AN: This is a companion piece to The Jaxter's It Rises Slowly As You Walk. Her work gave me feelings and I wanted to build on it because these two are just fabulous. Go read hers before or after you read this, I think they fit well together.
She sees him watch her.
Carol doesn't mind, not really; she knows he's not judging, or pitying, but trying to understand, to learn, in his own way. She's given up on completely understanding how Daryl works, but she'd like to think she's one of the only ones that have gotten close. She sees the potential in Rick, but he's changed since the winter, and she's worried he won't be the same. But faithful Daryl stands by him all the same.
The first time she'd caught him looking at her was back before they'd found Sophia. She had gotten past being self-conscious over her scars, but she still felt his gaze on her back, roaming, memorizing. She hadn't felt the need to cover up, to defend her late husband, to avoid it – instead, she carried on, knowing he was watching. She felt odd, as if him staring at her scars was, in his own way, showing he cared.
So, after a while, she stared back.
There were times when the sun was harsh against the green fields of the farmland, and they were staring at the map, and Rick and Shane and Daryl all had their shirts unbuttoned, and she would look up from her folding and catch the gash on his abdomen, the motley of small cuts near his right hip, as if some wild animal had dug its claws into him over and over again. He watched him oil his crossbow's string, and watched the white scars on his hands and knuckles shine in the sun, stark against his tanned skin. She sees the mark, almost imperceptible, above his lip, a bite or tear from years ago. When he walks around with his arms bared, she sees the cuts, scrapes, all of them. She's found herself wondering what his back must look like.
And she feels it, then, what he must feel when he sees her: not pity, not disgust, and certainly not revulsion. It's a sadness that feels a lot like regret, as if she'd wished she'd been there to help prevent some of it. The thought of what must have happened in his life, the map he wears is so similar to hers, it's a shock that hits her one day, hard as a brick, and she can't help but stare. He catches her stare that day, cocks a brow, but shakes his head, muttering something she can't hear. She watches him leave, feeling a little awkward, because, after all this group has been through, she can no longer let Daryl push his way to the side, to the outskirts. She has to bring him back, closer to them all, so he can see that feeling she feels.
She says none of this – well, she tries to, in the stables, but it doesn't go too well. Carol is stubborn, and keeps at it, and she'd like to say that she is one of the reasons why he didn't leave after they'd lost Sophia.
The months change, and winter comes creeping over the barren fields and steals their breath. The group is together tonight, Rick and T-Dog watching the perimeter while the others sleep. Daryl, she finds, is watching the fire, and she finds herself avoiding looking at him, instead focusing on the stars above.
He is still watching her, Carol knows, as if still cataloguing. She turns, shifting her gaze from peripheral to forward, and he meets the gaze for a moment before dropping it back down to the fire. She laces her hands around her knees, watching him.
"You should really get some sleep, you know."
He glances back up at her, the firelight making his face look drawn and gaunt. They are all tired, in more ways than one. She knows she looks no different. "Pfft. I'll sleep when I'm dead," he replies easily in that drawl, waving a hand, as if she's being a fool. Her lips curl downward, and her hands tighten around her knees. If he notices, he doesn't say anything. His fingers rub at a mark on his exposed arm, illuminated by the firelight. She looks back to the sky and rubs a hand over her face. When you're dead, huh? She brushes it off, not wanting to face that. Not yet.
"Whatever you say, Daryl."
They exchange banter, and the air warms between them, and neither stare at the other's scars for once.
Sleep steels over her, and she feels her eyelids grow itchy and heavy. "Night, Daryl. Don't stay up to late." She knows he's unlikely to listen, but she wants to say it anyway. She turns and curls on her side, her bed of leaves surprisingly soft and ignores the fact that she'd much rather be nuzzling that thick poncho of his.
Silence reins, and she feels herself drifting, a welcome sense of peace in the camp. She feels the cold, but it's not so bad that she would need anything besides what she has. Right as she's about to drift off, though, she hears just the faintest noise next to her ear. A weight is added to her form, warm and real, smelling slightly of sweat and water and grass. She smiles and buries her face in the collar.
Maybe they can help each other forget, someday.
Those scars.