AN: So this is going to be a "short" story. It was requested some time back by a Tumblr anon who wanted to see a very specific Daryl/Carol dynamic. I hope I'm able to create that for the anon.
If all goes according to plan, it'll be seven chapters long.
I own nothing from the Walking Dead.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Carol stopped by the water fountain and stood there refilling her bottle as slowly as the barely functioning fountain required. She'd be a few moments late to the meeting, but it wouldn't matter. It was the first night with the new group and people were always straggling in fifteen or twenty minutes late to the first meeting. She understood, too, the reason. Many of them weren't actually late. Many of them arrived even hours before and they spent their time sitting in their cars in the parking lot. Some of them worked their way through half a pack of cigarettes and came in trailing the scent behind them. Others helped themselves to some beverage they probably had hidden under their seats—there were more discarded beverage containers in the trashcan outside the center on the first night with a new group than on any other night. Others, still, came in wiping at their faces and trying to hide that their eyes were still red and damp from the tears that had made them dawdle.
And it made sense.
Carol remembered, all too well, the way she'd felt on her first night. She'd sat in the parking lot, too, for longer than she'd intended. Several times she'd touched her keys like she might crank the car again. More than once she rested her hands on the steering wheel—on the shift—and she'd considered leaving.
She'd cried and she'd talked to herself and to God and to any entity that would listen to her.
She wasn't this person. She didn't need this. She wasn't someone who needed something like this. There wasn't anything that they could do anyway. It would just make things worse. It would be better if she left. What if someone saw her? How could she explain that? Would she have to explain it? Ed was gone from her life—but was he ever really going to be gone? The Center couldn't help her with that. She wasn't the kind of person that came to things like this, anyway, expecting their help. She wasn't that kind of person.
She was that kind of person. And this was real. And it had happened. And it was her life. At least, it felt like it was what was left of her life.
She'd been late to her first meeting. Her second, too. She'd left the first meeting never expecting to set foot back into the room, but the next week she'd found herself there, again, sitting in one of the chairs that pinched if she moved wrong. After that she'd learned never to wear a skirt to the meetings for fear that their light fabric wouldn't be thick enough to stave off the pinching of the cracked chairs and she wouldn't be bold enough to ask someone to switch with her.
At that time, she hadn't found her voice. She wasn't used to having one. It took her a while to find out that she still had it.
When she "graduated" from the meetings, she could have left the Center behind entirely. She wasn't healed—if there was such a thing as ever being healed from the life that she'd called her own for all those years—but she'd gotten what she needed out of the meetings.
She'd learned to feel like Carol again, instead of simply like Ed's punching bag. She'd learned that, somewhere, Carol still existed.
And she'd made some connections. She'd made some friends and she'd realized that she wasn't alone in the world. Maybe that was the best thing she got out of those first meetings—her tongue stuck in her too-dry mouth and her heart rattling around in her chest while she hoped that, somehow, they wouldn't get around to hearing her story. She'd learned that she wasn't alone. She wasn't the only person in the world to ever go through what she'd been through and it wasn't telling about something about her that she'd ended up in the marriage that had nearly cost her life.
The Center, for being nothing more than a pretty run-down building in a not-so-great part of town, had given Carol her life back, even if it was poetic and dramatic to think of it that way.
And that was why Carol gave some of her new life to the Center.
She raised money for the place wherever and whenever she could. She worked, now, at an office uptown, but her free time was mostly dedicated to volunteer work for the Center. She made phone calls. She attended meetings.
And at night? She helped mediate the meetings for people, just like her, who believed they didn't have a voice—that they didn't even have a self—any longer and she helped them get back on their feet.
Of course some went back to their lives because they didn't know any different, couldn't see any way out, or couldn't believe that they even deserved better. But there were others. There were others that, just like Carol, got control of their lives once more and left behind the people who had been veritable demons for them.
Those people were the reason that Carol dedicated so much of her new-found life to the Center. And they were the reason that she'd continue to do just that.
Backing away from the water fountain to start down the dim hallway to the small room, Carol bumped into a woman. The woman looked at her, something like terror in her eyes, and Carol offered her the best and warmest smile that she had.
"I'm sorry," Carol said.
The woman smiled, clearly relieved that Carol wasn't going to fault her for their very minor bodily collision, and returned the smile.
"It's OK," she said. "I—I wasn't really paying attention."
Carol raised her eyebrows at the woman.
"Can I help you find something?" Carol asked, already knowing where the woman must be going.
The woman's smile renewed.
"I'm looking for...room B?" The woman offered.
Carol nodded and reached a hand to gently touch the woman on the back. With her other hand, she indicated the direction that they'd be going in.
"I'm headed there myself," Carol said. "I'm Carol—and we always meet in the same room. What's your name?" The woman hesitated a moment. "You can tell me any name you like," Carol said, sensing her trepidation. "But—Carol's my real name."
"Annie," the woman offered. Carol was positive it was a chosen name, but it didn't matter. As "Annie" warmed up to her—and to the whole idea of this—she would likely become comfortable enough to share more information about herself. There was time for honesty and openness. After all, at this point Carol couldn't be sure if there was a Mr. Annie somewhere that they had to worry about. A Mr. Annie that Annie, no doubt, was very worried about.
Once they were in the small meeting room, Carol offered a hug to Robert. He was a counselor that dedicated much of his free time to the Center as well. He had been there for, literally, as long as Carol had. He'd helped her out in the beginning and she was pleased to have the opportunity to consider him now a friend as much as she'd once considered him something of a hero. Admittedly, in the beginning, she'd had something of a crush on him—as embarrassed as she'd been to admit it to him once when they'd gone out for some friendly drinks and she'd met his partner, Michael, of fifteen years—but she knew now that it had only been a crush borne of her admiration of a man that was going to help her when she so desperately wanted his help.
Robert's job was really to lead the meetings. He was there to offer words of encouragement and advice to the people who came. Carol's job was a little different. She was there to offer those same words of encouragement, but to do it from—as Robert described it—a softer angle than he had to offer. She focused her attention on comforting and winning the trust of those who seemed the least likely to share—and usually she was pretty good at her job.
If it came down to it, Carol wasn't against sharing her own story to get through to someone and to convince them that there was some hope for their future. She preferred not to share, of course, but she would if that's what it took.
There were thirteen people in the group that night. Thirteen new faces. Maybe it wasn't a large number in most group settings, but a number so high in this location pained Carol's heart. There were thirteen people who sat in a circle because they were the victims of abuse. Their lives had been disrupted, disturbed, or even destroyed by the cruelty of someone else. Most of them blamed themselves for their experiences. Many of them would return to those less-than-desirable environments when the night was done.
And all of them had come for some kind of help. All of them had come seeking some kind of hope.
Carol returned to the Center, week after week, because someone needed to be there to offer them that hope. After all, she still remembered how she felt, all those years before, sitting in her car and trying to convince herself that her life—which constantly felt like it was burning to the ground around her—was perfectly fine and she didn't need anything more than to simply try a little harder.
In every group there was the same cast of characters, though they varied slightly.
There were those who were out of their bad situation but realized that, outside of that, they didn't know how to survive. Those were the people who had taken the first step but were looking for someone to help them take the next.
There were others who were still in their situation, but desperately wanted to get out, and they were coming to find out if there would be something for them when the person who had told them—convinced them—that they couldn't live without them was gone.
There were those that were still afraid. They were terrified of their abusers. They were afraid of life with them, but they were also afraid of life without them. They were scared, even, of the people in the room. They wore their fear on their faces and it shook in their voices.
And there were those who believed they weren't supposed to be there. They were the ones that were either still wrapped up in their denial or were so overcome by their anger about how their lives had gone that they were punishing themselves by trying to deny themselves anything that even sounded like it might be something better.
Tonight there were all types, but there only seemed to be one who belonged to the last category—the outsiders, as Carol thought of them—and he caught Carol's attention fairly quickly.
The man identified himself as Daryl when they went around the circle and gave their names. There was nothing in his expression that suggested that Daryl wasn't his real name, so Carol assumed that he wasn't lying. He was one of only two men in the room that night, besides Robert. He looked like he'd gotten off work—some kind of manual labor job—and come directly to the meeting. He was in need of a haircut, maybe in need of a meal and a shower, and he was wearing a fairly fresh bruise on his cheek and busted knuckles. Carol couldn't be sure if either of those—or both—came from his home life or came from his job. It really didn't matter. He was there because he was a victim of abuse—the same as all of them.
His body language said he was uncomfortable. One minute he sat back in the chair, almost uncomfortably leaned back like the class clown in the back of the classroom, and the next he was sitting and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He crossed his arms across his chest only to uncross them. He chewed at his fingers, studied his cuticles, and returned to gnaw at the skin until it made Carol cringe to think how sore they must be. He watched everyone, his eyes darting around, and he cleared his throat frequently. He looked, the whole time, like he was considering bolting for the door that he kept eyeing in between watching the people around him.
He didn't share his story. At least, he didn't share much more than the introduction of it. As soon as he'd begun to lay out the details of everything, he'd simply stopped, declared it was "stupid," sat back in his chair, and refused to say another word.
It was stupid. He didn't belong here. He wasn't that kind of person.
As soon as the meeting had let out, Carol went after Daryl. He'd already slipped out, though, and she was sure that she wouldn't find him. She searched the building as quickly as she could and finally gave up. She burrowed her keys out of her purse and headed out the door with a few others who were leaving. Halfway across the parking lot, though, she saw him. He was sitting in his truck, the window rolled down, smoking a cigarette and almost reclining like he intended to spend a good deal of time there—just sitting.
Maybe he was avoiding going home. Or maybe he was just processing everything. Carol, too, had spent some time simply sitting in her car at the beginning.
Carol returned her keys to her purse, crossed the parking lot quickly, and brought herself right up to the driver's side window of Daryl's truck. She called his name to get his attention and didn't miss that he jumped. He'd been pretty deeply involved in his thoughts. Carol offered him her hand when he acknowledged her presence. He hesitated, but then he reached a hand out the truck window and gave it an awkward shake.
"It's not unusual to feel uncomfortable on your first night," Carol said. He hummed at her. Carol swallowed, offered him a soft smile, and nodded. "I know," she said. "It's uncomfortable. You don't—want to talk about it. You don't want to admit it. It feels like it's about you. The abuse. But it's not about you. It never is." He stared at her. It was almost unnerving. Almost. Carol had learned not to be made as uncomfortable by things as she once was. "The important thing is that you came," she continued. "You recognized that there was a problem—whatever it is. And you came because of that problem. If there wasn't? If you really—didn't belong here? It would have never struck you to come in the first place." He simply continued to stare at her. He sort of cocked his head to the side a little, almost like he was trying to understand her. He finished his cigarette and used it to light another—it was the only time he took his eyes off her.
Carol shifted her weight and reached into her purse. She burrowed around until she found a scrap of paper that had once been a grocery list and one of the black stick pens that she always had a million of scattered about.
"We can help you," Carol said. "We really can. I know—I know it doesn't seem like we can? But we can. We can—help with housing. With a job—if you need one. Food. We can help with just about anything. All you have to do is ask. And the meetings? It doesn't feel like they help—everyone just talking about their problems and nothing really changing. But it changes. You just have to decide, for you, when you're really ready. And we can help."
She looked at Daryl again. His features had softened. He was listening to her attentively, even if he was doing his best to look entirely unapproachable.
A shower and a haircut, and Carol thought he wouldn't look unapproachable at all. She felt her cheeks burn slightly at the thought.
"I'm Carol," she said. She offered him the slip of paper. "This is my number. My personal number. Even if the group isn't for you? If you just—want someone to talk to? Call me."
Daryl reached a hand out, took the piece of paper, looked at it, and then nodded. He hummed at her again before finally making a sound that reminded her that he was capable of producing actual speech—even if his speech wasn't entirely impressive.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah—thanks."
Carol smiled.
"No problem," she said.
"Daryl," he offered.
"Daryl," Carol repeated. "Will you come back next week?"
He shook his head at her.
"Don't think so," he admitted, this time speaking around the cigarette caught in his lips. Carol nodded her acceptance. At least he was being honest.
"When you're ready," she said. He nodded again. "It can get better," Carol said. "If you want it to." He nodded again. "If you just want someone to talk to," Carol offered again, pointing toward the piece of paper that he was reading like it contained more than her name and some numbers.
"Yeah," Daryl repeated, lifting the paper slightly and somewhat waving it at her. "Thanks."
Carol sucked in a breath, offered him a goodnight, and smiled to herself when he returned the gesture. Then she turned and headed back toward her own car, finding her keys once more.
She didn't know if he'd ever call. But even if he didn't, she hoped he managed to find his way out. She hoped all of them did.
