A/N: At the end.

The east-facing window was still dark when he woke, climbing slowly from a tangle of half-forgotten dreams. Rain, Daryl finally decided, it had been the patter of drops on the metal roof that had disturbed his sleep. He rubbed his face into his pillow, trying to fade back into slumber. Against his back, Carol slept on, her head resting on his shoulder blade and her breast solid against his skin.

The rain fell heavier, chasing sleep off like a rattler made crows dance out of reach. The dreams slid sideways, threatening to slip away like water through his fingers, leaving only a film of memory behind. He let his eyes drift closed, tried one last time to fall back into darkness.

It had been Merle, him and Merle, hunting through the woods, just like old times. Merle's left hand had held the gun, his favorite deer rifle, and with the other hand Merle had prodded Daryl in the shoulder with one thick finger.

Lookit there, ain't it a beaut?

The doe had been beautiful, sleek and curved, head up and cautious. Even Merle had been willing to just crouch in the thicket and watch her nose in the leaves for acorns.

Something there.

Merle was still watching the doe, but Daryl kept looking over his shoulder, searching the woods behind them for…something. There was something out there. Some dangerous thing.

Now the doe had been joined by a fawn – still dappled, coat the color of sunlight, golden under the floating autumn leaves. Out of season, Merle whispered. The little ones, you know they don't make it out here.

Shut up, Daryl had wanted to say, quit rilin' me up, but he had spotted it, finally, the thing creeping up behind him. It was a walker, lurching through the brush, muttering as it came.

The muttering became sounds and the sounds became words. Fucking worthless piece a'shit, stupid little fuck…

He raised the crossbow, heartbeat pounding in his ears, waiting until the walker came into sight. He knew it. Was going to get it this time.

beat you until you listen ta me, boy…

Daryl crouched closer to the earth, a stick breaking under his weight. The doe spooked, ran off with the golden fawn bouncing behind. Merle turned where he knelt, his mouth opening to curse Daryl for losing the game. When he saw the walker, Merle's face went ashen, his hands trembling. Oh, shit, no. He swiped at his face, blade slicing through the air. Sweat dripped from the fine-honed edge. Oh, fuck, brother, you got to run.

No, Daryl shook his head, I got this. And he did, he had the bolt lined up, just a bit of an arc, just another moment…

And then the walker cleared the last bit of brush and staggered into view. The face swam into focus, beyond the chipped antler tip of the bolt, and Daryl felt the fear surge through him.

The thing staggered forward, waving its arms stiffly, one thick hand still grasping a black leather belt, the buckle end bobbing and bouncing as the walker stumbled on. The gaping mouth opened, and through the rotten teeth grated out his father's voice.

Give you something to cry about, you stupid little fuck…

Daryl jerked out of sleep again, still clutching his pillow, still sprawled on his belly, but with the sky through the window gone grey and Carol stirring beside him.

He buried his face in his pillow, muffling his gasping breath against the scratchy-clean cloth, squeezing his eyes shut against the threat of tears. Just a fucking dream. Nothing to bawl over. Not even real. Merle never cried for him, not ever, can't you man up for once? He forced the air in and out, dragging his breathing back under control.

Against his back, Carol was humming under her breath, the length of her still and easy against him, riding out the shudders as they ran through his body. He swallowed, finally, pulled his face out of the pillow and laid his head back down, staring at the window.

"Just – just a dream," he said, finally, when he thought he could talk. He choked out the last half word, clenched his jaw around another gasping sob. Stupid pussy, crying like a little girl.

Carol's hands ran over his shoulders, down his biceps, back up again. "I know," she said as she curled closer, one knee slipping between his thighs, her hip bent close behind him, shaping her body to his. "Just a dream."

Her fingers closed over his shoulders, squeezed lightly, and released, gently massaging at the tight cords of muscle. Her head lifted off his back, letting the cool air wash over his skin. Gently, softly as a falling leaf, she touched her lips to his back, tracing the shiny lines of old scars, the black marks of his demons.

There had been a time when he hadn't wanted her to see the scars, when he'd been sure the damage was more than anyone could stand. Hadn't even wanted her to touch them, as if the breaks in his skin were some breaks in him – old damage, that had never healed right.

Had never wanted her to ask about them, afraid of what her face would do, when he told her of his cowardice, of how he'd begged forgiveness, promised to do better, wept under the blows. He'd been sure, he could never stand to tell her the truth, and that lying to her would kill him, or kill that fragile thing that had been growing between them.

She'd never asked. Never questioned. Only run her hands over his skin as her arms enfolded him, as she wrapt her legs about him, gasped his name against his throat and clung to him, palms spread over his scars, as he shuddered into her, choking out her name as he came.

And after, as he lay sated and too empty to speak, she had traced the lines that had been laid into him, first with her fingers, then with her breath. Using her thumbs to work the warm mist of her exhalation into his skin, rubbing away the raised keloid marks, brushing them with her lips and tongue. Tasting the old scars, lapping up the sweat, consuming the damage that had been done, taking it all from him. More intimate, more knowing, than any fucking had ever been. He had lain there, under her touch, swallowing against the tightness in his throat, waiting for her to question him. To question the scars.

She never asked. And slowly, as the months turned into a year and then into another, he stopped being afraid that she would.

Now she moved over him again, tracing each scar with a finger tip, and then with her mouth. Slowly moving down his body, washing the tension away as she went. Finally, she came to the end, the long mark that curled over flank and across his hip bone. She traced it as far as she could go, let her tongue leave a cool path over the dip of muscle.

Sometimes, she ended it by slipping a hand under his hip, tracing down from his navel to the thick curls of his groin. Sometimes, he wanted her to, would let her pull him over onto his back so that she could work another sort of forgetfulness on him with quick fingers and the heat of her mouth. Sometimes he didn't, and she'd press a kiss against his ear and let him slip back into sleep.

Now she let her palm pass down his thigh before letting her weight come down against him again, folding her arms around his shoulders and letting her head rest on his back. When he sighed, her body moved with him.

"It was my dad," he said, to the window and the grey rain, the grey light. "Daddy beat me, beat Merle." Carol hummed a quiet noise, nothing more than the brush of tree limbs against the house. "In the dream, he came back again." He wanted to tell her the rest of it, to tell her about Merle, two-handed and grinning, about the beautiful doe and her fawn. But the words caught in his throat, brought heat to his eyes.

Carol hummed again, rubbed her hair against his skin, rested a kiss against his spine. One hand slipped down his shoulder to trace the bend in his elbow, run along the tendons in his forearm. Abruptly, he shifted, twisting his arm to capture her hand and tangle his fingers in hers. She wiggled her thumb free and ran it over his knuckles, slowly making circles as if chasing something around the bones of his hand.

He went to sleep again, to the rhythm of the rain and her fingers threading through his.

end

A/N: Set post S5E11, in ASZ. Rated M for Dixon language, some sexual imagry.

From an anon prompt on USS Caryl - "Carol and Daryl discussing/acknowledging the scars from his abuse." It probably has less actual talking than that anon wanted. Sorry, you can put a Dixon into emotional distress but you can't make him talk.

With thanks, yet again, to The World's Best Beta (TM). Concrit and all sorts of feedback accepted with a glad heart. Thank you for reading this far.