A Question of Strength

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The night seemed so much colder now that they were back to living on the run. Winter was coming, but the chill that seemed to be creeping up on them couldn't have solely been because of the weather.

Daryl Dixon sat in front of one of the few tents set up in their campsite, using a dim lantern to give himself minimal lighting as he contemplated the possibility of an attack. His time to wake up Rick to change shifts had long since passed, but he didn't care. He knew sleep wouldn't come any time soon, and he was better off guarding Carol's tent, anyway. If a herd was to walk through, you could bet that if Rick was on duty, Carol's life would not be a top priority. Just another thought to keep Daryl Dixon awake at night, he thought bitterly.

Every sound of twigs snapping or leaves crunching caused Daryl to raise his crossbow wearily. In the beginning of all the chaos, he had felt almost excited at this opportunity; what fear could he possibly have of these creatures when he could take them down so easily, and there was no one's life but his own to protect? He cared nothing of what happened to anyone but Merle, and Merle was better off than anyone else Daryl could think of. Daryl was able to do what he did best when the infection broke out, and that was to survive. If anything this apocalyptic world he was living in made him better.

Now, though, he was less certain about the circumstances. He was growing soft, becoming a "pussy" as Merle would say. A woman, a "nigger lover", a "god damned democrat". He didn't really mind the thought of Merle mocking him for all this, though. He liked his new family. And what was more, he was beginning to really care about Carol – not that he'd ever voice this new development. This was a weakness, something that could easily end in his demise. He found himself wishing that she could live in a better world, though; better than this rough, survival-of-the-fittest shithole.

A sigh coming from inside the tent caused Daryl to stand up, concern overtaking him so quickly he became winded. Carol. She seemed so frail, so sad – but Daryl knew better. The woman might not have been quick to wield a weapon like Andrea, but he'd seen her smash her deceased husband's face in. She'd looked Daryl Dixon right in the eyes when he'd spat the foulest of words he could think in her face. She had looked disappointed and worried, but not weak. She was stronger than any of them gave her credit for, stronger than Lori the selfish bitch and Andrea the "badass" combined. Her weakness was that she wasn't a killer, but her strength was in her emotional maturity. She seemed to understand him more in the short time she'd known him than anyone else ever had. This could have been because no one ever gave a shit about Daryl, but she was still amazing for it.

The sigh echoed again, but in a more drawn out, despaired way. A pitiful mumble followed. Daryl stared at the tent, thinking about Carol reliving Sophia's death, the death of the little girl he'd tried so hard to save… and felt guilt. What was it about this woman that made him get emotional like some girly prepubescent boy? It both intrigued him and pissed him off. Every time she stared at him with those big, wet eyes, he felt like his chest was being torn apart by a damned walker…

Regretting it already but too late to change his mind, Daryl opened the tent, set his crossbow inside and lifted the lantern in. Carol was curled into herself under a thin blanket, head resting on her bag. Her eyes opened wide, and Daryl wanting to take back his actions, but he was already sitting at the foot of her makeshift bed, staring at her intensely. She stared back, no questioning look on her face: just tired acceptance of this strange new world where redneck assholes woke her up in the middle of the night and stared at her awkwardly.

"You're gonna live," Daryl didn't know where the words were coming from or where he'd found the resolve to say them. "Don't let nobody think you won't. You're stronger than all of them, allya need is me." Carol's face took on that look she always got when Daryl did something strangely out of character. Tentative hope, he thought it was.

"I have you?" she whispered uncertainly. Daryl thought of all the cruel things he'd yelled at her, of all the cruel things she'd faced in her life, before and after the infection spread. He thought of how she was like him, because she'd never had anyone in her life she could believe in, except the daughter that had been taken from her.

"You have me." Daryl looked her straight in the eye, and a panicked feeling suddenly flooded him, realizing that by daylight his usual tough-guy demeanor would take over, and she would accept it like she always did. Yesterday he had almost lost her. He had heard her scream last second, and when he felt his heart sink, he had known. Known that acting tough didn't matter, because she was living proof that how strong you were wasn't based off of the way others saw you. And anyway, he knew all the swearwords and battle scars in the world wouldn't help him get over the death of this woman.

Shaking his head quickly, Daryl leaned forward over Carol and bumped his jaw against her forehead tenderly – an awkward yet warm kiss. She gasped in surprise, but he was already gone – out the flap of the tent to resume his guarding. Warmed and pleasantly bewildered, she laid back down, nightmarish thoughts quelled by the shy redneck's actions.

Daryl felt warmed, too, but was still unsure of his actions. He knew, though, that Carol would understand whatever he was trying to convey in the simple kiss, even though he still wasn't completely sure of what that was himself.

Let me know what you think!

-LW