Right Down the Line (part2/?)
His name was Bob.
Everyone seemed to like him except Daryl. He'd showed up with the group from the hospital. They'd been there the whole time since the outbreak, living in a basement, dwindling in numbers over the years - just like every other group scattered across the state.
They finally gave up and sought a new home when something exploded and dropped half the hospital on the only water supply they had. Eight of them showed up at the prison gate. Every so often they'd get one or two new people who stumbled across the safe haven that the prison had become. They'd see the animals, and the crops, and they'd know this was a place to start again and to not be alone.
But they'd never had a group as big as this, not since Woodbury. There was Oliver, the surgeon; Ruby, the white haired retired midwife; Alexi, the porter; a handful of others Daryl never got to know… and then there was Bob.
He spoke too much; smiled too much. He reminded Daryl of guys he and Merle had known back in the day. The kind of guy who fits right in with society, shakes hands with the business man whilst selling his little girl for sex. Not that Daryl had any proof of that, it was just a feeling.
Everyone had brushed him off when he tried to say something. He's just being territorial, just being Daryl. But she had listened, understood. She trusted his instinct.
"If you think something isn't right, tell Hershell. He'll listen," she'd said with a resolute frown.
And Hershell did listen, but as he said there was nothing he could do when the man hadn't put a foot wrong. But he took Daryl seriously and that meant a lot.
In the end though, it wasn't enough to save him.
They should never have put a gun in his hand. Never let the man they didn't know from Adam, take his turn on watch.
He'd shot 5 people before Tyresse tackled him to the ground and Daryl had wrestled the gun from his hand. Daryl had put him down, quick and quiet. Only Tyresse knew about it. It was their pact, their secret. A shared nod was all it took. They didn't have time for justice and rights. This man was a walker like any other, just one that hadn't died yet.
In the panic that ensued no one was sure who'd been hit and who hadn't. The screamers got the attention first. And no one realised that Hershell had been hit. He was silent, still sitting upright at one of the picnic tables in the yard, his body leaning to the right on his crutch.
Only when Beth started wailing did they realise. He'd died instantly, a clean bullet through the heart; the blood pouring out of him under the table and out of view.
They all took it hard. Hershell wasn't meant to go like that. The man had survived wave after wave of walker shit. He'd lost his leg but not his spirit. He was minister and doctor, father and judge, friend and teacher.
Maggie and Beth went to pieces and clutched each other. Rick had to physically hold Glenn upright.
"Dad! Dad!" he'd wailed, though he had never called him that in life.
Tyresse, Daryl, Rick and a new fellow Joel took care of it. Oliver had taught them how to sever the cerebral cortex without blowing the head clean off. They could stop him coming back without destroying who he was. For the first time, they would have a proper funeral.
But still, Beth and Maggie didn't need to see it. So between them they had carried his body into a make-shift morgue. That was where they found Carol, helping Oliver set up the room.
After they made sure he wouldn't return, they didn't really know what to do.
"I'll clean him up," Carol had offered. "We'll make him look nice and then Beth and Maggie can say goodbye properly."
She was already rolling up her sleeves as Oliver left to attend to the other wounded. Tyresse and Joel followed swiftly after. They clearly knew it was something that the family needed to do together.
But Daryl wouldn't leave, no way. He wasn't going to leave her there. What if it hadn't been done right and he turned? What if… who knew? But he just wasn't going to do it.
In the end, he and Rick took turns standing guard as Carol stripped Hershell, sewed up the wound and dressed him again. She brushed out his white hair and beard until he looked peaceful and content ,like images of God Daryl had always seen as a kid.
When Daryl had started nodding off with his head on his bow, Rick had sent him to bed. He'd argued but a touch from Carol's hand on his chest and her insistence he go sent him shuffling off to their cell.
He hadn't known how much later it was when Carol came to bed. The familiar soft jingle of her undoing her belt in the darkness had woken him up. He'd fallen asleep, flat on his back, fully clothed on top of the blankets. He contemplated moving but somehow, for some reason he was afraid to let her know he was awake. So he'd laid and listened.
He'd heard all the sounds of her daily winding down that he took as a comforting lullaby every night. The scrape of the metal chair as she sat to untie her boots, the soft flump of her pants hitting the ground, the squeak of the old drawer as she put away her clothes. But tonight one part never came.
The familiar grind and clang of her putting her weight on the old springs of the bottom bunk and the slight shudder as she scooted around getting comfortable was missing.
He'd wanted to sit upright, was she crying? Had she gone out the room again? He couldn't see in the darkness. And that was when he'd heard it. The clang of metal against metal, the shift of his bunk and then there it was, her head poking above the end of the bed.
She'd never said a word. She simply pulled herself up and crawled up the bed. He tried not to look at her bare legs as she lay on her side with her back towards him. He'd flattened himself back against the wall as much as he could, his body as stiff as a board, afraid of what was happening, afraid of what she wanted. But she hadn't wanted anything, nothing more than what it was they both needed that horrible day.
She'd reached behind her and found his wrist. He'd made a small sound. He was going to speak but didn't know what to say so in the end he only made a noise; a short questioning but agreeing noise all in one breath, as she pulled his arm and rested it over her side. His hand came to lie on the soft cotton tank top covering her stomach and the feel was both exhilarating and soothing.
Within seconds she was asleep. It took Daryl a lot longer to relax. He held his body tense; scared of every part of it that was touching hers. But exhaustion eventually over took him as he listened to her deep breaths elongate.
The next morning when he'd woken he was grateful for the thick denim he'd fallen asleep wearing. She had rolled partially onto her front, and he'd rolled with her. He was practically lying on top of her; his crotch pressing against the thin fabric covered her ass. And his body knew it too.
He'd blushed as soon as he'd become aware of it, but he was afraid to pull away in case that woke her. Maybe if he lay there, still, pretending he was on his belly hunting squirrel in the woods, with Merle whining in his ear – maybe then it would subside and she'd never notice.
Of course, Carol being Carol, that was the moment she'd woken. She'd curled and stretched as he'd rolled back hurriedly. She turned herself over in place and faced him.
He remembered the look on her face. He always would. In the grey blue light of morning, he'd never found her more beautiful. Age and care were written in the soft crinkles around her eyes, while her lips were as plump and ripe as a teenage girl's.
This was it, he'd thought. This was the moment he couldn't deny it, couldn't fight it any more. But as ever, he was wrong. There was one person wearing the pants in this relationship, and it wasn't the one hiding an erection behind denim.
She'd looked at him intently, squeezed his arm gently and before he could even think, had hopped off the bed and was picking up her clothes for the day.
So often she left him like that, like a gentle whirlwind that spun him round, lifted him off his feet and then laid him to rest exactly in the spot he'd been.
She told him later that she didn't want to push him. She said his face had looked like a deer caught in the headlights when she'd rolled over. And yes, she'd known about his morning wood. But she'd said nothing.
And neither did he.
All was as it was before, until Hershell's funeral. The whole community had joined together. Daryl'd never seen everyone gathered together that way, but everyone had loved the man.
Daryl had hung back. He let Carol comfort Beth, as Glenn and Maggie propped each other up. But he'd watched her, as he always did. And he realised that the whole time she was comforting other people, helping other people, no one was helping her.
That night, he was in the cell before she was again. He'd paced back and forth going over and over whether this was a good idea, and every time he'd heard footsteps on the walkway he'd leapt about 6 foot in the air.
Finally he said "Screw it" out loud. He pulled off his boots and shirt, removed his weapons and climbed into bed.
Her bed.
He didn't fall asleep. He couldn't, for the sound of his own heart beating out of his chest.
Finally she'd come in. He'd known she was weary from her walk and it was written all over her face in the half light. She stood in the room, slumped and exhausted, looking at him lying in her bed, questioning but not speaking.
He'd done the only thing he could think of doing, and he pulled the covers back, inviting her in.
Immediately she kicked off her boots, pulled off her pants and lay down next to him.
This time she faced him, her head low. And the sobs had begun. He'd wrapped his arms around her then, and held her tight against his chest as she gripped his arms and shook. His own tears landed on her soft grey hair.
They'd fallen asleep like that. It hadn't gone the way he planned, but he knew now wasn't the time.
Yet every night after that, they shared the same bed, back to front, face to face, always touching, always holding, but that was all. His lips never strayed to hers, her hands never touched his face.
He began to think he'd misunderstood all this time. That she loved him like a brother, like a friend, like a son even. The sexual teasing he remembered from her was a long distant memory. He couldn't remember when she'd stopped; he just knew he missed it.
But again, as ever, he was wrong. So very, very wrong. And it wasn't a very long time until it became clear.