Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: Entry for the USS Caryl's '25 Days of Caryl Challenge' – Day 22 (Sep 20) Word/Phrase prompt challenge: one of their signature lines. I wanted to explore how a certain signature line came into being.
Warnings: This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter between seasons 2-3 when Team Prison were going from house to house - so sometime before the season three premiere. *Contains: angst, UST, adult language, adult content, mild sexual content, frottage, emotional baggage, adult babies dealing with their feelings, vague season three spoilers.
I will be the rock (to your hard place)
Chapter One
They ended up staying at the house for over a week. The walkers were sparse and easily dealt with in the growing cold. The storm had taken the wind out of Rick's sails and everyone seemed pretty content to sit back and wait it out. And why not? The place they'd found had not one, but two fire places – one on each floor - and a reasonably stocked pantry. There was enough space on the main floor that they could make use of the other rooms without giving up any security, and in comfort to boot.
No one was talking about how it felt too good to be true. No one wanted to jinx it.
Either way, staying put turned out to be a wise decision, because they only had a few days to organize their things and squeeze in a few supply runs before the mother of all storms blew in.
It wasn't just any storm, either.
It was the kind that blacks out the sky and makes you forget what the sun feels like on your skin. The kind that howls and sparks one moment, only to play coy and quiet the next, daring you to venture outside as mother nature tests her ability to lure the hopeful out of their dens.
To saddle them with a quick death rather than a slow race to the finish line.
Where you die of exposure long before the walkers can get you.
They'd seen it once or twice after the cold snap. People – survivors – huddled up in cars and quick shelters in some forest clearing. Smearing frost across the windows as they squirmed in their seats, pressing up against the dash. The blows softened by warm mittens and cloth-wrapped layers that'd ended up doing little good against the brunt of the winter cold.
There had been no bites.
They didn't need them.
Mother Nature had seen to that.
Two days later, dawn found her whispering – barefoot and pale – across the kitchen tile. The house was perfect, still - sleeping as she tip-toed over to the sliding glass door. She kept one hand on her holster as she twitched back the blinds, peering out into the early morning gloom before drawing them back completely.
She shivered, watching the sky through the kitchen window as the clouds roiled, shrouding the sky in a blanket of charcoal grey. She thought about the fire crick-crackling in the hearth in the living room as she hugged herself, rubbing at her arms to chase away a sudden chill.
The first flakes to fall were fluffy, wet and unapologetic.
She sighed, shaking her head as she tucked her chin deeper into the folds of her sweater.
Well, that settled things.
They were officially stuck here.
She looked around her, suddenly at a loss as the idea of free-time stretched out in front of her for the first time in months. No, longer than months, years maybe. Even when Sophia had been in school, she'd never let herself be idle. She'd never allowed herself much time to think – to sit down and actually dwell on the horror story that'd made a mockery of her happy ending. She'd kept herself busy, even when Ed had decided they were watching TV, she'd have a pile of darning in her lap, the check book and next week's grocery list peeking out of the household folder.
She gummed at the inside of her cheek, long nails tip-tapping across the metal frame of the sliding-glass, the idea still making subtle waves across her tired mind as a dizzying rush of possibility churned through the backwash. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled – alive with mental static – as the flakes started to come down harder. Blanketing the ground and piling high on the fence posts of the sprawling backyard.
Baby steps, she reminded herself. Baby steps.
Still, it begged the question.
Now what?
The first day she forced herself to sleep in. Soaking in the early morning sounds as the others gradually began to stir. But when Lori pulled herself up, grunting lightly as her sore back made itself known, she kept her eyes closed. Content to fake it as Daryl's tired, steady breathing from the bed roll beside her lulled in her into that weightless place – the one that existed somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
She hadn't felt him sleep this deep in months.
And, not for the first time since they'd stumbled on this place, she forced herself to wonder if perhaps it wasn't just her that needed the lie in.
The second day, she read the paperback Carl had found behind the downstairs toilet and then let him beat her at Chess. She played chicken with Daryl in the hallway, sliding seamlessly in and out of each other's orbit. Spooking each other with the weight of the feelings - the commitment - that lurked unsaid between them.
It felt like an engine stall.
An unnatural pause.
Something had changed between them since the farm.
She just couldn't put a finger on what.
She stayed awake that night, watching the shadows chase each other across the ceiling. Listening to the others sleep, pretend to sleep, watching Hershel spit-shine his wedding ring from the armchair one of them had set in front of the fire.
She considered her situation as the fire banked itself, glowing red with ember as Daryl sighed, rolling free of his mess of blankets and getting to his feet. She listened to the click-click-pop as he stretched, savoring the sound as he shifted, looking around at the huddled shapes that dotted the span of the living room. She could almost hear him counting it out, making sure. Like the lead male in a wolf pack, he ensured everyone was accounted for before he ghosted out the side door, already fumbling with the button on his jeans as he made tracks to the nearest bathroom.
She wondered what he'd been thinking, laying there beside her, hyper aware of every shift, every hitch in each other's breathing, tongues pressing down on all the words they weren't saying. The ones that got harder and harder not to blurt out as the days trickled past and the weight of everything left unsaid settled across her shoulders like the snow and wind that seemed to have wreathed around them for the long haul.
She forced down the urge to shift restlessly as the wind howled in the eaves.
She didn't know what he wanted to hear.
Did he want her to lie?
To say nothing?
Regardless of what it was, the next act would be hers. That much she was sure of.
He'd never be the one to break the ice. To make the first move.
The dichotomy was interesting. Ed had always used volume and his fists to get what he wanted. He'd never shied away from it. He'd never deferred, especially not for her sake. She blinked, watching through slitted eyes as the man slunk back into the room, hands awkward and empty as he crossed over to the chair and gave Hershel a nod.
She decided it was progress when he muted the flinch, the action more reflexive than anything as the muscles in his shoulders twitched, shuddering as Hershel rested his hand on a shoulder, squeezing lightly as he handed over the night's watch without comment. Allowing the silence speak for them.
She drifted off no less than five minutes after he settled down in the chair by the fire, all hunched shoulders and surly grace, spearing the coals with a poker as her eyes started to droop.
He had a knack for that, she supposed, at making her feel safe.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – We should be looking at two more chapters and this baby will be complete.
