Chapter One
I know you care
I know it is always been there
You were just saving yourself when you hide it
Yeah I know you care
I see it in the way you stare
As if there was trouble ahead and you knew it
I'll be saving myself from the ruin
And I know you care
Ellie Goulding – I Know You Care
They were disposing of the bodies, the first time Daryl really noticed Carol Peletier. They were disposing of the bodies of their friends and companions, after the walker attack on their little campsite a little way outside of Atlanta. So many bodies. It was the biggest loss they'd had since banding together on the highway 50 K from the city.
Daryl, not having a single personal connection to any of the dead, took it upon himself to render the final blow to each of the bodies, to destroy the brain. It wasn't like anyone else was stepping up to it, and did they really want a whole new bunch of walkers on their asses when this bunch reanimated?
He turned to the last bodies, ready to drive the axe through their heads. Daryl paused, taking in the bodies of that latino couple he'd never bothered to talk to, and the last, which was the body of that asshole who was clearly a wife beater; he'd heard the blows falling on his small, pale wife, and seen her later wincing as she held a damp cloth to her marked face. He'd never taken much more notice, what business of his was it that the guy was heavyhanded? So he'd shrugged off the occasional pang of sympathy he felt for the woman, shaking away the remembrance of his father's belt upon his back. What did he care? As Merle had frequently pointed out, these people weren't his blood.
Daryl swung the axe up, once, twice, dropping it hard into the skulls of the latino man and woman, blocking out that stomach-turning crunch of bone and brain being obliterated. One more body, and then he could walk away, back to his tent and the quiet being alone afforded. A hand stopped him before he could swing the axe up a second time; it was the wife. She held out a shaking hand for the axe, eyes red. Daryl wasn't going to argue, anything to get away from the smell of dead bodies, and turned to walk away.
But something stopped him, and he turned back to watch the woman, Karen or Carol or something, swing the axe high and slam it into her deadbeat husband's head over and over again, angry sobs bursting from her lips. And suddenly, as he stared mystified at the apparent rage, he understood. This woman could finally pay back her husband for what was probably years of abuse. Daryl knew he would do the same if he ever had the chance to bash his father's brains in, although he wasn't proud to admit it. Who'd have thought he'd ever have something in common with a middleclass housewife?
He saw her half an hour later, behind the RV, staring blankly at her hands, stained as they were with her husband's blood. Half-tempted though he was to walk past to his own tent, he paused, and against his better judgement walked over.
"Here," he said gruffly, handing her the canteen he held, and handing her a mostly-clean rag from his belt. "That'll start to attract flies if you don' clean it up."
The woman stared up at him, confused, before taking the canteen and rag.
"Thank you, Daryl," she said softly, her eyes registering surprise that this rough redneck seemed to care about someone as insignificant as her.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, before turning away. Sorry for your loss? What was he even doing? She'd hated that bastard husband of hers, even he could see that. But there was something in the way she'd plunged that axe into his head that seemed to Daryl like she did still care that her husband was gone. He shrugged it off and walked away. What did he even care? It had been their marriage. She was just some stranger.