Mind: super blown after last Sunday's episode. None of which is mentioned in here, but you know, just wanted to throw that out there. In any case, hello, thanks for reading! This is chapter two. Thank you to the lovely Demonic Hope, who proofread/beta'd/understood my brain enough to fix my word order woes for me. Enjoy!


The first night she's back, he sits in the corner of her cell, busying himself with cleaning his crossbow, watching while she sleeps. Maybe. Is she sleeping? He doesn't know. What he does know is that he's not ready to take his eyes off of her yet, like if he blinks too long, she'll be gone again and he'll be… well, he'll be a wreck again. His feet are crossed and he remembers that feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, when he was sitting outside the closet he didn't know she was holed up in. Dread. Fear. Loss, permeating and permanent. He can't lose her too.

Can't.

Won't.

Same thing.

"What're you still doin' here?" she mutters; her voice startles him, so quiet and hoarse from lack of use, lack of water. He looks over and sees that she's sitting up, and he knows she's been watching him for a while.

He swallows.

I'm here 'cause I don't know where else to be. 'Cause I thought you was dead. 'Cause you ain't. 'Cause I should've protected you. I'm here 'cause—

"'Cause you asked me to stay."

And even though he says it in his matter of fact tone, as if he's that rules based he'd just sit with her if he didn't want to, there's an obvious hesitation before she speaks. She knows he doesn't mean it like that. He can tell from her body language that she's smiling, the way her head falls, but snaps back to him; he's always unsure of how to act, doesn't know if he likes this, attachment and her and feeling this way, but he's drawn in like a moth to the flame. "I just… that room… I…"

I was so goddamn terrified, I couldn't think straight? Yeah, me neither, he finishes for her, but he's not good at this kind of thing, so he thinks it and doesn't say it, as usual.

"Doesn't matter," he cuts her off, goes back to cleaning whatever part of his arsenal of weapons is in front of him, "Just go back to sleep."

She rolls over.

He's gone before she wakes up in the morning.

/

The second night, he is nowhere to be found. She knows because she wakes with a start, in the middle of the night, by her guess, given how quiet and still everything is, although she knows better than to think everyone is sleeping. She slowly, quietly moves off of her bed, wondering if she's too young or too old to feel so frail. She gets to the door of her cell and she peeks her head out, makes sure there's nothing around that shouldn't be there. When she's confident it's clear, she walks out, past the other cells, past the other sleeping members of their group, and down the stairs. Someone sighs nearby and she smiles. She's glad to be back, really.

Downstairs, she walks slowly past each cell, her fingers tracing over the bars. Who knew she'd miss this so much? Except that they've started thinking of this as home and that's worth more than anything these days. Yes, she missed these gray cells and dingy walls. The idea that she'd never see any of it again…

Her eyes are shimmering, tears threatening to fall as she contemplates this, when there's something on her shoulder, something weighted. She pauses, noting it's distinctly hand-shaped and without thinking, without flinching, she turns around and swings her right fist directly into the face of whatever it is, trying hard to squash a scream, only half succeeding. In hindsight, she thinks this is probably the stupidest thing she's done yet, since if her instinct with a walker is to punch it in the teeth, she's going to end up worse off than Merle.

Still, it proves effective. Somewhat.

There's a groan and a person stumbles backward. "For shits sake, what was that for?"

"Daryl?" she takes a tentative step forward and squints her eyes. He's straightened up, his hand still rubbing at his nose, but he's looking at her, she can feel it. She's moving with more purpose now, getting a better look at his face in the silvery light provided by the moon, "Daryl, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she keeps repeating, sounding almost panicked.

He's giving her a sidelong glance, checking his hand for blood, finding none, "It's nothin', it's fine." His fist falls to his side and he looks nearly impressed, "Who taught you to swing like that?"

She shrugs, her arms crossed over her chest, "Had to learn."

"Right," he replies awkwardly. Whether this is because of the life they live now or the life she lived then, he's unsure, but he doesn't have the guts to ask. There's a pause and then he says, "Why ain't you sleepin'? It's late."

Finally, a smile. She looks at him sincerely, but with a teasing voice she says, "Can't sleep without my watchdog, I guess."

He scoffs, although his chest swells with something that he'll label as pride, but is probably a little closer to affection, and says, "Guess you won't be gettin' much sleep, then."

/

It's been 3 days, approximately, since Daryl found Carol in that room, that tomb. When everyone crowded around her cell, he stood back, watched everything unfold in front of him, involuntarily offered a smile as each person expressed how glad they were she was back. "Poor thing," he found himself saying about her, giving her a look that could only be described as adoring. He looks at her now with the same flooding, overwhelming sense of relief he did when he first laid eyes on her, first realized she was alive, first realized that this world is as full of enormous tragedies as it is of little victories. Even if she feels like the biggest victory he's had so far. They've all become too used to thinking that today could be the last day, today could mean death. She's a gift. After Lori and T-Dog and everything…

She's a fucking gift.

And on day 3, Daryl, worriedly, leaves, goes hunting for the day. Before he goes, he asks Carl to keep an eye on everyone. "Don't need nobody else goin' missin'," he says and Carl just nods, in that way that proves he's so much older than his biological age.

When Daryl finally reappears, it's late, nighttime. Carol's lying in her bed, hands folded on her chest, eyes closed, waiting. When he appears in the doorway of her cell, silhouetted, mysterious as ever, he announces his presence by clearing his throat. When she opens her eyes, he's before her, holding out a Cherokee Rose and she smiles. "Found this outside," he says, almost visibly flinching at the obviousness of this statement. 'course you found it outside, asshole.

"Aren't you sweet," and at this he makes a face because it's not often, or ever, that someone describes him as being sweet. He's more like a caged animal. A feral dog. Or a watchdog. "I promise I won't punch you this time," she quips, patting the mattress beside her.

He stiffens a little, unsure, but he swallows, braces himself. And then, he's walking over to her, passing off the flower. She shifts a little, so he can sit down next to her, which he does, an almost involuntary movement. There's a pregnant pause. He's staring intensely at the wall in front of them, focused on something she can't see. "I'm – we're all glad you're back," he says finally, stubbornly refusing to look at anything else, but whatever is right in front of him.

This is the closest Daryl will ever come to being sentimental. She could cry.

"I'm glad I'm back, too. Who knew a person could miss this," and she gestures around them, the dilapidated bunk beds, barred windows, moldy walls, him. He nods his head, surveying their surroundings, before focusing his attention back to her.

He stands, strides across the room, confuses her for half a second, until he's sitting in the corner, where she realizes he's dropped his crossbow, his knife, his gun. There are cleaning supplies and she looks at him expectantly. "Rick's in the tower," he says, but she's still staring and he sighs, trying to find his courage. "Heard you can't sleep without a watchdog."

She lets out a laugh, quiet and secretive, and he can't help laughing, too. As he settles himself down, cross-legged, surrounded by his personal arsenal, he looks up at her. He gets this feeling in his stomach: relief, which is second only to nausea. Attachments are both life and death in this world. "Go to sleep, you need it," it's almost commanding, the tone he uses. Then he looks up at her, giving his approximation of a grin, "And I'd rather not get punched again."