**NOW**
He can see the cracks. She covers them with flowery cardigans and hides them behind empty smiles, but he can see them.
There is heavy trepidation settled in Daryl's chest the moment he opens his eyes. He's no stranger to this feeling. Though it's been years - fucking decades - since he's noticed it stirring within him, Daryl recognizes it.
That's why he stares. (Okay, maybe that's not the only reason why he stares, but it's a main one, so he's convinced himself.)
The unmistakable urge to leave has always been too strong for him to refuse. (Not that he's, at any point, wanted to refuse it.) He sleeps alone. The feeling of having a body next to him is nothing short of a disturbance. So when he wakes to the warmth of another person lying beside him, in the same bed, mere inches away from him, Daryl feels his skin crawl.
He stares at her and wonders if she thinks she's fooling him.
But out of every woman Merle's pressured him into fucking, out of every meaningless night and every morning spent sneaking out of strangers' beds - Daryl never imagined he'd be sneaking out of her bed.
He stares at her and wonders if maybe, maybe if he had of been there… maybe if he had of kept trying, kept telling her she could talk to him - maybe her smile would be real.
Carol has never made him long for solitude. Being with her doesn't make him feel like he needs to get away from her. It never has. Until now.
He stares at her and regrets.
Now she is lying next to him, and with the knowledge of that, Daryl itches to leave.
He stares at her and hates himself.
And he knows that this time, it's not just an innate reaction.
She stares at him and for a moment - just one fleeting, brief second - he can see her eyes give away something real.
Daryl shifts, slowly turning his body to face her. Quietly. Careful not to wake her.
When he kisses her, it's full of anger and regret and hurt and bitterness and none of the tenderness he knows it should be.
But he blinks in confusion when he finds nothing save the rumpled sheets and fluffed pillow to mark where she'd been sleeping.
He hates seeing her like this; covering her scars with ugly cardigans and fake smiles. Pretending they're not even there.
A few seconds ago he was worried about waking her when he snuck out of her bed, but she's beat him to it.
It's gone too far now. She's not even herself around him anymore.
And something about that stings.
He looks for her - a glimpse of her - as he roughly strips away her blouse, revealing her bare skin. He looks for her but finds nothing. Her eyes are filled with an unyielding fakeness. But she's buried under there somewhere. She has to be.
Daryl doesn't let himself stare at the empty sheets for long. He stands, ignoring the intensifying pain in his chest, and begins to search for his clothes.
**THEN**
It happens long after Daryl's lost all faith in it ever happening.
It happens long after he's forced himself to stop believing in fairy tales and his mama's bedtime stories. (Because it's a nice story, one he was enthralled by as a kid. But that's all it is; a story. He kicks himself for ever believing otherwise and he takes Merle's unrelenting mocking with his head bowed shamefully.)
It happens long after the world has - officially - ended.
And it is - quite possibly - the last thing Daryl expects to happen when he sets off for his morning hunt.
The night before, he and Merle found a camp. Just a little group of scared-shitless survivors huddled in the backwoods near a quarry. It's the seclusion that's saved their asses all this time. They're easy prey - a bunch of weak people, naive enough to hope for everything to go back to the way it was, someday.
And Daryl knows before Merle even tells him; they're going to rob these sorry bastards blind.
Their first morning in camp, Daryl ignores the unsettlement that thought brings him, slinging his crossbow over his shoulder and wandering into the woods.
But he's barely made it to the shelter of the trees when he catches a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he whips around, crossbow aimed. But he freezes when he sees the woman.
Everything freezes.
**NOW**
Daryl skips breakfast.
He spends the day outside, and as it turns out, avoiding her is easier than he'd imagined. He fiddles around with his bike, cleans his crossbow, and examines his collection of bolts (which he counts and recounts about seven times, while holed up in the watchtower).
He should be grateful for this - grateful that he doesn't have to face Carol - but the feeling clawing at him from the inside is anything but grateful.
At noon, while he's in the midst of counting his bolts for the ninth time, Michonne lets herself in.
He knows before he even turns to look at her that he's in for a lecture.
Daryl groans.
She approaches him slowly, an expression of aggravation on her face as she takes a seat next to him, by the window.
"So," she says, eyebrow quirked, waiting. "You gonna tell me or what?"
He looks at her with feigned naivety. "What?"
"What you did to Carol."
Daryl swallows hard, working to repress the twinge of hurt that the mention of her name sends through him.
Michonne sighs. "Don't even try. You think I didn't notice you sneaking out of the house a the crack of dawn? You think I didn't notice her?"
Daryl feels his cheeks heat up and his eyes dart around the room, but there's nowhere to run.
"What about her?" the words tumble out of his mouth without his permission.
"She's my friend, Daryl," Michonne says sternly. "I know when something's not right with her and something's not right. She's not the same - "
"She hasn't been the same for a long time now," Daryl snaps, feeling a rush of anger suddenly swell up in him.
Michonne's expression turns solemn and she crosses her arms. She stares at Daryl with what he thinks might be a hint of sympathy.
A few seconds pass in strained silence before Michonne says softly, "You can't leave it like this."
Hours later, he's watching Carol bustling hastily around the house, rushing to get everyone their dinner. And for a moment, Daryl thinks, it's like the prison. It's like it used to be. Until she turns swiftly and crashes into him, hot beef stew from the bowl she's carrying slops onto her shirt, but Daryl hardly notices that it burns his skin.
He stands there, frozen, staring at her. Because she's never clumsy. She's never awkward.
But she looks at him like a fucking deer in headlights and mutters a quick, "Shit, sorry", before grabbing a cloth and handing it to him. This time, when he looks at her, there's a frightening sincerity in her eyes - a sadness.
"I'm sorry," she whispers.
And Daryl knows this has nothing to do with the soup.
The next day he's on the porch and she approaches him with pain etched onto her face and anxiety in her clasped hands. She tells him she's sorry. She tells him it was a mistake - she made a mistake. And she hopes it doesn't ruin everything, but he can see in her eyes that she knows it already has. And then she places her hand on his arm and that touch he used to crave sends a sharp pain through him and all he can do is stand there and stare at her - watch her never meet his eyes - as she whispers, "Okay?"
And for a split second, he contemplates spilling every thought he's had since that night. He contemplates pulling her close and telling her he'll wait for her, telling her she can talk to him whenever she's ready, and she doesn't have to be alone.
"Gotta be," he mutters instead.
**THEN**
He remembers the stories his mama used to tell him when he was little. Sometimes they'd take walks in the woods, and they'd wander far from home, and she'd describe to him every color that was in the things they passed by.
The memory flashes through his head briefly, before Daryl focuses back on the woman.
She's a good distance away from him, staying close enough to the camp that she can run if there's trouble. Not that she'd notice if anything came after her - she doesn't even notice him. She's crouched on a rock, face buried in her hands and shoulders shaking violently.
But Daryl doesn't have much time to process anything before an explosion damn near knocks him onto his ass.
It's a soundless explosion - no fire, no wreckage - but it afflicts everything. The trees, the bushes, the grass, the wildflowers, the damn sky, leaving it all in disarray and looking remarkably strange.
It's not until he looks down at his own hands and sees that they're different, too - that it hits Daryl -
Color.
This is color.
**NOW**
He barely sees her the next day. And the day after. But he feels her. It's as though the distance between them stretches a thousand miles long, but Daryl can still feel her skin on his and it's tingling and real.
For a while, they hardly speak, and whatever awkward conversations they do share, feel wrong. He can't see her through this thing that hangs between them, and Carol looks right past him.
The next five days are filled sporadic banter that's so empty, it's worse than any silence.
By the tenth day, it's like whatever they had is a distant, foggy memory, and now it's been skinned and gutted, and Daryl is left staring at a scattered pile of bare bones.
And once fourteen days have passed, he's stopped trying to think of ways to piece them back together.
Fourteen days and Daryl feels like they'll never be able to talk like they used to.
Fourteen days and he's blocked off the memory of that night.
Fourteen days and this obtrusive thing that sits between them seems to have succeeded in tearing them apart.
(He doesn't even think it's the sex. It's more than that, more than Daryl can begin to wrap his head around.)
He longs for the wilderness - longs to get out of here. So when Aaron asks if he's up for a quick run for supplies, Daryl obliges.
He's prepping his bike when he sees her.
Standing outside one of the mansions, flanked by a group of women who fell for her act without the slightest hesitation. They're laughing with her.
He considers saying goodbye to her. He's never left without telling her goodbye. And it's so innate that he finds himself standing to approach her.
But something stops him dead in his tracks.
Maybe it's the way her false smile makes his stomach twist. Maybe it's how different her fake laugh is compared to her real laugh. Or maybe it's that all this reminds him that he can't even remember the last time he saw her real smile, or heard her real laugh.
He watches her for a bit longer, letting the moment linger. But she doesn't notice, doesn't see him standing there. Daryl slings his pack over his shoulder and sets out to find Aaron.
"I'm going to miss you…"
"I won't be gone long this time. I promise."
"You about ready?"
The goodbye has gone on for more than five minutes, and that's just when Daryl arrived. Goodbyes with Aaron and Eric have always been a big deal. And each time, when Daryl manages to tear Aaron away, it's obvious how much he longs to go back.
"Sorry about this morning," Aaron says, once they're outside the walls, scouting through a thick wood. "I just hate leaving him, you know?"
Daryl simply grunts in response and aims his crossbow at a stray rabbit that sniffs curiously around a big, rotting log riddled with heavy vines and moss. The kind that looks so ancient, he imagines it's been there for centuries.
"You get it, right?"
Aaron's voice startles the rabbit away and Daryl lowers his crossbow, shooting him a glare, but Aaron doesn't seem to notice.
"Sure," Daryl replies shortly, hoping his tone will be enough to end this conversation before it begins.
But Aaron presses on.
"I figured you'd understand. I mean, you kind of go through the same thing. It's hard to leave them."
Daryl can feel Aaron's eyes boring into him. Nosy bastard. He keeps his head down, picks up the pace and shoulders his crossbow.
"C'mon," he grunts. "We're burning daylight."
**THEN**
The treetops are green. The sky is blue. The sunlight is golden. The wildflowers are pink. These are all the things from the fairytale - all the things his mother used to tell him about and all the things Merle made him feel foolish for believing in - laid out right before Daryl and he can hardly see them for the pounding of his heart and the racing of his thoughts. He blinks hard, trying to register the transformation, but all he can see is the woman. She hasn't even noticed him, but he sees her clearly now.
Her clothes - a red shirt, he thinks, and brown trousers - her pale skin, her short grey hair.
Daryl huffs and turns to stagger back to camp before he can start wondering what color her eyes are.
**NOW**
As they scout through the shadowy, tangled woods, Aaron talks about Eric. About how they first met, how the moment they laid eyes on each other there was this burst of color - and they both just knew.
And Daryl barely hears a word of it.
He already knows where this is going. Knew it as he watched them say goodbye, earlier.
They embraced. They broke apart, slow as ever. Eric grasped Aaron's arms and they stared at each other as if leaving - being apart - is the hardest thing they'll ever do.
It's like this every time, and Daryl doesn't even have to watch them say goodbye to know how much Aaron hates to leave.
Daryl realizes he's never wanted to not go home so much. He sucks in a breath of fresh air and feels his heart begin to pound against his chest.
He can't go back there.
Daryl turns to Aaron, holding up his meager string of gam. (Only a few squirrels and a scrawny rabbit.)
"There's a shop a couple miles from here. Saw the sign a ways back. We could head up there, see what we can find. This ain't enough to feed all of 'em."
"Daryl…"
The softness in Aaron's voice makes Daryl cringe. He narrows his eyes, waiting for the blow.
"Maybe this is none of my business, but… are you okay?"
He can't find it in himself to muster a response.
"I know what this is about," Aaron goes on. "You don't think I go through the same thing? I get it, man. You don't want to lose her. You don't have to -"
"Think I already have."
Halfway to the shop, a picture flashes through Daryl's head. And he sees Carol splayed out naked below him, skin flushed, scars visible. But her eyes are somewhere else. She's somewhere else.
The memory hasn't faded.
Carol looks up at him without looking at him. And as he stares into her eyes as deep as he can. Studying her, he can't even begin to see past the layers of her disguise.
It sends a pit of pain into his stomach even now, two weeks later, after they've both promised they'd try to forget.
He can't forget this.
He fucked Carol when she wasn't even herself, and the fear that came over him when he realised he couldn't even see her is never going to leave him.
**THEN**
It wasn't a chupacabra. Not really. But he has to muster some kind of excuse to justify the ridiculous expression that must be playing on his face. The story is a result of his attempt to choke Merle's cackling before it even begins. Daryl came out of those woods looking like a star-struck fool, without even a single squirrel to show.
If Merle catches him looking at that woman with goddamn sparkling eyes, he'll know. And fuck if Daryl was ever gonna live that one down.
"Saw a chupacabra," he blurts out, to no one in particular.
It earns him eyerolls and looks of confusion and amusement and irritation from everyone.
But still, no sighting of a mystical fucking monster is any excuse for the look on his face.
**NOW**
When Daryl was a little kid, he'd spend hours in his room, playing with his crappy little matchbox cars, and looking at the pictures that illustrated the books on his shelf. He'd wonder what it would be like to actually see the blue oceans, the tall green trees, the pink sunrises - what colors his damn toys were.
Trying to imagine what a rainbow really looks like, trying to envision those colors in his head - that's how he'd entertain himself, most days.
But he remembers one night specifically, that still lingers in his memory.
He'd been sitting on his bed, tracing his fingers along a painting of a beautiful bluebird in one of his books, by the dim light of the oil lamp on his nightstand. Daryl thought about how amazing it would be to see one of these things - with its wings spread out, ready to take flight, and all those shades of blue glinting in the sunlight. He played the thought over and over in his mind.
And then in a blink, the room fell dark. The lights went out, leaving Daryl in a heavy cloud of black.
And he still remembers his little kid self, stumbling around in the dark, hands stretched out in front of himself, seeking the doorknob. He remembers tripping over one of his matchbox cars and falling to the ground. And he remembers laying there, in the inky darkness, trying to gather his bearings.
That's the first thing that enters his head when it happens.
The memory of being lost. Scrambling around in the dark for purchase.
This time though, there's nothing to grab onto and Daryl damn near wipes out. He brakes hard, stopping his bike in the middle street.
And Daryl barely hears Aaron in the truck, skidding to a stop behind him. Barely hears him yelling. For a moment, everything is silent and still.
The explosion is soundless.
The grey doesn't slither in through the trees, subtly snatching the color from their leaves with its nimble fingers. The grey doesn't roll over everything like a storm cloud, or the ocean tide - washing the color away. The grey is simply there when Daryl opens his eyes. Like it had been hidden under all the color, this whole time. And it had finally gained the strength to drain away the reds and the blues and the greens, and take over.
Daryl blinks, and it's everywhere.
It happens all at once. The lights go out. And he is left reeling in the grey.