Chapter 3
Daryl studied her in his own quiet way and nodded. He let his hand fall from her waist and reached for the blanket. "Sleep on this side so you'll stay warm." He gestured to the side closest to the fire. He noticed that she wasn't moving and he started to reach out and touch her cheek to get her attention, but he let his fingers flex then fall back to his side. "What's wrong?"
She shook herself gently then gave his arm a reassuring soft squeeze before slipping into the tent quickly. She moved to the side he had suggested and curled herself into a ball. She was facing him, watching him in the eerily moonlit darkness. She didn't realize she was holding her breath.
He slipped into the tent quickly, quietly. He sat down, unlacing his boots and slipping them off. He kept them within reach and laid back on his back to stare at the tent roof. He could feel her staring at him and glanced her way. "You got something to say, spit it out." His voice wasn't quite as gruff as he had hoped it would be.
She finally breathed out a soft, "Good night, Daryl." She made herself close her eyes and settle into the covers and the pillow that smelled of him. It invaded her senses, and she knew it would be damn near impossible to sleep that night. He aroused and awakened parts of her she'd long since thought dead. She tried to shift quietly so as not to disturb him.
He kept his eyes on her in the darkness. He often had a hard time sleeping in strange places. He fought with himself on whether to try and ease her mind or just keep on feigning sleep.
When she grew quieter, his choice was made for him. He finally heard her breathing even out, indicating that she was indeed asleep. He noticed that the sleeping bag had shifted, uncovering her torso. He reached over gently and covered her. He laid his hand gently on what he knew to be her arm.
They had more in common than any of the others in camp. She had an abusive marriage, and he'd grown up being abused by first his father and then his older brother. Merle was a bit older than him, and he'd been around to catch their Daddy's temper on more than one ocassion. After the son of a bitch had died, Merle had shown him the only thing their Daddy ever left them; physical and verbal abuse.
He shuddered and withdrew his hand like she'd burned him. He laid back down, muttering curses and insults directed at her for his slip up. He had his fists clenched at his sides, berating the woman for actions she wasn't even aware that he'd committed. He glanced at her and let out a ragged breath. "Son of a bitch..." he muttered in a low growl.
She shifted in her sleep as the beginnings of a nightmare plagued her much needed slumber. She was losing her daughter all over again. She clawed at the sleeping bag, kicking and squirming. "Please," she whispered with tears on her cheeks. "Not my baby. Please?"