Anything recognizable is the property of the appropriate owners. I do not make any claim to ownership, nor do I make any money from this.
Note: I have not seen past Season 4, Episode 9: After.
Daryl knew that he shouldn't have gone hunting when he did, but the prison seemed like it was getting more and more crowded every week. Fresh meat wasn't so much of an issue now that they were able to salt, smoke, and dry anything extra he brought back. It was just a matter of getting away long enough to finally catch his breath before he shot one of the comparatively helpless Woodbury residents out of frustration. The hunter shook his long hair out of his eyes and continued to step carefully through the forest. He stopped and sniffed the air before scowling at the wood around him.
It was definitely winter in Georgia, all of the leaves had already turned and fallen, plus the air smelled of snow. Lately, the council had taken to arguing over how hard the deep winter was likely to be. Daryl had scoffed and walked out in the middle of Hershel's long winded speech about the farmer's almanac predicting a mild season. He had spent enough time in the woods to know that this winter was going to be brutal, not that anyone would believe him. The only person who had listened to his warnings about stocking up warm clothes and dried meats was Carol and she set to her task like she did anything else, with full attention and careful planning.
The hunter adjusted the straps on his backpack and let his mind wander to the older woman. Carol was everything his own mother wasn't, but he never once thought of her as a mother figure to him. She was so much more than the caretaker of their group, she was the backbone that kept them all going. Without the greying woman's care, he was sure half of the group wouldn't even have survived as long as they had. Daryl just wished that someone else would step up a little so she didn't have to constantly work herself ragged.
They had shared a cell since he caught one of the younger Woodbury women sitting on his bed on his perch in the cellblock. Daryl had grabbed up his bag and whipped the blankets out from under the woman before stalking straight to Carol's cell to drop off his stuff. That night, he had been laying on the bottom bunk, staring into the dark when the older woman returned from settling Judith down for the night in Beth's cell. She didn't even bother lighting a candle as she striped off her sweater and climbed into the top bunk and fell straight asleep.
Daryl hadn't been sure what to do. He had planned on announcing himself when she returned for the night, to make sure he could stay. But Carol moved efficiently and was asleep before he figured out how not to startle her in the dark. Unwilling to waste time he could be sleeping, the hunter decided that morning was soon enough to address the new sleeping arrangement, not that he expected her to refuse. They had spent the previous winter practically living on top of each other on the road after all.
Carol was the first to rise, surprising Daryl awake as she slid off the top bunk. He was wrapped up in his blankets so only his hair was exposed, wedged into the corner of the bunk. But he could see enough in the week pre-dawn light to know she had her back to him, removing her shirts in favor of cleaner clothes. The hunter thought it was ungodly early, even by his standards and pretended to be asleep under the covers. Suddenly, the older woman tensed and drew her ka-bar while clutching her shirt to her chest.
"I think you got the wrong cell last night." Carol spoke quietly so as to not wake the whole prison, but firmly, entirely aware that she wasn't alone as she faced the bunk.
Daryl didn't want to get any closer acquainted with the tactical knife he had gifted her so he pulled the blankets away from his face. The armed woman instantly relaxed and tucked the knife away. "Jesus, Daryl! I thought you were one of those Woodbury men trying to get friendly again."
The fact that she didn't ask why he was in her room went straight over his head, but he caught the important part of her sentence. "Again?"
She turned away to pull her shirt over her head and shrugged. "It's nothing. A couple of the guys are persistent, that's all." Dressed, Carol sat at the foot of the bunk. "Why are you in here, anyways?"
Thankful that the weak light wouldn't reveal his slight blush, the younger man grunted. "Found a woman in my bed."
"So you helped yourself to mine?" The smile lit her whole face and Daryl relaxed a little, confident that she wasn't going to kick him out.
"S'that alright?" He asked to make sure they were both on the same page.
"Of course, you're always welcome in my bed." Carol smiled again when she heard the strangled noise the hunter made at her innuendo. Since the first night on the bus, she had taken to teasing him slightly, smiling every time she caught him blushing before she changed the subject. "Coffee'll be ready in a little while."
Nope, definitely didn't think of her as a mother, Daryl shook his hair out of his eyes again, letting go of the memory of her bright smiles. She smiled at everyone, but the hunter liked to think that she saved her best smiles just for him. He checked over his shoulder for any walkers trailing him and wondered not for the first time why he stuck around the prison with their new tenants. The woman he had found in his perch had remained persistent as summer waned, and just that morning had suggested in front of witnesses that they should conserve heat together. Minutes later, Daryl was out of the prison gates and disappeared into the woods.
The only woman he would consider sharing heat with was, of course, Carol. She just seemed to get him. Somehow the older woman knew he hated being touched so she never initiated the contact, but she was always close enough to touch when he rarely worked up the courage to reach out to her. He knew she was aware of the scars, and could guess where they came from, but she never pushed him to talk about it. Hershel had nearly gotten a black eye back at the farm for insisting on a full medical history, including how he got each of his scars. Had tried some line about how he needed to know about any potential interactions between old and new wounds. All Daryl thought the vet needed to know was being skewered by his own bolt was not the worst he had endured.
A stick snapped and leaves rustled around the hunter, sending him turning to determine the direction the sounds came from. The crunch of dry leaves grew louder around him and Daryl vaguely thought the forest was holding its breath. Something was coming, and he didn't think it was dinner. Before the walkers had a chance to spot him, the bowman turned away from the loudest sounds to find shelter. When it was just a handful of walkers, he would normally dispatch them, doing his little part to weedle down the walker numbers. But there were definitely more than a few in the trees behind him.
Hungry groans ahead made the hunter pause next to a large oak tree growing in the center of a meadow. Walkers behind. Fuck. Walkers ahead. Double fuck. His only hope was to climb the tree and hope nothing looked upwards. While it was a large tree with sturdy branches, there wasn't much left in the way of foliage to hide in. But beggars can't be choosers, so he hefted himself into the branches and went still, crossbow at the ready. Moments passed while the groaning grew louder until all he could hear was the wordless laments of the dead. When they finally cleared the brush, Daryl couldn't stifle his whisper.
"Triple fucked."
Not only had he managed to be treed by a decently large herd, he managed to be treed by two herds heading from opposite sides of the meadow. The noises the dead made drew the groups together until the meadow was full of staggering bodies bumping into each other and moaning hungrily. Blessedly, Daryl hadn't been spotted climbing the tree, so it was good news that nothing was actively trying to eat him, but even his nimble mind couldn't come up with a way to escape the walkers milling around below him.
Night would fall soon, and temperatures would be close to freezing after the clear cold day. Daryl wrapped the strap of his bow securely around a branch before slipping out of his backpack to tug the bottom of his coat down so no cold air could reach his lower back. He reminded himself to thank Carol again for the heavy corduroy jacket with added leather sleeves if he managed to get back to the prison in one piece. When. When he got back to the prison, he amended. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night as the light continued to dim towards twilight. Of course he shouldn't have been out hunting so late in the day, but the close quarters were going to drive him up the wall.
Daryl clipped the straps of the backpack around the branch he was sitting on and carefully dug through its contents to evaluate his situation. The bag always contained a mix of useful items he had picked up along the way, but what he was really worried about was warmth. If the wind picked up much more, his jacket wouldn't be enough to keep him from freezing. Fortunately, he had thought to stuff his poncho in the bag that morning and he eagerly pulled it out, careful not to drop anything into the herd below him. If he drew their attention, they wouldn't be able to get to him in the tree, but they also wouldn't leave until something more interesting came along, which he knew could be days.
Tucked snugly into the repurposed horse blanket, the hunter checked again for anything immediately useful in the bottom of the bag with the twigs and crushed leaves that always found their way into his gear. Something unfamiliar tucked in a corner caught his eye, and Daryl withdrew what looked like a rectangular blue plastic compact. But when he opened the lid, he was pleased to find it didn't contain makeup and a mirror, but a four pack of chemical handwarmers. Immediately, his mind went to Carol. Only she would think to add essentials to his bag without telling him, and these might just make the difference for getting back to the prison.
He placed the hand warmers back into his backpack and pulled out his water bottle for a sip. It was all he had to last until the walkers wandered off again, and he didn't much fancy trying to take a leak in a tree without attracting their attention. He thought wistfully of Carol's cooking. Even when they didn't have two sticks to rub together, she managed to put together a better meal than anyone could have hoped. And now that they were settled at the prison with all the supplies they could haul from Woodbury, she made masterpieces. What he wouldn't give for a bowl of her thick hot venison stew.
Not for the first time, Daryl mentally kicked himself for not packing a portable meal or two. Usually if he had to spend the night away from the prison, the hunter would find a few squirrels to tide him over wherever he found shelter for the night. But he knew from experience that trying to roast a varmint over a fire while kipped in a tree would not end well. Not that there were any squirrels around anyways. With nothing else to do, he dug into the backpack again for anything to entertain himself. Instead, he found one of the pockets he never used stuffed full of granola bars and packs of peanuts.
Grinning like a little kid, the scruffy hunter eagerly peeled open a nutrigrain bar. He would never admit to anyone, but they were his favorite ever since Merle had brought him a case of them when he was a little kid and told him they were 'shiny candy bars.' The hunter promised himself he would thank Carol for the treats when he got back to the prison. Nothing had changed in the herd of walkers when he glanced at the ground and Daryl decided it wouldn't be too bad of a night so long as he didn't fall out of the tree if he fell asleep.
Remembering the first time he had attempted to sleep in a tree, and the undignified fall he suffered, Daryl slipped open his belt and tried to tug it out of his pants without allowing any of the chill air to get under his coat. A few minutes of silent cursing, he finally had the leather strap free and wrapped around his upper arm and a smaller branch he was leaning against before buckling it again. A couple of experimental tugs determined that even if he started slipping to the side, the belt would keep him from falling straight down into the mass of walkers below. But even with the belt securing him in his perch, the hunter knew he would never get true restful sleep. The best he could do was nap as much as he could. What he wouldn't give to be back in Carol's bunk, warm and comfortable, and not just because of the bed. He trusted the older woman in ways he had never even trusted Merle.
Author's commentary: I just wanted to make the statement that hypothermia is not something to mess around with. Please don't try to sit in a tree overnight in winter, nor should you attempt to make a fire in a tree. Trust me from personal experience, it will not end well.