There was something wrong with him before the bad luck road run and now it was worse.
He couldn't talk about it, not even with Carol. Not even now, when she came to his bunk late at night, stripped off her clothes, his, too, and did everything he could imagine in the dark to him.
Some things he'd never imagined, as well.
A few times, after he'd finished and she was sweaty and dazed - the woman could come a dozen times, he swore she had some knack or magic within her - he'd lie there thinking about telling her. About how he was breaking. Or whatever it was. The thing in him that was making him question. Making him pause, lose his nerve.
The thing in him that Merle could always see. That Merle could slap out of him, with a look, or even a fist. "Mama's little sweetie boy," he'd said, more than once. Merle could see it, all right; the thing in him that Carol didn't believe existed. His weakness.
Merle was gone now. Maybe that's why it was getting harder to fight it?
Maybe he didn't trust what they had going. Maybe it was all the extra time he'd had now, now that things were stable, that they weren't on the run all the time anymore, and that was making him into a pussy. Making him think about things he hadn't thought about before. Things he didn't like to think about.
Like checking out. Like giving up. Like seeing the point of people who had.
One day, he was standing outside the cellblock, waiting for Glenn to go on a run, thinking about this shit. How tired he was. How sick of everything he was. How he just needed something. Not just what Carol gave him on the nights she came to his cell, though he sure as hell liked it when she'd come to him, always unannounced. He loved it, even, though that word made him uneasy.
Maybe it was being in charge, now that he was on the council. People looking to him for words, for answers? That had never been his deal. And now, he felt like a liar, too, when people came to him with things. Their problems or questions.
"Glenn's waiting," Michonne, staring at him all sharp. "You coming?"
He tried not to seem rattled, but he was, and she was instantly suspicious.
"Daryl," she said. "What's going on."
He shook his head.
"Nuh uh," she said, coming closer. "What is it?"
"Ain't nothing," he said, and pushed past her. He spent the whole run not meeting her eyes, too.
Another night, Carol came to him, very late. They didn't have a lot of time to see each other; during the day there was always work to do. And she had some thing about bunking up with him; she never said, but he knew that there was something in her, probably leftover from her time with Ed, that made her not want to share in that way. Not that he'd invited her; he figured she'd want to double up together like lots of other people were. He wouldn't have said no. But she had her own clock she lived by and he understood what that was about. Knew the muck that he kept hidden inside him and respected her being slow to tell about it.
Tonight in bed, Carol was putting off the inevitable, though. Wanted to do everything but let him stick his dick in her. He was about ready to lose his mind, all of her twisting around him and over him in the dark, sucking and licking, his hands everywhere, trying to keep up. He could sense her smiling about it, too. She had this little naughty streak in her. You wouldn't guess it; she saved it mostly for him.
Now she had him on his back and was sucking him off. Only not really sucking; she was really mostly just licking the tip, teasing. She was downright sinful, when you thought about it. Sinful. Beautiful. Killing him.
"Come on, baby," he said, reaching for her, pulling her up, wanting her hips over him.
But she squirmed away.
"Just a minute," she said.
"Fine," he said, flopping back, trying to make out the stripes in the mattress above him in the faint light. Thinking about the different weights of motor oil. Imagining skinning a squirrel. Which tires needed air on what cars in their fleet. Anything with steps or a long-drawn-out process was good. Though not completely effective.
Because her mouth on him was perfect. Too perfect.
He reached down again and this time, when she looked up, he pulled her up short. Flipped her on her back and was over her before she could say anything.
"Daryl," she said, her voice surprised. But her legs opened wider and he slammed in deep. She was wet and juicy as hell, sucking dick always made her that way, another miracle of her that he'd been happy to find out, and she cried out, a little too loud; they were both careful to not make too much noise, for many reasons.
"Sorry," he said, kissing her.
Her hands grabbed for his ass and pushed him in deeper and then he couldn't think anymore. A minute later he heard the little gasp of breath she always took when it was happening, felt her pussy clench, then heard and felt her come all over him.
"Carol, god," he muttered, before coming himself.
She only sometimes slept with him on these nights; some nights she had baby duty or other things going on. Again, she wasn't hiding things, he didn't think. Just was nervous about letting him own her, he guessed. Didn't want no man to own her as Ed had owned her.
But that night, she stayed. Didn't sit up, gather her clothes, yawn, say see you tomorrow. That night she coiled up next to him, both of them still naked, her skin sticky with sweat, her soft slender feet tangling with his knobby calloused ones, her head on his chest, and he thought it might come out, then. His confession. What was it? How would he explain it?
But then she just said, "Thank you, Daryl." And drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, she was gone. And not just gone from his bed. Gone. Probably dead. Rick said the car she'd taken had a bad alternator and nobody remembered topping it up with gas. Maggie had said Carol told her Michonne was going with her; Michonne reported Carol said she'd be with Maggie.
"We'll find her," Rick said. But his voice sounded unsure.
Daryl couldn't even shake his head. He didn't want anyone going. He didn't want it to be happening. He'd go alone and he'd find her and he'd stop crawling up his own ass with his own bullshit problems. He'd been blind that anything was even going on with Carol. Hadn't seen past his own worries, his own dick, even. This was Carol checking out.
Did Carol break, too? Like he was breaking? Had the bad luck road gotten to them both? He knew the others probably give him shit for believing in bad luck. In ghosts. The chupacabra. They didn't even know about the killer fog from out in the swamps his mama had told stories about.
He dropped his crossbow on the breakfast table and all the dishes jumped. Then he ran back up to his cell. Like a little boy sent from the table. There were tears but he didn't even care if anyone saw them. And he knew no one would follow, anyway. Not right away, at least.
It was Michonne, who came. But that wasn't until late. The moon was high in the window, just rising and her voice was soft but clear.
"Daryl."
He was on the floor. He couldn't bring himself to get in the bed, thinking he'd still be able to smell her on his blankets. Plus he'd slept like the dead and he felt guilty for it, too; another way he'd been selfish. Missing the clues.
Michonne crouched near him. He sat up against the wall.
"I found the car," she said.
He didn't say anything. He knew she was aware of him sitting there, listening.
"She wasn't in it," she continued. "There was some blood. I don't know whose blood. The keys were still in it. It had run out of gas, completely."
"That why she got out?" he said, his voice scraping along, swallowing the salt raining back into his throat.
"Don't know," Michonne said. "Maybe it was intentional."
"That's what Rick thinks?"
"Can't speak for Rick," she said. "Just saying it plain, though."
"All right," he said.
"I'll go again in the morning," she said. "If you..."
"All right," he repeated. Wanting her to go. Thanking god she couldn't see his face that well. Though Michonne seemed to have the same sense he did, the one that let him see what went unsaid.
But he didn't go that next morning. Or the next. He could barely leave his cell. He was afraid of it all. Of going out. Of finding her. Of seeing all their faces, when he'd return without her. Of walkers along the fence line, wearing her red shirt, wearing her face. Carol, covered in death.
He was sure she was dead. And he'd never told her. He'd never told her everything. Anything.
Beth brought him food. Herschel checked his heart; he was complaining of chest pains. Glenn told him to quit smoking and buck the fuck up, an unusual move for Glenn, but medicine he himself would have applied had Glenn been acting this dipshit pansy way. He was aware he was being ridiculous. A dipshit. A pansy. But he just couldn't, anymore. Could not. Movement paralyzed him.
Some nights he dreamt of the car Carol had taken. The Jeep with the good tires and the hardtop welded to the frame. He dreamed he took it and stopped on the bad luck road and got out, holding nothing in his hands, just waiting like a piece of meat for death to come scrabbling along with its endless hands and mouths. He'd always wake up before he felt the first walker touch him.
Then he'd lie awake and think of her. What had died with her, out there. Only things he'd be charged to remember now.
Mama's little sweetie boy.
Thank you, Daryl.
Nights like these were long, grey tunnels. Endless. When he did fall asleep, the tunnel continued. And when he awoke, even when the sun was out, the grey endless feeling remained.