Disclaimer! I unfortunately do not own any part of the Walking Dead franchise, including the characters. It is the storyline I claim and that is it.

As an author's note, this is my grand re-entrance into writing Fanfiction. It's been a couple years since I've had any shows that I love enough to write anything more than little one shot drabbles that don't leave my head. So all my love to Robert Kirkman, writer of the comics, and the writers of the show for bringing these characters to life! Please read, hopefully like it, and leave me some reviews! This will end up being a multi-chapter story, though I can't say how far it'll go. I've got a plot working itself out, and updates should be about once a week, depending on how my schedule works out and how finicky the characters decide to be. Enjoy!

-Pyrate


02/21/2012

Prompt: 2 AM

Fandom: Walking Dead

Pairing: Daryl Dixon/Carol Peletier

It was the steady, rhythmic plunk that woke him, driving the already elusive sleep even further away. For a split second, Daryl forgot where he was and chalked the sound up to Merle banging his latest score. He rolled over on his shitty mattress to slam a fist against the wall, preparing a sarcastic comment about whatever disease his brother was sure to wake up with. His body met the hard ground instead, his fist not making a damn sound as it plowed into the soft material of the tent. The ensuing fumbling and curses brought him from the sleepy illusion, bringing the harsh reality of this new world rushing back to the forefront of his mind.

He took a minute to just lie there in the darkness, reveling in the peace before recalling the odd noise outside his tent. The hunter in him was immediately on guard, shouting at his body to get up and investigate. The rational part that just wanted to go back to sleep told the hunter to shut the fuck up. Walkers shuffled, not marched in time. Even still, he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep until he knew what was going on.

Pushing himself up, he disentangled the sleeping bag and blankets that had gotten wrapped around his lower body, pushing them to side. His sore muscles screamed in protest as he rose, burning from physical labour of yesterday. God, was just a few hours to sleep it off too much to ask? He grumbled under his breath as he unzipped his tent and stepped out into the frigid night. The odd noise had stopped, making him pause. The ruckus he'd made coming out of the tent must have frightened whatever it was off.

If he had really overreacted for a squirrel or some other stupid little critter—well, he knew what they'd be having for breakfast tomorrow. His hand crept around to finger the knife strapped to his hip, tightening on the hilt as the thumping resumed. He brought the knife up in front of his chest, taking a defensive position as he stepped forward.

His muscles tensed in anticipation, his heart rate accelerating as it always did before a potential kill. The rush of adrenaline was exhilarating as it flooded his system. If it was a walker, he'd enjoy taking it down, provided it wasn't just one of many.

An ambush was definitely not what he needed when running on what couldn't be more than three hours of sleep. One walker? Easy as skinning a squirrel. Half a dozen? Well, he wasn't so inclined to stick around with just his hunting knife. No matter how it looked, jerking a knife out of skull and brain matter was no easy task. And he sure as hell wouldn't be able to take down five fast enough to save his ass from getting bit. Considering he wanted to be around to see his next birthday, whatever made up date in the future that might be, he silently hoped it was just one geek.

It wasn't difficult to figure out where the sound was coming from. It was also increasing in speed. Furrowing his brow, Daryl picked up his pace, hurrying toward the tree line before the open land that old man Hershel's house stood on. What he saw confused the hell out of him. A figure, one he wasn't completely able to make out, was . . .throwing itself at a tree? For a second, he just stood there stunned, completely unsure what to make of this. He'd seen a lot of idiots in his time and walkers took the meaning brain dead far too literal, but what the hell? Resisting the urge to laugh, he let his grip on the knife loosen slightly. No sense in embedding the handle into his flesh for this one.

As he approached the figure slowly began to take shape, features becoming more distinct as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He saw a slight frame, too slim from months of stress and an improper diet. Short hair kept close to the scalp. A thin arm wrapped tightly around one of his hatchets. Another step forward let him see the dozens of gashes in the bark of the tree where a thin, sharp object had repeatedly been driven into it. The muscle in his jaw ticked as his teeth clenched. He didn't bother to keep his steps quiet anymore; so what if the crazy woman heard him? Serve her right to get a little scared. He nearly stalked over to her, wanting to wrench the damned hatchet out her hand. He knew the moment she heard the leaves and twigs crunch beneath his feet, her body tensing as her ears pricked up. She didn't turn, but stood there poised in preparation for an attack. He refused to be proud of her for that.

"What do you want, Daryl?" Carol's voice was rough, her throat raw from smothered cries and ragged breathing. The words were shaky, threatening to break on her. She swallowed that weakness and inhaled slowly, trying to work up the courage to turn around and look at him. She only made it halfway, turning her head to the side to view him from her peripherals. It was dark, not like she'd really be able to see him anyway. It should be easier in the dark; she wouldn't have to see the look on his face. And yet, that's not how her brain rationalized it. So she didn't look directly at him, keeping her eyes fixed on a stick a few feet away.

"The fuck are you doing?" The words, though vulgar and harsh, didn't come out that way. They were tense, but tinged with exhaustion and confusion. Slightly taken off guard, she shrugged and gestured to the tree with the hand that held the hatchet.

"Redecorating," she replied sarcastically, swiping a hand across her brow before finally turning around to face him. She kept her stance stiff, the hatchet swaying by her side. She hoped he would get the idea and just leave her alone. Talking to anyone, especially him, was the last thing she wanted to do right now. Hacking away at the tree had been making her feel better, a kind of violent therapy that she was nowhere near done with after the fitful night of sleep she hadn't gotten. It had been hard enough trying to sleep by herself in her tent. Another one of those nights where every time she closed her eyes she saw her baby girl reaching out to her, begging to be found and saved. When she finally had gotten to sleep, she'd been haunted by images of that day. Seeing that little body stumble out of the barn over and over again. She shook her head sharply, burying the resurfacing images and the feelings of despair that came with them.

Daryl's amused snort brought her back to the present. "Hershel'll love what you've done." He pointed at her with the hand that stiff held the knife, the blade steady and accusing. "You're a new breed a fool for being out by yourself, woman. Suppose a walker had happened by? What would you have done then?" Dropping the knife back into the holster at his hip, he fixed her with a sharp glare as a disturbing train of thought wiggled into his brain.

"Would you have done anything?" He couldn't get keep the accusatory venom from his voice, his real question blatant. He watched her eyes widen in the dark, her mouth opening in surprise.

"Is that what you think I was doing out here? Playing the role of bait in some twisted game of Go Fish?" Carol couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh or scream. A more ridiculous theory, she'd never heard. Sure, she'd been a little spacey the last couple of weeks, but she wouldn't want that fate for anyone, especially herself. She shivered at the thought. Only twice since the world had gone to shit had she contemplated taking the easy way out: when the outbreak had first started, and when the search for Sophia had entered it's third week. Oh, how she had wanted to give up. So badly had she wished to just opt out, be with her parents and her little girl up in Heaven. But something had stopped her.

The first time, she'd had Sophia. No way in hell would she had left her baby with Ed. She'd seen the way he had looked at her. The way he had touched her. His own daughter! No, she'd had to protect Sophia. And then when her little girl had no longer been with her, she'd found another reason to live. She still didn't completely understand it and wasn't ready to admit it.

Daryl's snarled reply interrupted her again. "What the hell else am I supposed to think? Out here making all this noise with nobody around to save your ass." He took a menacing step toward her, making her want to retreat against the tree at her back. She forced her legs to stay, holding her ground as she'd done the other night with him.

"I am not completely helpless, Daryl Dixon, no matter what you might think." Her grip tightened on the hatchet in her hand as she spoke the words, jerking the weapon up to emphasize her point. Sure, slamming the blade into a walker's skull would have been different than doing so in a tree, but still. She could have handled it. Maybe.

"And so what if that's what I came out here to do anyway?" She asked softly. "I'm just alone and afraid. I'm not your problem."

Daryl's breath froze in his throat, his heart tightening as she threw his words back at him. He could tell she wasn't done. Not nearly. He'd gone off on her the other night, and now it was her turn.

"I have no husband. No daughter. Both of them gone, dead. Taken by those—those monsters!" She lifted her arm, gesturing the dark abyss that was the world. Somewhere out there, probably not far, were more of those things. Her fury gathered as she spoke, her voice strengthening in anger. "I'm alone in this hell on earth. Frankly, I'm glad Ed's gone. He was bad enough to deal with without having the walkers to worry about too. But Sophia? She was all I had left in this bleak, ugly, world. Now she's gone. So why shouldn't I just offer myself to them on a silver platter? What have I got to live for?"

She paused, letting the question fully settle over her. The question had been looming over her for weeks, the answer eluding her for just as long. What did she have to live for? The thought of death didn't seem nearly as scary has it had two years ago. Unnerving, but not scary. But behind the lingering fear and uncertainty, she knew she didn't want to die. She wanted to find something good in this world again, something to live for.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she felt more sure of herself. "I'm still scared, but I'm not suicidal, Daryl. I may not have my family anymore, but I've got the group. I've got me. I will live for me and make something of this life."

Carol nodded her head sharply to emphasize her point. She wasn't sure if her admission was more for her benefit or Daryl's, but it felt good to say it anyway.

An uncomfortable silence hung between them, Carol unwilling to say anything else, and Daryl unsure of how to reply. What do you say to follow that? He'd always had a certain with words and women, and hadn't had any problem consoling Carol during the search for Sophia. His confident words of how the little girl would be "just fine" rung in his ears, as did the story of the Cherokee Rose he'd told her. The times when she'd most needed a kind and optimistic word, he hadn't hesitated. But now, when the tragedy had already struck and the words were needed again, he found himself at a complete loss for them.

"Then what were you doing out here?" The question was harsher than he intended, but it needed to be asked. He watched her carefully as she seemed to mull over her answer. Her shoulders fell in defeat, the anger leaving her body in a rush. She shrugged, sighing tiredly.

"I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Physical exertion seemed like a better option than just lying in my tent." She felt awkward now, standing there holding the hatchet. It didn't seem likely that Daryl was just going to let her go back to hacking away at the tree and she had no desire to go back to not sleeping.

Daryl nodded slowly, letting his eyes drop back down the hatchet. Not saying a word, he held his hand out to her, stepping forward when she hesitated. He mentally breathed a sigh of relief when she didn't try to stop him from taking the weapon from her. Running his thumb over the cutting edge, he frowned.

"You did a fine job dullin' the hell outta the blade. Come on; if you're gonna keeping going 'American Psycho' on trees with my blades, you're gonna learn how to keep 'em sharp." He jerked his head back towards his tent, where he kept whetstones for the various weapons the group had collected over the months.

Carol followed close behind him, careful to keep her footsteps quiet and not wake the others. Daryl was quick in grabbing two bags from his tent, tossing her one before placing a hand on her back and ushering her back to the treeline. Scraping a whetstone over a blade wasn't the quietest of activities and he nobody else needed to be awake for now. There was a tall, wide tree stump that would act perfectly as a makeshift table for the lesson.

He set the bag down on the grass, rooting through it to pull out two headlights. He strapped one to his head, motioning Carol to do the same with the one he handed her. "Here. Don't need you cuttin' a finger off. Doubt the Doc would just letcha bleed, but we're not takin' that chance." He reached over to help tighten the band, securing the small light. She flipped it on before he pulled away completely, nearly blinding him in the process. Her apologetic laugh and grin were adorable, something he found himself dwelling on for a second too long. Switching on his own head lamp, he handed the hatchet back to her and bent to withdraw a whetstone from the bag at her feet.

From what Carol could tell, it looked like a small brick. Nothing special, but she took it from him anyway. It felt heavy in her hand, the solid weight comforting. She handed it back and listened intently as he explained how to use it.

"It's a simple process, but easy to fuck up if you're not paying attention," Daryl commented, gripping the whetstone firmly. Laying the hatchet flat on the stump, he rested the stone on the edge of the blade. "Always file away from you; you get a smoother edge and you lessen the risk of your hand slipping." He demonstrated quickly, his hand moving deftly over the weapon. He continued the action, stopping to test the sharpness of the blade every so often. It didn't take long to get it to a satisfactory edge.

"Do the other side." She blinked up at him, hoping he wasn't serious. She tried to protest, but he shoved the whetstone into her hand, rolling his eyes as he did so. She held the stone with a vice-like grip, slightly unnerved with him just standing there watching. She turned the hatchet onto the other side, releasing a shaky breath. Setting the stone at the bottom of the blade, she slid it up a little too roughly.

"Gently," he correct her, moving forward to help her. She stiffened slightly as his large body wrapped around hers, his front pressing loosely against her back. The few inches of height he had on her seemed to make a world of difference as he gazed over her shoulder. "Slide it over the blade carefully. Too hard, and you'll make the sides uneven. Means it won't cut clean and it's liable to get stuck in whatever you're trying to hack at." His words slid over her, somehow registering through the mist that had settled over her brain. His hands rested on hers, moving them over the blade swiftly. If he noticed the tension that kept her shoulders and back rigid, he said nothing, for which she was thankful.

With Daryl's hands guiding hers through the task, she slowly began to get the hang of it He was right, it wasn't difficult; even a little relaxing with the monotony. After a while he stopped helping her, keeping his hands overtop hers just in case, but letting her finish it on her own. It was hard to tell exactly when the blade was perfectly sharpened, but she figured it was good enough. Setting down the whetstone, she brought the hatchet up for inspection, Daryl's hands falling away from hers to take the weapon. He ran his finger over the edge, nodding in approval.

"Not bad," he commented, turning the blade over in his hands. "Next time go a little easier on the bottom, but it ain't bad." He handed it back to her, watching her examine the blade. It was obvious she didn't have the slightest clue exactly what he meant, but he admired her willingness to learn. Switching off the headlamp, he jerked it off his hand to toss it back into the bag on the ground. He took Carol's from her to do the same, throwing in the whetstone after it.

He grabbed the bags, turning around to stalk back towards his tent. He hadn't made it very far before he called back over his shoulder. "You comin' or what? I need sleep and I don't wanna be worryin' about you here on your own." Slightly surprised she hurried forward, falling into step with him. "Make sure you keep that close just in case. Always keep it sharp and don't play with it too much; it ain't a toy." He chucked the bags to the ground, bending down to brush past the tent opening to crash. Her soft words and a hand on his back stopped him. He straightened again, turning back to look at her.

"Thank you," Carol said, smiling at him. "For showing me how to do this, I mean. And for letting me keep it." She clutched the hatchet to her chest as she looked at him, her fingers clenching and unclenching around the wooden handle. He only shrugged, brushing off her thanks.

"Just don't break the damn thing, alright? Hard enough to come by as it is." With that, he disappeared into his tent, effectively ending the conversation. She stood there for a moment, just staring at his tent in the dark before retreating to her own. Kicking off her shoes, she settled down on the mass of sleeping bag and blankets that acted as a makeshift bed. The hatchet she set beside her pillow, keeping it safely within reach should she need it. She took a moment to desperately pray that she wouldn't, but she was slowly coming to terms with the fact that she would probably have to. It was a terrifying thought, but she would make it. Curling into the blankets, she closed her eyes, a blissfully dreamless sleep overtaking her.