While the days were already warm, the nights reliably brought back the chill of winter, and he was glad to be indoors and out of the vicious wind once the metal door closed behind him. He let go of the door handle - having made sure to close the door softly, what with the late, or early, hour - and turned toward the food prep area to deposit his half dozen skinned and gutted rabbits and squirrels in the one refrigerator they had brought back on after getting the generators going.
Once both his hands were free, he reached for the strap of his crossbow that slanted across his chest, making sure it was still firmly in place on his back, before rubbing his cold hands. His body was clearly telling him that he wasn't getting any younger - the night air had had his bones and joints aching for the past two hours or so, and some of his scars were throbbing. Daryl was very much looking forward to his cot, and his threadbare blanket covering him.
Dragging his tired feet up the metal stairs, he still tried to be quiet. It was bad enough that nearly everyone had their rest interrupted almost every single night to go on watch - nobody needed him trampling through this place and scaring people out of their sleep once he had secured enough food for the coming day.
Arriving at the top of the stairs, he passed his own cell to check on the one next to it - and froze at the sight of the empty cot in it.
Carol was gone.
No.
.-.
He had no memory of getting back down, or to the metal door that he had only just closed behind himself moments before. All he knew was that he was back out in the cold, his poncho whipping around his body in the cold wind and his breath billowing out in front of him in iridescent white clouds, as his eyes scanned the prison grounds.
Fuck.
His night vision wasn't exactly getting better with age either, especially in these conditions and after half a night spent hunting already.
With the sliver of a moon almost down to the horizon, and the clouds in the sky nearly obscuring it anyway, visibility outside was way down, and he realized that if she was out here, and not moving, he could spend an hour looking straight at her and he still wouldn't see her. So he decided on the only logical course of action.
After once more making sure that his bow was firmly in place, he swiftly and silently set out for the closest watch tower. His fingers ached with the cold when he touched the metal door handle to get inside, and he brought his hands up to breathe onto his palms as he climbed the stairs to the observation room at the top.
Remembering that Maggie and Glenn had watch together tonight, he forced himself to knock before ripping open the door and storming in. The two of them were standing on opposite sides of the tower, Glenn looking out, Maggie looking in, and they both turned to stare at him as he rushed in, a wild look on his face.
"Have you seen Carol?" he burst out without preamble.
"She'll only be on watch duty for the sunrise shift." Maggie frowned, looking from Daryl to Glenn. "Why would she be outside?"
"Well, she sure as hell ain't inside."
"Are you sure? Did you check the kitchen? Or maybe she's taking care of Hershel?"
Damn. None of these possibilities had ever occurred to him in his instant panic. Then again, he was pretty sure she wouldn't have wandered around the nighttime prison without at least a torch that he would have seen, had she been out and about in there.
And he was certain that he would have sensed her presence inside.
"'m sure."
"Maybe she's with T-Dog? He's over in the other tower," Maggie suggested.
With a grunt, Daryl nodded at them both and reached behind himself for the door. He had no time to lose - he needed to find her.
.-.
She wished that her jacket was warmer. The wind seemed to cut right through it, even though it was warm enough in the mornings and evenings when she took her "alone time" and came out here to think and be on her own. But her nightmare had had her so upset, and just wanting to get out, that she hadn't thought to take the warmer one that Daryl had brought in for her from a run at the beginning of the winter.
Daryl.
If only he hadn't been out hunting, then she could have found comfort with him after waking up in her cell, sobbing.
The dreams were getting fewer, and farther between, but they still gutted her every single time. Carol would never be able to think back to her daughter's feet shakily making their way across the bodies of the walkers piled up in front of Hershel's barn once the gunfire had ceased, once the row of people lined up in front of the barn had all lowered their weapons, without feeling tears in her heart, and a soul-devouring emptiness inside of her.
Horribly, she still felt the pull, the insistent desire, to run to her daughter's walker and hold the physical shell of who she had been once last time, even if it meant her life.
But every single time, he was there, dropping his rifle and catching her as she was running past him, and sinking to the dusty ground with her in his arms, holding her close, her back to his chest, both of them panting with exertion in the heat.
Even in her dreams, she felt him flinching at their contact, felt the muscles in his arm across her chest stiffen as he forced her into stillness, felt his hand move up to her shoulder to … caress it … and comfort her … once she stopped struggling against his hold.
As usual, the dream had catapulted her from what went for her bed these days, but now, maybe half an hour later, she found herself thinking yet again about what a huge step stopping her, and then holding her, had been for Daryl. With the dream rousing her from sleep at least a hundred times since the day they had "found" Sophia, she had had a multitude of opportunities to think about this, and she had learned to appreciate the gift he had given her for the first time that day.
Stopping her had been the logical thing to do, of course.
But holding her?
Caressing her?
Following her to the RV after she had run from the scene, to sit with her in silence?
Huge, all of it. Probably unprecedented, for Daryl.
And gifts that she treasured, cherished, every time she thought back to that day.
The day she had lost something irreplaceable - and gained something new, a gift she would never have expected.
A slight sound had her flinch back into her niche on the side of the prison. What was crawling around her at night? Was it hostile? Did it know to find her here?
Not daring to blink, she stared into the near darkness, annoyed with her need to leave the cell block every time her nightmare had her shoot out of bed instead of, say, sit down in the kitchen with a precious and rare cup of hot chocolate in her hands.
She dared not move as she waited for the source of the sound to reveal itself, holding her breath, not just because of the sound breathing would have made, but also because of the telltale white clouds that would have given away her location.
"Carol?"
Carol could have wept with relief. And of course it would be him. Of course he would be the one to notice first, probably the very moment he came back, that she was not in her cell, and be worried enough to come right back out again to look for her and make sure she was safe.
"I'm here."
She could hear him drawing a deep breath and realized just how worried he must have been for her. Watching his silhouette turn to face her, she marveled at how soundlessly he was moving toward her even though he couldn't have seen much more than she did.
When he was at her side, he reached for her hands, for her face, touching her as if to make sure she was real and safe, and of course, what he noticed was how cold she had become in the time she had spent out here.
"How long you been here?" His voice was a low, rough growl as his hands started rubbing some heat back into hers. His callouses seemed to rip at the more tender skin on the back of her hands, and he stopped rubbing and instead cradled her hands to his belly, against the scratchy, tough fabric of his brightly patterned poncho.
His body heat seeping into her hands made her shiver.
She all but felt his eyes on her as he let go of her and instead grabbed the strap of his crossbow to swing the weapon down from his back. Confused, she watched as he leaned it against the wall of the prison and then reached inside his poncho and up, slipping out of it.
And then he reached over, the fabric bunched in his hands on both sides of the collar, and slipped his poncho over her head, quickly draping it around her, making sure it still retained his body heat as its folds enveloped her.
"C'mon back in. I got ya."
Unspoken between them was his knowledge of why she was out here in the first place.
He knew. He always knew.
And he was not going to leave her alone with this, now that he was back "home".
As Daryl grabbed is bow and swung it onto his back again, one hand holding the weapon, one arm around her, holding the poncho in place so it wouldn't let her body heat escape on the wind, she gratefully lowered her face, feeling his lingering heat against her face, taking in the smell of sweat, blood, smoke, and freedom, that was uniquely his. Her hands bunched the fabric from the inside, holding it, almost gently, caressing it as she appreciated, once more, Daryl Dixon allowing his kindness to show under the rough and abrasive exterior that he presented to the world.
His kindness was like a warm fire that was always burning for her, always there, always waiting for her to return to it.
His caring for her had begun to border on …
But she would give him time. She was not going to push him, on this or anything else.
Relaxing into his arm and his body heat, she closed her eyes and followed him back in.
For now, she appreciated his care, and his comfort, and his warm poncho on a cold night.