A/N: Another piece stuck on my HD for a while. I wanted to post this one sooner, but gah. Writing in Daryl's perspective makes me very nervous. It's very hard to get into his head, and he's a tricky character to write correctly. He's so complex and deep, and his SE1-SE3 growth was exponential. I love him to death, and I pray I can do him justice. My past two oneshots have gotten some great positive feedback so I figured what the hell, might as well post another one, right? Anyway, despite my nerves, I present to you another oneshot. It's within the same 'verse as my other two, so you may find some parallels, but you don't necessarily need to read the others. ANYWAY. I look forward to all forms of feedback.

Enjoy, and CARYL on!

My Kind of Rain

Written by Amputation

There were times where he hardly knew what to do with himself. He wasn't equipped to do the things he suddenly had the urges to do. He hadn't gotten to that part of the training manual, and doubted he ever would. He was many things: a brilliant tracker, a talented hunter, a walker-killing badass, just to start. He was many things indeed, but being emotionally adept was not one of them. That was why he'd taken Rick's watch, letting the man get some well-deserved rest. He knew it was stupid to be walking the fence at this hour of early morning with a distracted mind. It was like a blatant death wish. But he couldn't stop killing himself over what was bugging the ever-loving shit out of him.

It was a well known fact. Daryl Dixon was useless when it came to dealing with matters of the heart. Affection was just completely rejected by him. He didn't know how to take it, having only known solitude and the abrasive, abusive pseudo-love that came from his deceased brother. Lord knows the group tried, they always tried. But he'd just never been able to accept it. Yeah, he'd admit he'd gotten closer to them all, but he wasn't even near to accepting what they all wanted to dole out upon him by the truck load. Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was one person he wouldn't mind it from, if he could just get his head outta' his ass first.

He wanted to be able to take affection from Carol. Honest-to-God wanted to. It wasn't obligation, it wasn't pity. He'd realized such a long time ago that she was special, that she'd be the exception to every rule he'd ever had back when he'd first watched her drive that pickaxe through her dead husband's skull. She'd been crying, sobbing quietly and trembling. But her determination… it had fascinated him. She'd wanted closure with that fucking asshole of a husband. And he'd given it to her. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off of her as she brought the pointed steel down time and again. He knew why she needed it. It wasn't a secret that Ed had laid his hands on her. He recognized the signs of abuse even if he couldn't see the bruises or scars he knew she had to have under those frumpy clothes. He saw himself in her with every step she took, every breath she heaved. They were the same in that regard. It had been that which drew him in initially. It was she herself who held him here, transfixed.

They'd grown close after Sophia had run off, back on that god-forsaken highway. He hadn't planned on letting her in quite as much as he had, expecting to find the young girl without too much fuss. When his searching had proved fruitless, it'd filled him with guilt, and listening to her broken, devastated sobs certainly hadn't helped much. So he'd manned up—or pussied up, as Merle'd have called it—and picked her the Cherokee Rose. He knew he'd done something right when her tears had stopped, when she'd actually turned a half smile to him and thanked him. Folklore was something he'd always been fond of, and for once his skill as a storyteller had been put to good use. He'd figured the hope the Rose would bring her had been something she'd needed. It had increased his for sure, and his searching had become all that more relentless. It ultimately brought about a crossbow bolt to the side, a gunshot graze to the head, and her warm kiss to his temple. But his hope had been for nothing. He still felt the stabbing pain of guilt whenever he thought about that day, the day fuckin' Shane—good riddance!—yanked open that barn and his worst fears had been revealed. It had taken everything he had in him to not let the grieving mother run to her undead daughter. Her sobs had wreaked havoc on his heart, and the shove she'd given him hurt him worse than any blow his Daddy'd ever laid on him.

He'd tried to distance himself, the grief and utter devastation he'd felt were emotions he was unfamiliar with. He didn't know how to handle it, the frustration. He didn't know a lot of things, then. Still didn't. He'd been so confused. Why had it hurt so much? Why had it very nearly killed him to watch them lower her body into the ground? Why had it felt like someone tore out his heart when she was truly gone forever? Sophia wasn't his! So why did it hurt so badly to lose a little girl he'd never had to begin with? So he'd tried to isolate himself. But lo-and-behold, Carol wouldn't let him go. She wouldn't let him descend back into the false comfort that solitude brought. It'd worked for him his whole life before the damn Atlanta group went and inducted him to their ranks, and she'd known somehow that isolation wouldn't work for him anymore. She just knew. And he loved her for it. He hadn't wanted to turn away, as angry at the world as he'd been. He'd been so furious at himself, and he'd taken it out on her. He still remembered her squaring her shoulders, looking up at him with a fire in those blue eyes of hers he couldn't remember seeing for so long, as she'd invited him to hit her.

He knew abuse victims were fucked up, all he had to do was look in a fucking mirror to see that, but her anticipation of his hands on her with malice had struck him deep. He'd gone off on her then, clenching his fists so hard his knuckles went white and his unkempt fingernails dug crescent moon shapes into his calloused palms. And when she'd reeled back from him with a hiss, like she'd been slapped, he'd calmed immediately. Her reaction had been like a bucket of ice water on his flames and he'd been left chilled to the bone. That she would expect something like that from him had killed him on the inside. She was too good to be like him. Too soft, too gentle, too caring to be like him. And in that moment he hadn't wanted her to be like him. He'd cursed himself. He'd cursed Ed. He wished so hard that the bastard was still alive, just so he could kill him again with his own two hands.

Carol had never been the center of their group. She had always been overlooked, as he'd noticed early on. Nobody would ever approach her unless they needed laundry done, an article of clothing mended, something to eat. Not that he blamed them for the last one; the woman could make anything taste good. But they'd never acknowledged her outside of their own personal needs. Not even fucking Lori, who'd seemed to think she was better than Carol, what with her husband, son, and unborn kid. Ironic she'd been one of the first ones to kick the bucket. He didn't miss her. Not like he would miss Carol if she'd—his breath left in a hiss, no, he couldn't think like that. She wasn't going nowhere. From the moment she'd uttered her quiet admission the night they lost the farm, her guilty statement that she was a burden, he'd taken it upon himself to teach her to fight back. He showed her how to be strong enough to carry on without her good-for-nothing husband and her little girl by her side. He didn't want her to opt out, and he sure as hell didn't trust anyone else to make certain she wouldn't. They hadn't cared about her enough. At least, not enough to his tastes. So he'd decided to be the one to stand by her side.

She'd latched onto him like a leech, not that he'd minded. Under his tutelage, Carol had blossomed and blossomed fast. He didn't give praise easily, but she'd never complained. It seemed to make it all the sweeter for her when he did finally offer a smile or a satisfied nod of his head. She'd light up like a damn Christmas tree and leap back into whatever he was teaching her with vigor he didn't know she'd possessed. Under his watchful eye and helpful guidance, she'd become an admirable tracker, utterly silent in her movements and perceptive with a hawk-like gaze. He'd known she'd be good at it for the same reasons he was. Victims of abuse tended to be exceptionally careful about alerting others to their presence. Hell, he sure was. Her knife work was better than his after a time, what with her crazy flexibility. (He tried not to think too hard about what her body could do under certain circumstances.) She was nimble, fast, and those skills allowed her to topple him to the ground many times during hand-to-hand spars. She'd never be able to overpower a man, but she was a dirty fighter. (Absently he flinched and rubbed his crotch with a grimace as memories of her more brutal assaults filtered through his mind.) Her shooting still needed work, but she could handle a gun with some finesse. She was surprisingly more competent with heavy rifles; he hadn't anticipated her willowy frame could handle the weight or kickback. But she could.

All through the winter, it'd been the two of them that kept everyone alive and fed. She wasn't a good hunter, but he always took her along anyway. A second set of eyes was a great help, and she was just as silent in her movements as he was. She'd saved his life a fair share too, when he'd been distracted by an animal and missed the approaching walker. (Kinda' like when she'd saved his ass at that strip mall.) They made a good team. He liked having her at his back. Never thought he'd have felt safer with her of all people watching his ass. Together, they almost always brought back impressive game for the table. Her real forte was her foraging skill. Definitely nothing to scoff at, there. After finding that survivalist book in one of the abandoned houses they'd shacked up in, she'd carried it with her and learned some crazy shit from it. Hell, she could make food out of tree bark. It had kept them all alive in the dead of winter when their hunting trips had been fruitless.

She'd turned into a real spitfire, too. Grown in confidence—but not cockiness, no, never cockiness—and in spirit. Something had changed in her over the span of the winter after the escape from the Greene farmstead, after the strip mall. It had started out with little things, like how she would smile at him more often or how she'd light up every time he asked her for assistance with something. Her eyes sparkled now in a way he'd never seen before. His training with her had made the way she moved with a bird-like grace blatantly obvious. She actually hummed as she worked now. Carol was an open, vibrant woman out of place in such a hostile, drab world. She was still guarded, but not when she was with him. Never around him. It was only with him that she would voice her thoughts. Because he would listen, take her words to heart. He never treated her with scorn, never put her ideas down. They made each other strong; she gave him something to protect, and he gave her someone to care for. They knew each other as though they were one person. He hadn't actually realized how close they were until he'd chosen to leave with Merle to protect the group.

"She'll understand," he'd told them when asked what to say to her.

"Daryl has his code," she'd said as he learned later, "this world needs men like that."

They knew each other intrinsically, never once questioning the other's morals. They gave each other something to rely on, a shoulder to lean against in times of need. He'd never put so much trust in another person before, but he found it was worth it with her. Hell, he didn't even trust Rick as much as he did her. She was his anchor in the sea of madness the world had turned into. And while that was a wonderful thing, it scared the utter bejeezus out of him.

He didn't know when it happened, even less as to why. But it had. He, Daryl fuckin' Dixon, had found someone he didn't want to let go of. Ever. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly it actually fucking hurt. He didn't necessarily want her in the way he knew people would think of if he ever just blurted the words out. Hell, he didn't even know how to kiss a woman properly! He was probably the stupidest virgin out there. No, anything sexual would be hoping for too much. He wanted her as she was. All of her. Her smile, her touch, her patience, her spirit, her love… her life. Not like that! No! God! That sounded wrong. He whacked his head against the chain link fence, growling at himself. No, he wanted her for life. He wanted her to be his, 'cause Lord knows he's already hers. And that scared the shit out of him. He'd never been so attached to another person before, and he knew there was no way he could disentangle himself from her. She'd wormed her way into his heart before he even realized it, and by then it was too late. She'd made herself a damn nest. And inexplicably, he hadn't wanted to destroy it. He was shit with feelings, but he knew with absolute certainty she belonged with him. He knew he wasn't worthy of her, but he couldn't help wanting her anyway. She made him a better person; brought him above the curse his last name weaved around his soul. She made him better than just a Dixon, made him feel like maybe he was worth it after all. He knew she believed it. But he could hardly wrap his head around that.

"Hey, you."

He startled suddenly, spinning to face her. He'd known exactly who it was behind him when she'd scared the shit outta' him. Damnit, sometimes he hated that he'd taught her to track.

"Hey," he replied softly, breaking eye contact with a jerk of his chin. Fuck, Dixon! Are you some kind of retard? Just a 'hey'?! The fuck is wrong with you!?

She smiled at him and god damn, was she gorgeous. He swallowed nervously, hoping the darkness would disguise the flush he knew was creeping up his neck and darkening his ears.

"I couldn't sleep, figured I'd come out here and keep you company," she said, her light accent flowing breezily from her lips. He swallowed again. Jesus, was there nothing about this woman that wasn't perfect?

He nodded once, his gaze searching her pale baby blues before snapping away. God, he was jumpier than usual with her around. Must've been all his thinkin' about her.

"You know," she started, smirking at him, "you should just tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours, Daryl. You can't hide anythin' from me."

Fuck. He was that obvious? "It ain't nothin' t' worry 'bout," he groused, stepping away from the fence and walking further down. She followed him, her footfalls nearly silent behind his own quiet ones.

"Alright, alright," she conceded without a fuss. He could hear the shift of fabric against skin and he knew she'd raised her hands in placation. That was another amazing thing about her; she didn't keep naggin' until he finally blew up at her. Just let stuff go.

"Why couldn't ya' sleep?" he asked softly, slanting his eyes to hers. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, not trusting himself to not reach out and touch her. Goddamnit, his palms were already sweaty, even with the cool Georgia night air.

"Thinkin' about things, mostly," she said quietly, glancing at him with those clear, sky blue eyes of hers. He jerked his gaze away from her awkwardly.

"Like whut?"

"Like you, for instance," she drawled with her voice just on the side of teasing. He flushed, whether it was in embarrassment or anger, he didn't know. But he was willing to bet on the former of the two.

"Me?" he asked, clenching his fists in his pockets. God he wanted to touch her.

"Yes, you, silly," she laughed. Fuck, she's gorgeous, "you've been on edge lately. I'm worried about you."

"It's nothin'," he grunted, "jus' thinkin' 'bout some shit."

"I didn't realize fecal matter took up so much of your thought, Daryl," she quipped.

His face flamed and he whirled to face her, "Goddamnit, woman! It ain't like that!"

She smothered her laughter, the grin on her face telling him she wasn't doing a very good job, "Okay, Daryl, whatever you say."

He huffed, thoroughly embarrassed, and stalked off ahead of her, absently stabbing a walker in the forehead as he went as a way to relieve his sudden stress. She drove him completely crazy, that woman, especially now that he was trying to smother his crazy ass emotional turmoil from her. It was like she knew he was thinking about her, and just couldn't resist teasin—

"Daryl?"

He whirled on her again, face hot while jabbing a finger at her in accusation, "You make me crazy all the damn time, woman! It ain't right!"

She ducked her head in silent apology, a guilty smile on her lovely lips. His mouth went dry at the sight and he forced himself to resist the sudden urge to gather her in his arms and touch her. He shoved his hands back into his pockets. Jesus Christ, Dixon! Get a grip, for fuck's sake!

"M'sorry, I ain't meanin' t' go off on ya' like that," he muttered, looking down and away from those eyes that see too much.

The touch of her hand on his arm was fleeting, but it burned his skin, even through the layers of his poncho and shirt. He stiffened, glancing up at her through the fringe of his too-long hair.

"It's alright," she replied softly, "you bring out the worst in me, Dixon," she joked, "but I kinda' like that about you."

He swallowed again, his muscles alight with nervous tension as he met her eyes. For a long moment they simply stared at one another, the only sound in the night being quiet moans and growls from the various walkers from around the prison. He could hear his heartbeat racing in his ears, could feel it hammering in his chest. God, she was beautiful. He pulled his hand from his pocket before he could stop himself and brushed one of her short, grayed curls back from her forehead. He let his hand drop as though he'd burned it (hell, he might as well have what with touchin' her like that!) and took a step back, dropping his gaze as he blushed and muttered apologies.

He was furious with himself, embarrassed by his actions and even more horrified by the way his body betrayed him. God, how he wanted to hold her, to touch her skin and feel her in his arms. He stiffened when she took her hand in his and he let out a shuddering breath when her thumb began rubbing lazy circles on his wrist. Jesus, she was undoing him.

"I'm gonna' go back inside now, you clearly need time to yourself," she told him quietly. He met her eyes again before looking away. He could practically feel her smile. She'd figured out that gesture had implied his thanks a long time ago. She squeezed his fingers once and then dropped her hand from his. Immediately he felt the loss of her touch, and he felt cold. He glanced at her again, only to find her uncomfortably close. Before he could scuttle away from her, she'd leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Stay safe," she whispered against his skin, her lips ghosting over his scruff in a way that made him want to shiver. She pulled away from him slowly, the heat of her body fading fast and leaving him feeling empty. He met her look with his own.

"Good night," she said, staring up into his eyes, "I'll see you in the morning. Huntin' trip, right?"

He nodded once, not more than a slight jerk of his head, but she smiled anyway before turning away and heading back to the prison. He stood there, watching her walk away from him, her body slowly growing smaller and less defined until she was almost at the gate.

"Carol!"

She stopped, turning expectantly to gaze at him. He looked down, feeling like a fool, fidgeting there awkwardly. He'd called out her without anything to actually say! Way to go, asshole. Way to look like a moron. He looked back at her and was momentarily struck dumb by the sight of her in the waning moonlight. She was so perfect.

"Daryl?"

He shook himself, "Sweet dreams," he called softly, but just loud enough for her to hear. He caught the subtle twitch near her lips and knew she was smiling again before she turned her back and vanished beyond the gate.

He breathed out heavily; shutting his eyes and allowing himself smile. A random thought trickled through his head, something about a song he'd heard once playing in some bar he'd gone to with Merle before the world went to hell. He chuckled. It fit. Yeah… she was definitely his kind of rain.

A/N: Please review, I really want to hear your thoughts. It takes but a minute, and I accept anon reviews too.