AN #1: Another oldie. Set in the winter between S3 and S4. Hope you like it!
Disclaimer: I do not own or write for TWD or AMC.
-/-/-/-
Her feet crunched on the icy gravel, slightly poking through the worn soles of her leather boots. Snow boots were a rare luxury, and since she was sharing this particularly hellish watch with Carl, she was going snow-bootless.
And while leather may make you feel like your skin's going to melt right off in summer, it just makes things colder in winter.
Namely, her toes. They were numb. And not the nice, truly-can't-feel-anything numb. The tingling, aching, painful fallen-asleep numb.
And so she bounced from foot to foot, ignoring Carl's rolling eyes as he nervously thumbed the machete he had just been upgraded to.
It was late. It was cold. And Daryl wasn't back yet.
Most everyone else had gone to bed, muttering about how nothing could kill Daryl.
But they weren't standing outside, icy crystals ghosting out of their noses, walkers moaning and leaning on the flimsy fencing.
Carol was more nervous than she cared to admit.
But then the tell tale roar began from down the road, and she half sighed, half giggled with relief.
"Carl! Get the bird!"
He tried rolling his eyes to clue her in to his indifference, but she caught the way he loosened and let a small smile twitch his lips. He hopped down the side of the fence to turn on the contraption, dragging his machete on the metal as he went.
Carol ran over to the gates and yanked the chain open to let him through, removing a walker's lower hand as the heavy metal doors closed to a point.
But then the noise didn't stop. He kept riding. All the way up the courtyard, past the second set of gates, onto the concrete.
She knew something was wrong immediately. He always stopped. Always.
She glanced over at Carl.
"Go!" He yelled, waving his arms. "I'm going up to the watchtower anyway!"
She took off on a run before he finished speaking, her feet colliding with the pavement and sending jolts up her shins in seconds. She threw the gate shut as he laboriously switched off the engine and heeled out the kickstand. He was inverted in on himself, his quiver and game bag nowhere to be seen, his crossbow slung haphazardly over his shoulder with a single arrow loaded.
He glanced over at her with sleepy eyes and collapsed off the bike, colliding with the ground with a stuttering grunt.
She yelped and leaped forward, pulling him up and bringing an arm around her shoulders. She made a muted scream as the ice cold leather of his jacket hit her bare neck.
She hoisted him up, panicking. "What's wrong? You bit? Scratched? What happened? What's wrong?" She begged him, angling her head downwards to try and see his drooping face.
He shivered again, and she felt like crying. He shook his head slowly. "S-s-slipped. D-down a c-creekbed. Ice watn't f-froze through yet," he murmured, speaking each word heavily.
She cursed under her breath and nodded to herself, making a game plan. "Alright. Okay. You're going to be fine. I have a space blanket and some heat packs in my cell. We're going to go there right now, and you'll be fine. Okay? Okay," she commanded, making her voice sound strong and assertive as she helped him limp along, trying to assure herself almost more than him.
This was going to be fine. They were going to be fine.
She kept up a steady rhythm of tapping him on the cheeks as she went, increasing in strength until she got an annoyed growl that ascertained he wasn't going to pass out.
He was cursing her name with exhausted gusto when they finally made it to her cell.
She flew into action immediately, stripping off his boots and socks. He tried to push her away, moaning miserably when she went for his zipper, but she had not the time nor patience for decency, and so off the pants came. And then his jacket and his shirt.
And so he laid in her bed in his underwear.
Carol swallowed deep, then made herself turn around and fish around for the heat packs, rubbing them together and then shoving them under his armpits and into his underwear.
He yelped. She cursed at him and told him to suck it up as she inwardly screamed.
This was strange. This was so weird. This wasn't right.
And then she realized a space blanket might not do it. His feet were blue. As were his lips. And his fingers. His hair had little icicles in it.
And so she said a quick prayer for strength and started stripping.
"NO," came Daryl's first lucid words in what seemed like forever. "Do. Not. Do. That."
She kept stripping, down to her bra and underwear.
"Stop it."
She reached up to the top bunk and pulled down the shiny blanket, along with the others.
"Why are you doing that. Why are you doing that. Why-".
She thumped onto the bed beside him and forcibly rolled him over so that she was spooning him, then pulled over layer after layer of blankets.
"Hush," she murmured, taking his icy hands in hers and rubbing them softly. "Just go to sleep."
He tried to roll over and look at her, but her arms turned to iron to keep him still.
"Go. To sleep." She re-iterated, hugging his hard, muscled back to her chest as he settled back against her.
"You're very warm," he said, dazed.
"That was the point, honey. Go to sleep."
"Why are you in your underwear? That's not very warm," he answered slowly.
"Are you warm?" she tried, calling on patience.
He was quiet. Thinking. "…yes. I'm warm now."
"Then don't worry about it. I made you warm. Go to sleep."
He was quiet for so long she was sure he had fallen asleep.
She loved the way he felt beside her, how his chest was smooth and strong under her fingers, how his shoulders towered. She loved it. She loved being by him. Even if it was only because he was half-dead and delusional.
"…Carol?" He whispered.
She jumped a little. "Uh-huh?"
"Thanks for making me warm."
-/-/-/-
AN #2: Thanks for reading! Drop me a line if you feel up to it!