Disclaimers: The idea is original, but I do not own the characters. Inspired by the general insanity the characters have shown and deal with on the show. Expect wonky characterizations. This is my first AU. No offense intended towards people with actual mental illness. If you have or know someone who is suffering from a mental illness there is help for you at: NAMI dot org.

We're all a little crazy (case in point, I spend an unhealthy amount of time obsessing about my OTP).

Also, I really don't know where this is going. Sorry about that. Sometimes a girl just has to set a piece free to see where it flies. -jb

Chapter 1: Down the Rabbit Hole

"Fresh meat!" Philip Blake, the man wearing an eye patch, announced as a thin, silver-haired woman was wheeled onto the ward.

Daryl's eyes turned to gaze at the spectacle. The woman in the wheelchair had delicate features and looked like an angel the way the fluorescent lights shone upon her. He could even hear the harp strings being plucked that accompanied her arrival into his world. But she was a pitiful angel. There was something tragic about the far-off look in her eyes. Right away, he felt a special connection and wanted to help her. He was certain she felt dead inside like him. More than anything, he needed to see her smile. From that moment on, he knew they were destined for each other.

"Sit down, Phillip," Milton, the counselor, who looked more like an accountant in his wire-rimmed glasses, stated authoritatively. "We're not done with group yet."

The eye patch wearing fool turned his head with a murderous look in his unobstructed eye. "I told you to stop calling me that!" he shouted.

"Sit down, asshole! You ain't a real governor, you delusional psycho," Daryl hollered, angry that the man was blocking his view of the beautiful woman. He tilted his chair back to see his angel being wheeled down the hall until she disappeared into the third doorway on the right. He took a quick mental note of the location and filed it under: Urgent Action Needed.

"Daryl," Milton admonished him, "perhaps there is another way you could rephrase that less angrily."

"What? It's true. He's a psychopath!" Daryl argued, slamming the legs of the chair down.

"We don't use labels like that in here," the bookish counselor reminded him.

"This town needs leadership. I just so happen to be the only one with the right qualifications and upbringing," Philip said, pulling on the lapel of the suit jacket he wore over his blue hospital scrubs.

"You ain't in a town, you're in the loony bin with the rest of our sorry asses," Daryl grumbled. "Woodbury State Psych-i-atric Hos-pit-al," he read the inscription stamped on his pant leg in a loud voice.

"See, my leadership has already brought literacy to the redneck," Philip quipped, making a sweeping gesture with his hand.

Unhinged by the remark, Daryl lunged for Philip and tackled him to the ground, wrapping his hands around the man's neck.

"Daryl Dixon! Remove your hands at once or I will be forced to call security. Medication will be administered against your will."

Reluctantly, Daryl released his death grip. Normally, he wouldn't mind a little vacation in Benzoland. It was something to escape the monotony and his own sense of inadequacy. But now, he had a mission. This woman needed him, needed his help. He had to stay sober.

"Call me that one more time, Blake, and I will beat your ass into the ground," he threatened as he stood up and resentfully threw himself back into the state-issued chair.

"A reminder, Mr. Dixon, that there are to be no threats during group," Milton insisted.

"Wasn't a threat," Daryl stated, narrowing his eyes on his nemesis. "It was a promise."

"Promises should never be broken," a young blonde woman said naively. She smiled bashfully at the irritable redneck, who ignored her attempt at flirtation. Barely legal, she was young enough to be his daughter, and while he was many things, he was not a pervert.

Daryl only rolled his eyes.

"That promise could be ipso facto a threat considering the implied nature of the violence," Eugene uttered pedantically.

"No one asked you," Daryl scowled, unwilling to admit he did not understand the vocabulary the man often used.

Seeking backup, he turned his head and saw the former Sheriff's deputy, Rick Grimes, sitting half comatose and drooling in the chair next to him.

"Man, they got you on too many meds," Daryl complained with disgust.

Rick only drooled back in response.

"We're done here," Daryl announced impatiently, standing up and walking away as the group began to disperse.

Daryl stood nervously in the doorway, chewing on the skin around his fingernail, as he watched the silver-haired woman sitting on the edge of the bed. She was out of his league, he was certain of it. This woman had the elegance of a queen as she sat there, staring mournfully at a photograph she tenderly held between her long fingers. He felt sad for her.

"Dixon, quit hovering!" Glenn, the nursing assistant, called to him. "Give the lady her space."

The woman looked up from the photograph in that moment and met his gawking eyes. He stopped chewing on his finger as her brokenhearted blue eyes burned into his soul. Then a chill scaled his spine, and he knew she had seen straight through him to his melted core. It scared him speechless. No one had ever really seen him before, not even his asshole brother, Merle. And they were blood.

"Hi," she said softly with a melancholic chime that grabbed him by the balls and twisted.

He ached to be close her, but he couldn't move from the fear that suddenly gripped him and fixed him in place. The tiny woman was a powerful sorceress and he was already completely under her spell, willing to do whatever she asked of him. But eventually he would fuck it up, and she would learn, without a doubt, how much of a fuck-up he truly was. She had obviously been hurt very deeply; he would only let her down more. He couldn't do that to her.

The pressure was too intense. Feeling his face turn red, he tucked tail and left.

Back in the safety of his room, he paced back and forth vehemently.

You're actin' too much like a damn church mouse afraid of its own shadow, the voice in his head teased him. The voice sounded just like Merle. That asshole.

You're a Dixon. We're tom cats. So find your balls and go back there and get 'er, Tiger!

"Shut up!" Daryl shouted, covering his ears with his hands as he tried to block out the arrogant voice. "She ain't like that."

Quit bein' a pussy and go get some!

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" he yelled as he continued to pace violently.

"Keep it down, Dixon," Glenn warned him as he passed in the hallway.

With a suspicious glare, Daryl turned towards the man, swaggering angrily towards the doorway. He stopped just in front of the man standing outside. "Who are you callin' a pussy?"

"Whoa, hold on," Glenn said, taking a step back and holding up his hands. "That is not what I just said."

"Best keep it that way." Lifting his chin, he stuck out his chest, prepared to fight the man, but then he saw the light illuminating from the silver-haired angel watching him from down the hallway. Robbed of his breath, he nearly collapsed. He kept his eyes on her as she slowly approached him. She was so graceful, as if she were gliding on the air. Leaning back on the doorjamb to stay upright, he counted down from ten, hoping he could remember how to breathe before she reached him.

By the time he got to one, she was standing there, making herself as small as possible and staring at him like he had all the answers. It gave him a little more confidence.

"Hi," he finally said before she could slip away. He wanted to put his arms around her to protect her.

"Dixon, why don't you show her around?"

Daryl nodded and the two of them walked towards the center of the ward together.

"My name's Carol." Her name came out in musical notes.

Carol. Carol. Carol.

He replayed her name in his head like a song. She was a beautiful melody.

"Daryl," he forced out of his lips, completing the rhyme and sealing their fate.

When they arrived at the hub, he described the set-up to her. "This is the main area. There's a schedule posted on the wall. We meet for group twice a day over there." He pointed to the circle of chairs he was sitting at when she had arrived. "And art therapy. That's my favorite. They've got games to play at other times. Do you like to play games?" He couldn't hide the vulnerability he felt asking the question. But he needed to know if he could trust her.

Somehow, her face grew even softer and she shook her head no.

Relieved, he let go of the breath he was holding. It was comforting to know they were in perfect harmony. "Me neither."

His admission seemed to strengthen their connection because she took a step closer and he didn't seem to mind.

As difficult as it was, he pulled his eyes away from her to finish the tour. "That's the dining area," he said, pointing to an empty room behind a panel of glass windows, "though I'm not sure it's actual food they serve in there. And that's the nurse's station, if you, uh, need meds or somethin'." He shrugged. She didn't look like the type who needed drugs, but he wasn't going to judge her if she was. She was perfect.

Following his fingers, Carol looked at the counter where a woman with dreadlocks was sitting at a desk just behind it.

"That's Nurse Michonne," Daryl indicated. "Don't bother her when she's doing paperwork. Trust me."

They quietly crept past the woman as she worked.

"You just gotta be careful they don't give you too much medication, or you'll wind up like them," he warned her as they passed a few patients wandering around aimlessly, wearing a deer-in-the-headlights look. "The walking dead."

They moved towards a quiet corner. "That's Dr. Greene's office. He's a good listener." Daryl paused to gaze at her again. "So am I. You need anything, just ask. "

"Thank you, Daryl." The sweet way she said his name awakened something long dormant inside of him. "It was nice to meet you." A small but genuine smile arose on her lips. It was an encouraging beginning.

For the first time in his life, he felt his whole body sputter alive. It was an uncomfortable, but natural high. "The pleasure was mine, Carol."

Truly.