laugh through his nose, shaking his head. He reached down and grabbed a stick off the ground, snapping it into smaller and smaller pieces, just to give his hands a job.

"You're so full of shit."

Sybilla watched his hands, his fingers moving all absentminded and automatic. Like his body didn't know how to sit still unless it had a job to do.

"Probably," she admitted, dragging the toe of her boot through the dirt, making patterns she'd forget two seconds later. Then her chin tilted up again, eyes back on the stars like they owed her answers they were never gonna give.

They didn't have any, of course. But they sure were pretty.

✎ NOVA'S NOTES

this was a pretty short chapter so i hope you don't hate me now :P all of the pre-apocalypse chapters will be on the shorter side, because i'm just setting the stage and showing their lives + relationship before the outbreak. the chapters will get way longer in part two!!!

as always, don't forget to vote and comment! love u guys sm <3