After roughly an hour up on the watch tower he finally started to relax.

As Hershel had told him, once he'd gotten dressed in his usual sleeveless shirt - people had learned the hard way not to ask about the bruises and cuts on his arm and hand, which were the only ones they saw, apart from his fucked-up face -, torn up pants and worn boots, he'd all but crawled down the stairs and made his way down the hallway. He'd gotten a new bottle of pills from Hershel and, also as he'd been told, taken the first two then and there, swallowing them with a mouthful of water and sarcastically opening his mouth afterward to prove that he had, in fact, swallowed them. To his credit, he had blushed crimson at once at the pettiness of this.

Next, Hershel had asked about how painful walking down here had been and Daryl had brushed him off even as he'd steadied himself against the table in the center of the room to get some of his weight off his left leg. He'd answered questions such as had he been sleeping at night and had he eaten regularly. Of course, Carol had seen to the latter, bringing food up to his cell so he wouldn't have to come down, as well as making sure he actually ate it.

Sleep was another matter entirely.

Sleep had been eluding him ever since he'd had the shit beaten out of him in that warehouse before getting thrown through an intact window on the second floor overlooking the employee parking lot.

It wasn't the pain so much, not anymore. He was healing, albeit slowly. His bruises were fading, and he was no longer coughing and pissing blood. Although he was still limping and it still hurt like hell to lift his bad arm, he'd started to notice improvements. He could bend his knee again without flinching. At night, before not falling asleep, he was able to lie on his left side for a few minutes before he had to roll over onto his back again.

No.

Pain he could deal with. Had dealt with it all his life.

It was the memory of hands on his body, unfriendly hands, not those of Hershel or Rick.

Not those of Carol.

Hands that weren't touching him in an effort to heal or comfort, but to harm him. To keep him from getting away, keep him from fighting back. To cause him pain.

Every time he closed his eyes he could feel them. Pinning his arms to his sides, holding them down, taking his crossbow and his knife. Rendering him defenseless. One set of hands holding him down for another set to beat and pummel him, for a set of feet to kick him. To ultimately get picked off the floor and be thrown through a window.

He had felt humiliated. Frightened. Helpless. Nine years old.

Alone, even though his friends, members of his new family, were fighting by his side, trying to help him. At the end, they had managed to kill the two sons of bitches that had kicked and beaten him. But not even winning mDe any difference.

Staring out into the darkness, the rifle held loosely in his arms, he saw a door opening as he lay in his bed, trying to sleep. His Mom had been gone for three weeks, nothing remaining of her but little pieces of bone and a few handfuls of fine ashes. The fire had been hot enough to destroy her to the same degree as cremating her would have. They had no idea if they had buried all of her, or how much had been missing, or if they'd buried some of the bed with her.

They were staying with an uncle in town who had offered his spare bedroom. He had told them how sorry he was. He had not been sorry enough, however, to be there for her funeral. And he was not sorry enough to try and stop their dad, his brother, from charging into his spare bedroom every single night to rip one of his sleeping sons out of the bed they were sharing, yell at him, shake him, beat and kick him, whip him with his belt and finally throw him onto the bed again like a used rag, yelling all the while how they didn't deserve their Momma, how they hadn't been there for her, how they'd allowed her to kill herself with her boozing and smoking.

His dad came in, saw Daryl lying at the front edge of the bed, within reach, and grabbed him by the neck. Yanking him up, he whipped his belt out of his pants and wrapped the end around his hand. Pulling up Daryl's tee, he dragged him out into the hallway and away from their room so Daryl's cries and the sound of the belt striking him wouldn't wake Merle. Not because he wanted to spare Merle, but because Merle would interfere and be a general pain in the ass until he'd kicked him away often enough so he'd stay away until he was done with Daryl.

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, his chest constricting, and shook his head ever so slightly. This was going nowhere. Even being up here, alone, away from people, got him only so far. He knew even now, at the start of his watch, that he would remain as sleepless this night as he'd been the eight nights before because the movie that had started in his head would continue mercilessly once he was back in his cell, on his cot, feeling those hands again as soon as he closed his eyes.

And not just ot the hands of one week ago, either.

But the hands that had beaten him nearly to death again and again decades ago.

He rubbed his left hand over his right collarbone, tracing the scar there. Feeling the knotted tissue, feeling the gnarled inner edge sliding over the healed bone under it, remembering the pain of that long-ago night. Reliving the fury and hate at the monster doing this to him, and at himself for not fighting back. At his mom for leaving him in this mess. At Merle for sleeping through it.

Reliving the fear of a week before when it had felt like the monster was back.

He managed to breathe, managed to pull himself back into the present.

That was when he heard the footsteps coming up the stairs.

His first impulse was to look about himself for a place to hide, but of course, this being the watchtower, there was no such place here. Next, he stared at the door with wide, frightened eyes, looking for a key, a bolt, any means of locking the door.

There was a knock, a soft voice.

"Daryl, it's me. I can't sleep, and Rick mentioned at dinner that you'd be on watch tonight. Would you keep me company?"

His overactive imagination supplied an image of the rank, viscous fluid that was his fear and anxiety leaking out through his feet, leaving him literally drained and empty.

Carol.

"Course", he answered, relief bleeding into his voice. "Door's open."

A moment later, it did open and she came in, wrapped tightly in a woolen jacket that looked handknit, except nobody had time for this shit any longer. Maybe she'd found it, maybe someone had brought it from a run. He didn't know. Shit like that didn't matter to him. All he knew was that she looked beautiful in the dim light inside the tower and that looking at her instantly made him feel light and free.

She joined him at the railing and looked out over the prison yard and toward the sanctuary of the woods, beyond his reach. Then, with a look up at the sky covered in racing clouds, with a sliver of moon visible every now and then, she whispered: "These are the moments I love about this new world."

He looked at her, surprised. This was unexpected.

Picking up on his astonishment, she elaborated: "Before all this, it was never quiet. There was always some noise to distract you from what you were doing, thinking, feeling. I really enjoy the quiet now."

There was nothing he really could say to that, so he waited. She rewarded him for his patience a few minutes later, continuing her train of thought. "Before, when there was something you needed to work out, there were dozens of excuses for not doing it. Hundreds of things to occupy your time and procrastinate. We don't have that luxury any more. Every day might be our last, and that makes every moment of every day so precious."

This was something he could support wholeheartedly, so he nodded, still not speaking.

Not expecting him to talk, she went on. "But of course you also have much more time to focus on the bad things that keep happening to good people", she sighed. He stiffened besider her. Lots of bad shit had happened to lots of good people recently. People had fucking died.

Her soft voice anchored him again before he could drown in his failures and losses once more as she continued. "That's why it's so important to focus on what we have, not just on what we've lost. On what we've achieved, not just our failures. And why we have to make sure that we're on the level with the people around us."

Her eyes, as she turned her head to fully face him, shone with joy - and something else. "This helped me so much when you were injured last week", she whispered, her hand brushing the back pocket of her dungarees. "I really don't know what I would have done, how I could have gone on, without it. Thank you so much for writing it." He realized, belatedly, that her eyes had been shining with tears as one of them spilled down over her left cheek.

His lips went dry. This was one of the rare instances when he was pretty certain what he was supposed to do. Hesitantly, his eyes never leaving hers, he brought his right hand up to brush his thumb up over her cheekbone, catching the tear as it rolled down and wiping it away, desperately hoping that she wouldn't notice that he was trembling like a leaf. This was the first time ever that he was doing this, and he hoped he hadn't made the wrong call. "'s good then", he mumbled.

Once his watch was over, just an hour later, a much calmer Daryl made his way to the infirmary. Spending the rest of his watch standing silently beside her had given him the safe haven he had needed to think about what had happened in his cell a week before. He needed to get his head out of his ass and talk to the old man. Avoiding him forever wouldn't solve shit, and he'd just continue to feel bad. Like Carol had said, every day might be their last and he would not risk losing a good friend over his shitty behavior.

And maybe, just maybe, being alone with Carol for two hours straight would keep his demons at bay just this once.

Maybe, tonight, he'd be able to sleep.