Some nights, they still communicated through simple written notes.
By that point, Daryl had both a solid understanding as well as an ability to communicate the vast majority of his own thoughts to her...about her...through ASL. Some nights, however, when it was a particularly peaceful night at the Hilltop and everyone's lights had dimmed in their windows…when the warm, summer breeze and the smell of the grass would roll over them in gentle waves from where they would lay out under the stars… he and Connie went back to the way they had communicated when they first met.
When neither of them had any idea what they would become to one another.
Those nights had become somewhat of a unspoken paradise between them. She would lay her head on his chest and he would hold her tightly to the side of his body...as if he was afraid to let go. And he was. It was too easy to lose people in this world. She would reach over him to write in the notebook tucked in close to his opposite side. He would usually shiver just slightly when her curls would brush against the base of his neck when she did. Sometimes those nights just consisted of casual conversation — things they would have typically signed to one another from across the table.
But sometimes they would write stories about their past. Before the world ended. She would tell him about her time as a journalist...he would tell her significantly less. He cared for her - hell...maybe he loved her - but those memories were too painful.
One night in particular, after reading the few paragraphs she had written, a small smile tugged at the corners of Daryl's lips. He looked away from the neatly written words on the page and back to the woman whose head rested near the crook of his neck, eyes closed with a blissful smile, before turning his attention back to the white lined paper. He picked up the pen from where she had set it down, and her eyes fluttered open to watch him write:
You've always got everything working out in the end.
Connie's fingers met his to take the pen and begin her own line:
Who wants to hear a story where things don't work out?
Sometimes they don't.
Her hand lingered on his for just a moment longer than it needed to when she reclaimed the pen this time:
We see enough tragedy in this world as it is. When I think back I don't want to remember the bad times.
They looked at one another. God, the way she looked at him. He, admittedly, never truly believed that anyone could look at him that way. The scratching of pen against paper brought his attention back to where she had begun to write once again:
Try. Tell me the happiest story you've got.
Daryl slipped the pen out from between her fingers to respond:
I met someone who changed things. She can see the good in this fucked up world. Now maybe I can too.
Her eyes fluttered up to his face again, and the touch of a smile settled on his lips before he continued:
That's it. That's the story.
Connie took the pen from him, their fingers tangling together briefly when she did:
Tell me how it ends.
Daryl didn't make a move to write again. Instead, his palm cupped her cheek, and he leaned down to brush his lips against hers, holding her close to him as if everything good in this new world...in his life...depended on her and her alone.
Because it did.