Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: The USS Caryl got an anon ask which inspired me: "What if Carol has amnesia when she wakes up and doesn't remember the last few years. I think I need a fic about how Daryl helps her remember who she has become." - I didn't quite get in everything you wanted. But this is a 'what if' scenario that surrounds the idea that Carol hadn't woken up when she did in "Coda." It should be read under the context of me taking my own stab at how the rest of the episode and the days after might have gone.
Warnings: *Contains: adult language, adult content, angst, season one to season five spoilers up to but not necessarily including the mid-season finale, reference to the usual emotional trauma, allusions to child abuse/domestic violence, angst, UST, hurt/comfort and unexpected bonding along the way.
Lost in the ashes (mourn the phoenix that doesn't rise)
Call it whatever you want - fate, luck or just all around good timing - but he was there when she woke up. In fact, when she finally cracked a lid, he nearly fell right out of the god damned chair he was dozing in. One of those awful orange plastic things Glenn had brought up from the cafeteria about a week or so back.
"Hey," he rasped, voice low. Cracking with sleep and what felt like a couple decades of mis-use as he leaned forward, balancing on the front legs of the chair as it tipped forward in a controlled fall, doing nothing to halt the slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he took her in, bruises and all. "Welcome back."
Her hair was feathers – spiked and favorably mussed – across her stack of pillows. He should know. He'd spent a good few days hovering, playing a game with his own hang-ups as he fought the desire to put hand on her. To lean down and scoop her close, feeling the soft strands glide through his fingers like liquid-silk.
He felt like an addict jonesing for a fix.
Because this time around he knew what he was missin'.
Every second of every day since he'd run at her in the woods, he could still feel it – feel her. The warmth of her breath coastin' against his skin, the heady weight of just about every inch of her pressed against him. Something that had devolved into an inadvertent hitching sort of grind when she'd clutched him back, letting him burrow down – burrow deep – like they were more. More than just-
He rocked back, shaking it off, eying her through his fringe as she blinked, blue eyes focusing slowly. Making a few aborted movements as she looked around, uncomprehending and tired. It reminded him of one of those old beater computers the public library had cobbled together back in the shithole he and Merle used to call home. Slower than hell with motors that smelt like old dust and singed hair whenever they'd been runnin' too long.
Christ, he wasn't built to last over this type of shit.
He had to admit he'd never really been good at the whole self-control bit.
Probably the one thing he could say for certain, he'd inherited right from his old man.
He was all about instant gratification and the quick score.
At least until she'd come along anyway.
He ran his hands through his hair, pressing back the strands like by sheer force of will he could pound his thoughts into submission. Bench press the shit outta' whatever the hell was holding him back from reaching out and taking what he wanted.
For fuck's sakes, it wasn't like she didn't want the same.
He might be an idiot, but he wasn't blind.
He knew.
She knew.
They both knew.
God knows what they were waiting for.
The plastic chair creaked and groaned under him, pinging in time with the stress headache building between his temples as he tried to remember the last time he'd gotten a solid three hour stretch of sleep. He couldn't remember. The prison maybe. You'd think setting down roots again might have helped with that. But in truth, taking over the hospital - getting it running right - had been a shit ton of work and it still wasn't over.
The queen might have fallen, but the board was still teeming with players. And while democracy seemed to be making a bid to stay – so far - he wouldn't be surprised if a new one rose when they finally pulled up stakes and left Grady to its own devices. Like it or not, the people here had gotten used to being ruled.
They'd made the decision to settle down, at least for the time being, after the ferret, Doctor Edwards or whatever, said she couldn't be moved. That she needed to wake up on her own time – give herself a chance to heal while she was at it. A bunch of them had decided to stay, Noah and the surviving patients. Even a couple of the mall-cops who seemed halfway decent. They'd already scrubbed the halls clean, workin' up to getting to the worst of the mess in the elevator shaft as they tried to erase every last shred of Dawn's dirty work from the white-wash.
He'd dived in head first.
When he wasn't here - waitin' on sleeping beauty – he'd stayed busy.
He didn't want to stop.
He didn't want to think.
They'd already lost Beth.
He didn't think he could handle losing her too.
The truth was, he'd sat in this same chair close to a dozen times in the last few weeks and played with the words. The ones they'd been dancing around all this time. He'd tested them out in whispers, tasting the vowels that ghosted past tightly clenched teeth and a forever working jaw. But all he'd learned was that his tongue was too damn curious for its own good. Prone to choking him at just the wrong time - bulky and in the way.
He knew what he wanted to say.
What he needed to say.
Only he couldn't.
Or maybe he could.
He just didn't know how.
"…Daryl?"
The corner of his lip tugged upward at the hesitation. Watching her take him in as the shadows, punched deep underneath her eyes, made a mockery of the half-dark. The doc had said she'd be like this, drugged up and shit, dopey even. They'd switched her to the good shit after- well, everything.
"Yeah, I'm here," he hummed, eying her cracked lips before he reached forward. It was a slow but jerking slide as he leaned over and snagged the cup and pitcher one of the patients had replaced that morning. Figuring she could stand to wet her throat at the very least.
Only her reaction to the sudden move – or maybe just the closeness – all jerking muscles and cowed eyes, was like taking a full-palmed slap right to the face.
He flinched back, cursing himself. Missing the confusion that flared up as he looked away, giving her some space. He hated that. Hated that it was still an instinctual reaction. Hated that despite everything that asshole had put her through still weighed heavy in the back of her mind. Hated that-damnit.
She'd only just woke up and here he was crowdin' around, makin' waves.
Christ he was an idiot.
He shook his head, hunkering down. Forcing his feet flat as he settled back down into the chair. Content to give her the time she needed before she eventually looked over at him, questioning, about to open her mouth before he beat her to it.
"Sorry. I didn't mean 'ta. It's just, you've been out of it for the past two weeks," he murmured, offering her the straw to sip - movements gentler this time, careful.
But instead of taking it, she fixed him with that look again, soulful and suspicious, eying him like he had some sort of ulterior motive until he felt his cheeks heat. Causing him to wiggle the straw in front of her in desperation. The relief when she finally let him bring it to her lips was damn near physical.
"We took the hospital. Got things cleaned up. For a bunch of assholes they did a decent job patching you up," he offered after a pause, watching her lips work minutely around the straw as she took a few careful pulls.
"Not too much," he cautioned, pulling away, ignoring the silent protest, "at least not until the doc has had his say. You got banged up pretty good."
"What happened?" she asked, all quiet-like, voice tinged with a resignation that didn't quite make sense, as she looked around her. Tired but alert.
"You don't remember?" he countered, feeling the wind as she let out a pained hiss as she attempted to sit up before her body – bruised and battered as it was – brought her up short. The doc had told them to expect this too. Not surprising considering the broken ribs, sprained tailbone and knock to the head she'd taken in the process.
Take it slow.
Let her do most of the figurin'
Let her make sense of it.
Don't force her.
"Is Dale on watch?" she asked, skipping the question as scraped-up fingers tugged and twisted at the blankets in her lap.
He blinked, suddenly transported back to bucket hats and the movie "On Golden Pond." Back to busted radiator hoses and peeling letters beside the door of the RV that spelled out: "The Pill Box." He winced. It surprised him sometimes, how many they'd lost. Seemed liked everywhere they went these days, they left crosses and lonely graves in their wake – like breadcrumbs reaching back all the way to the start.
"No. No he ain't."
He cocked his head, trying to pick apart her hedging, half-nod as she thumbed the strip of pale that still stood out on her ring finger. He wasn't exactly sure when she'd gotten rid of it. All he knew was that one day, sometime during the winter after they'd lost the farm, it had vanished from her hand. She'd been lighter back then, happier, if that made any sense. These days it wasn't just her girl's loss that weighed on her, it was a whole other mess and he hated every inch of it for what it was putting her through.
Still, Dale?
Christ, she must have really gotten her bell rung.
He was jerked back to reality when he realized she was staring at him – squinting.
"You need a haircut," she rasped, eyes widening slightly as she took him in, like it was genuinely surprising and not something he'd been hearing since the prison where everyone and their maiden aunt kept trying to take their clippers to him.
He huffed a laugh, making excuses for the weird look it got him, like she'd never seen anything quite like him before. It was almost like she'd never seen him laugh or smile, or even crack so much as a single grin in her entire life, and was suddenly forced to rearrange her entire idea of him in order to make it fit.
"The others will be glad to hear 'yer awake," he replied, after a moment. Forcing the words after a few long moments of trying and ultimately failing to add anything constructive. Uncertain of how much he should tell her as he chewed down on all the words that were threatening to come spilling out.
That he'd missed her.
That he cared.
That she'd scared the shit out of him.
That he didn't want just this – whatever this was.
He wanted more.
He wanted-
"Where is he?" she asked suddenly, doing that thing where she was refusing to meet his eyes again as the question blurted into the still. She went quiet, turning all manner of color and sinking just a bit deeper into the mattress when he ducked his head and tried to find her.
"Where's who?" he returned, chest tightening up another notch as something in the back of his head started muttering. Something wasn't right. "The assholes that ran you over?"
"Is she with Lori? She can't be alone with him," she whispered hurriedly, worry etching deep across her face as she grimaced, trying to inch herself up straight.
"I told Lori that well- she said she'd looked after her if anything happened. Can I see her?" she questioned, apparently not willing to wait for an answer as she raised her voice over his head and looked hopefully towards the door.
"Sophia, baby? Mommy's here, you can come in. I'm alright."
Horror bolted through him. Quick and cutting in all the worst ways – as the confusion and hedging blankness of only a few moments before suddenly made perfect sense.
She didn't know.
She didn't remember.
Not Sophia.
Not Dale.
None of them.
It had taken her back, all the way to-
He tasted blood the same moment something inside his chest just snapped.
He kicked back in his chair, sending it clattering to the floor as she flinched and curled away. Lips twisting as the echoes of her daughter's name rose and fell, rebounding off dusty corners and a water-stained ceiling as he watched the stages of a good old fashioned Greek tragedy unfold in front of him in real time.
Only this time, there was no curtain call.
No do-overs.
Just Carol's watery blue eyes staring up at him like he was some sort of stranger and the sound of her dead daughter's name slipping off her lips.
He'd always figured the word heartbreak was over dramatic.
How it sounded far worse than it probably was.
That it was more for the Hollywood effect than any anything else.
But after watching her shiver and shake.
Taking the moment, in all its splintering complexities.
Every ugly, fragile little nuance of it.
He realized he'd been wrong.
If anything, the word itself was an understatement.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.
Reference: Thank you to gunslingerdixon for the confirmation on some season one references made in this one-shot.