Guest Review Responses
Thank you for the favorite/follow: Rollins1013, celia azul, translationplea27, TheSwannsSparrow, and crystal2817.
Guest: Love him going to see her. And I love that they decksr d themselves together. – Little bit more Caryl here for you to enjoy ^_^
Guest: Enjoying this. Can't wait for more Caryl interaction. – Thank you! You're gonna LOVE this chapter, then :D
Update: I've decided to make the chapters longer to give the story the time it deserves. I suck at NOT describing things as detailed as I can, and I hate rushing situations. Sorry about that, if reading long chappies is not your cup of tea :( To start off, I've combined the chapters I already had into two long ones. From now on, all chapters will be as long.
Friendly reminder: I cuss like a sailor, have a twisted mind, and write very graphic stuff.
Chapter 2
The living arrangements that Daryl had been describing to her throughout his stay made sense to her, somewhat – at least in a way that made it seem as if there was a silver lining amongst this separation, after all. At best, finding out how everyone else was grouped made her feel as if the rest of her family was not truly alone or vulnerable, to some extent, even if she felt that she was alone.
Daryl had taken the time, between eager omelet bites, to go over in detail what he had seen and learned from finding and visiting everyone else. It appeared that she was the furthest one away from the bunch, and the only one from Alexandria living in this block – this section of Arcadia.
Rick, Michonne, Carl and Judith all lived in a block that hosted families with children of all ages, where the residences resembled more to being large apartment homes rather than efficiency studios at a hotel. That specific wing had a school and a playground, as well as on-site, round-the-clock medical services, easing the burden of having to rush to the medical bay for emergencies, focusing on pediatric care. Recess and playdates were encouraged, and homework left for the kids every day. It stood to reason, for both Carol and Daryl, that children and their potential role in the future of society and its rebuilding efforts were very important for the leaders around here. It made complete sense to care for children so much – their continued existence proved to be the success of the species as-a-whole.
In the same family-oriented section, just a handful of doors down from the Grimes' place, was the Rhee's place, where Maggie, her baby, Enid and Jesus lived. It had been odd, for an instant, that Jesus had basically been paired up with Maggie to help support the ongoing care of her son and the teenage girl. It was somewhat of an unfair expectation, in Carol's eyes, to assign Jesus the parental responsibility of two kids that were not his own, even if this had been their unspoken procedure while living at The Hilltop. However, Daryl had then relayed to Carol that Jesus had requested the living arrangement to be this way, and that it had been gladly accepted and granted by the powers that be.
Then, casually and as a way of example as to why what Jesus had done made sense to him, without looking at her and almost sheepishly so; his fork playing with his food as he had softly spoken, Daryl had also confessed to Carol that, had Sophia made it here, he would have had no issue living in the family wing with Carol and the little girl. No issue helping raise her. Care for her. Even if she had not been his.
"Blood don't make family," he had then added after a pause, "Caring makes family."
This knowledge had given her pause, planting in her a seed of doubt at her initial assessment of this place and its leaders. Maybe they were not out to get them, after all. Maybe, this entire place was not a ruse. Maybe, all they truly wanted to do, as they had stated many times already, was to help humankind return to the glory of before. Strong family units were the way to do just that, in whatever shape or form these units had taken during the days of The Turn. The Arcadians were just trying to make the best with what they had; everyone living here having the same goal. A goal of true living, not mere survival of the fittest or of the one with the most guns.
This feat was easier said than done. Surviving was all she and her people knew how to do. Experiencing a feeling of true living, of a worry-free lifestyle, was something that they would ultimately have to re-learn if they wanted to fit in here. Carol was not sure if she could do this. Hell, she was not even sure that Daryl could either; especially locked up underground. But she did know that they both had to try. For their sakes and for the safety of everyone else.
Caring makes family, Daryl had said, and Carol had known it to be true. As true as the fact that they both cared for their family, so very much. Enough so for them to try.
At another location, she had learned, a good chunk of the rest of the group lived. Tara, Eugene, Ezekiel, Aaron, Cyndie, and Jerry all shared a block; were practically neighbors, in fact, all living in two-bedroom apartment homes. Tara and Eugene were roommates, as were Aaron and Cyndie, and Ezekiel and Jerry. Cyndie's placement had been a topic of discussion for a few minutes, but no verified motive for her apparent separation from the rest of the Oceanside group had come up. Perhaps, Carol had mused, Tara had requested Cyndie to be near her. Or maybe Cyndie herself had been the one to make the request to stay away from her grandmother – and with good reason too, given their lingering fallout during the war, which was still very much deep-rooted. This left the obnoxious brat that was Rachel living with Natania instead, far away from Cyndie, on the bottom floor of Carol's block.
Lastly, Daryl, Morgan, and Carol appeared to be the odd-ones out, each living in separate locations as everyone else in their family. Daryl lived in a co-ed block and, so far, he had not recognized anyone living there. Said block was like Morgan's in some regards: full of single-bedroom apartments (not studios), larger than Carol's, and devoid of familiar faces thus far. At first, Daryl had thought that he had been placed there because of his age or gender. But when he had seen both old and young women residents walking down the hall of his block, he had realized that it was probably more of a being single thing, as Morgan's block hosted a few childfree couples, while on Daryl's block there appeared to be none.
Then again, for all technical purposes, Morgan was single. Unless widower fell under a completely different category under Arcadian laws. Or maybe Morgan had requested to live in a peaceful block, as he was known to be fond of silence and solitude. It was clear now to Daryl how the block he lived in was probably prone to late parties and socializing to the extreme, and he had winced at that when Carol had brought it up. He hated socializing. And he hated partying. His assigned block was shit.
The archer now wondered, regrettably so, if he and Carol would have ended up in Morgan's block had they made their feelings for each other publicly known from the get-go. He would have been thrilled to share his living space with her, even if they ended up in some sort of retirement home look-alike block where playing Bingo was the only recreation option to be seen. It was not in the cards for now, but there was always later, nonetheless. They could always come out as being a couple once shit was sure and settled for good.
Daryl inwardly frowned at this realization; his eyes remaining closed and his body relaxed under Carol's ministrations despite the internal struggle he felt. He had already believed shit to be settled once – twice. First, at the prison, and then, weeks ago. Yet, here he was again – wondering when it would be the best time to set some roots and enjoy whatever time he had left to be with her. That was all he wanted to do with his life from now on, if everything else was taken care of for them all. The youngsters and families in Arcadia could worry about bringing about world peace or whatever the fuck they wanted to do. He could not care less how they went about achieving that, as long as he was not involved.
Daryl Dixon was tired of constantly running and fighting; over three years of it was more than enough. All he wanted now was spending every waking moment with Carol Peletier by his side, until his very last breath and the very last closing of his eyes. He had a strong gut feeling that this was also what she would want, if the opportunity for it arose.
Daryl was tempted to ask her outright what she thought about this – if she wanted to say screw it all and request a move to his place. Her place was nice and all, but his was bigger and better, closer to their family, and it would become nothing short of perfect once he shared it with her. It would not take much either for her to make the move. Hell! He would carry all of her shit with him right now, in one go, if that was what it took for her to move in with him ASAP.
Much to his disappointment, however, Carol spoke up before he could properly form the question in his mind.
"So, what you're telling me," Carol began, her hand absentmindedly brushing Daryl's impossibly soft hair while he rested his head on her lap, his body sprawled over her couch, "Is that I'm chopped liver and I was sent to the corner like a leper."
"I ain't said that."
"Well, what else would you call this?" Carol gestured to the room with her free hand. "I get a studio and you get a one-bedroom. Talk about age discrimination."
"Don't think that's what it is. And you ain't old."
"I'm older than you."
"Not by much."
He opened his eyes and stared at her to try to gage how serious she was about her age comment, knowing damn well that the tiny age difference between them would always be a con to them being romantically involved, in her mind, for reasons he had never understood. He did not even think about their ages, though, if he was more than honest with himself. If it was OK for a man to be with a younger woman, then the reverse seemed completely acceptable to him too.
"But still older," she gnawed her bottom lip.
"Then, we're both old," Daryl said in a tone that left no opportunity for rebuttals from her end. He was already over this age conversation. It was pointless to even bring it up.
"Gender discrimination, then?" she offered as an alternative.
"Any other men in here?"
"I wouldn't know. I haven't left yet."
"Why not?"
"Been waiting for you."
"Oh," he swallowed hard and then turned on his side so that his face was against her stomach and his back to the rest of the room. They had all been at their new locations since late last night, and he had wasted no time exploring his room and areas nearby it. He was shocked that Carol had not taken the same opportunity to mingle and learn about whomever her neighbors were. Infiltrating a new group of people to find out their weaknesses was one of the things that she did better than any of them.
"How about we meet later tomorrow?" he suggested, "Lunch maybe? Give ya a chance to roam 'round before then."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yeah," he stole a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye. "Come see me. Take turns?"
"Take turns visiting or take turns cooking?" she teased.
He shrugged. "Both?"
"Why not today?"
"Have shit to do."
Carol's head snapped back and her hand stopped massaging his scalp. "You got shit to do? Like what?"
Sensing that all the playfulness of a second ago was going to be thrown out the window, Daryl sat up next to her and rested his back against the couch before speaking again.
"I… got an appointment."
"An… appointment?" Carol narrowed her eyes.
Daryl nodded and then began running his hand through his hair to somewhat put it back into place.
"With who, Daryl? What for? I don't… I don't understand. Are they making you do more trials? Is something wrong?"
"N'thing's wrong. Or maybe it is… I…" he cleared his throat. "I just… they gave me a shrink. I gotta see 'em three times a week."
"Dr. Gray?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Saw them scars. Asked where they came from. I guess they think I'm fucked up. Dangerous? Unstable," he air-quoted the word, indicating that perhaps this had been a term that had been used of him to his face. "They… they know I'm fucked up."
"You're not f–"
"I am. Was before The Turn. Still am now."
"Daryl," Carol's voice was no longer sweet or joking but demanding and firm, forcing the archer to look her in the eye. "You are NOT fucked up, all right? We all had shit to deal with and we lost people and we almost died too many fucking times and we starved and…"
Carol briefly closed her eyes and swallowed down the rising anger she could feel building inside of her. She did not want Daryl to think that she was angry at him, because she was not. She was angry at the people that thought Daryl needed therapy. Granted, he probably did, as all them did too, given his troubled childhood and the fact that he had to kill his own brother to save him from being a walker forever, but it was not up to these strangers to make him feel even more broken than what she knew he already felt. They had no right whatsoever to judge him or call him out on it at all.
"We made it," she continued, "While they were sheltered here, and in all their other little facilities, with their fancy apartments and running water and electricity and unexpired food, we were out there, fighting for our lives. This," she pointed at the both of them, "This is what survivorship looks like. This is what the new normal is. And the quicker they come to terms with that reality, the faster they'll get to rebuild their world or whatever the hell they want to do with their time. Don't you dare think, not even for a second, that there's something wrong with you. If there is, then there's something wrong with ALL of us. All of us. Including them for thinking the world is like it used to be."
Without a word, gesture, or any other sound of approval or denial of her retort, Daryl lowered himself to her lap again, facing her stomach once more, but added one arm around her waist. He had not told anyone else that he had been asked to see Dr. Gray. He was not even sure that he wanted anyone else to know about it either. But he had to tell Carol – even if he had known that it would upset her as much as it had upset him – simply because it did not sit well with him to keep it from her. Besides, it was not as if he had anything else to do, and the book that he had taken from the shelter in Atlanta had only done so much to help him come to terms with what his childhood had been like. The will to rid himself of the mental scars of his troubled past was there. And now this place was offering him a way.
He would try it a few times to see what it could do for him. If he did not like it, then he would just tell the shrink to fuck off.
"What did your friend tell ya?" Daryl asked after a long moment of silence, "Know when we gonna go out again?"
It took Carol a moment for Daryl's words to click. She had been so caught up on her anger at what her beloved tracker would have to put up with thrice a week for however many weeks or months the psychiatrist deemed acceptable, and his question had seemed unrelated and out-of-place. However, once she recalled that she had not had the chance to talk to everyone else in private about what Thomas had told her, Daryl's topic of conversation became clear to her.
"Tommy said–"
"Tommy?" Daryl was not able to hold back the bitterness in his tone of voice and he scoffed. "You nicknaming each other now? Well, that didn't take ya long."
"Daryl," Carol frowned, clearly shocked by Daryl's uncalled-for nasty comment, "Tommy is what everyone used to call him back in high school, OK?"
"You say so…"
"It's true!"
"A'right."
"It is!"
"OK."
"You don't believe me."
"I said: OK."
"But you don't believe it."
"Don't matter what I believe."
"It does matter."
"It don't. But whatever."
"DARYL!" she slammed her palms against the couch, on the verge of losing her patience with him while she was trying to relay to him some rather vital information, until it dawned on her what was really going on. "Are you jealous of him? You're actually jealous?"
Daryl pursed his lips and began playing with the hem of her blouse with his free hand. "No."
"Then why does it matter what I call him? His name is not as important as what he told me. In fact, his name is irrelevant. Whatever I call him is irrelevant. Don't you wanna know what he told me?"
"Yeah," Daryl nodded sharply. "I do wanna know what Asshole told you."
"He's not an asshole. Don't call him that."
"Though we wasn't caring what we call'm. Changed yer mind?"
Carol exhaled slowly and then rubbed her face with her hands, frustrated with this vicious side of Daryl that she had not seen since the farm, and never influenced by jealousy. For a moment, she considered making it clear to him that she was not interested in Tommy, as if that much was not already obvious to him. She considered telling him that there was no need to be jealous, and that she wanted to be only with him and no one else. But then, she realized that commenting on his needless possessiveness would only validate his actions by giving them attention, and this was not something she was willing to do right now. Perhaps ever. She had already spent too much of her life trying to reassure and placate the insecurities of a grown-ass man to want to get back on it all over again.
Maybe the best course of action was to tell him his insinuations and his behavior was unacceptable. Perhaps it would be best if she nipped the issue in the bud. The new phase of their relationship had just started, after all, so it was the perfect time to set clear expectations and boundaries from both sides.
Luckily for her, Daryl seemed to come to his senses while she tossed and turned the situation in her head. Fortunately for both, Daryl came to the same realization and conclusion as her on his own.
"Sorry," he gave her yet another side glance. "I know you gotta do what you gotta do. I know you do it for us. But I ain't gotta like it. Never have and never will. It ain't like I don't trust you, neither. I do. Just don't like that you gotta do this at all."
"I know you don't like it. But that doesn't mean that–"
"That I gotta act like a prick with ya. I know. I know. I'm sorry, Carol. I'm sorry. I'm trying. I'm really tryin' here."
She gave him a pointed nod of approval and acceptance that he could clearly see from his peripheral, and she then returned her left hand to his head.
"He said that now that every community is here, we'll be sent out every couple of weeks to clean house. Or at least the people that they think can do the job. The plan is for Arcadia to be cleared out, eventually. They want to start cleaning up small towns first, making them livable again, and then give people options as to where they want to live once they're outside."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
"And then?"
Carol shrugged. "The rest is still sketchy, but Tommy and the others think everyone will have a job to do once we're out there, just like we did before everything happened. They want to reconnect basic utilities to the small towns first. Restart television and radio to make communication easier. Get the word out that it's over and it's safe to start rebuilding now… Bring the world back together. Things like that."
"Huh," Daryl turned yet again so that he was now facing the ceiling, his head still on her lap. "Those are some damn big plans."
"Yup. Huge."
"You think they can do it?" he began picking at his nails, his eyes focused intently on his fidgeting fingers, "That we can do it? Settle down?"
"Start over, you mean?"
"Yeah."
"Yes. If the walkers aren't an issue and people aren't killing each other, I think so. You? You don't think we could do it, huh?"
Daryl gave her a vague grunt before getting lost in thought to process her words and the impact these expectations would have on them. Rick's theory of everyone getting jobs was spot-on, and so was Daryl's own fear that all these comforts came at a cost. The price to pay for a roof and a warm meal was being forced to contribute in rebuilding society, whether one had any interest in doing just that or not. Growing up underprivileged and always wanting, Daryl knew that everything had a cost. Nothing was truly free. Everything cost someone something, even if this something was given to somebody else to enjoy. Even his free meals at school were not free: he knew that taxpayers had sponsored his breakfast and lunch because his folks were too poor to have the luxury of doing frivolous things such as feeding their two children.
It was also rhetoric he had heard before. Clearing away the dead, starting utilities up again, giving new life to the society that had existed before The Turn, but starting on an obviously smaller scale. He had heard claims like that before. He knew The Governor had sold such a pitch to his people, and Daryl had been there personally when Negan had been proclaiming how the Saviors would bring back civilization, shortly before pressing a red-hot iron against a man's face, of course. And in both cases, those two bastards had set up a system where this could be achieved by everybody pitching in and doing their part, while the head honchos sat back with ten times the reward and all of the perks no one even knew about. It seemed to Daryl that the previous society had already come back, if that was how the people in charge lived off of everyone else's labor. Hell, throw the late Gregory into that pool too, while you were at it.
Then again, could they really judge Arcadians for expecting free labor in return? This had been the way of the world before and during The Turn. The only difference between them was the currency used. In the old world, people earned money for the fruit of their labor. In the walker world, people earned their keep by hunting, scavenging, watching babies and the elderly, and doing house chores. Arcadia's plan of action was no different than what his family had expected of the newcomers at the prison. Everyone had to do something for the greater good of the group, in whatever capacity that was within their reach.
If the basic needs were met, and if Arcadians had the means to clear the streets of walkers, then rebuilding and restarting was not such a farfetched idea or nothing but an unattainable dream. For all he knew, they could very well be on the verge of recovery. They could all truly be near the end of the previously never-ending nightmare they had all been forced to live in for years. And this time, he did not have to go back to being a nobody. He could be someone. Someone who could hold a steady job and provide for his loved ones. Someone who did not have to shadow his brother's every move or be shunned by society because of his father.
No more running. No more wasting time. No more being in basic survival mode.
It could happen. It was already happening. It was well within reach for them all.
For the first time since Daryl had been aware enough of his own existence, the hunter felt a sudden sense of purpose. For the first time in his life, he wanted to be part of the same society that had ostracized him for years. Not because he needed them, but because Carol had believed and had shown him that he was every bit as good as those people who would have otherwise avoided him in the streets. Maybe even better than all of them put together.
Above all, Daryl wanted to finally be the man of honor Carol had wanted for a long time. He wanted to build a home and a life worth living with her. He wanted to be who he had always wanted to be, with her by his side.
All those things that would have seemed pointless to consider before were now part of their new reality. He could have all those things. And he could be with her.
"Nah," he finally said, grabbed one of her hands in both of his and briefly pressed his lips against her knuckles. "I think we could."
xxxXXXxxx
Between daydreaming about how soft and eager her lips had felt against his during their long and tantalizingly slow goodbye kiss against the front door of her apartment before he had left, and picturing her in that outfit she had been wearing but he had not dared comment on, Daryl Dixon had bumped into three different people, had taken two wrong turns, and had all but walked around in circles for ten full minutes until he had finally made it to his new home. He had gone straight into the shower to stand under the coldest stream of water possible, shivering tensely with his eyes closed, the spray hitting him directly in the face.
It was all Carol's fault, really. Surely, she had dressing options other than a tight pair of blue jeans, a low-cut, form-fitting tank top, and a loose blouse that exposed more than her creamy shoulders when she moved. It was not even warm in Arcadia. It was rather chilly, actually, with the air conditioning being on all damn day in a facility that did not see the sun. She should have been wearing a sweater. Or a jacket. Or a parka. Or all of the above. And gloves, too. And a scarf. And a thick blanket. And not something that was going to be part of his fantasies for a very long time.
What if she bent over and her blouse lowered too much? What if that happened while Tommy was around? Or any other willing male? There were plenty of those around here, from what Daryl could tell, and not much else to distract people from trying to get to know each other better. And, for fucks sake, despite what she said or thought, she was not unattractive for her age. Had she seen herself in a mirror lately, or ever? Did she not know how alluring her big blue eyes were? Had she not noticed the look Tommy had given her last night?
Ugh, Tommy, Daryl groaned as he shut off the water stream and stepped out of the shower, the man's shortened name almost making him foam at the mouth.
Thomas Clark had showed up as Daryl had exited Carol's block, no doubt heading to see her; the two men had barely missed each other in the hall – or at least, Thomas had missed seeing Daryl – by some miracle of the universe. Daryl had a nagging feeling that the man was there to make a move on his woman – the thought alone making him growl. Granted, no one knew that Carol was his, but that did not make it easier on the archer to accept the potential suitors that Carol could eventually pick up while living here. He knew that Axel had had a thing for her back at the prison, and Tobin… well, she and Tobin had shared a home and a bed, however brief it may have been. But that had been before Daryl had made his feelings for her clearly known. Now that it was out in the open for the two of them, even if she was doing nothing more than her intel-gathering job, it felt as if she was somehow cheating on him.
"Don't ya even go there," he angrily patted at his skin with a towel as he continued to scold himself aloud, "It's stupid. She don't care for him. She's just using him."
But, is she using you, too, lil' brother?
The archer was visibly taken aback by his mind's unexpected response.
From time to time, Daryl's conscience tended to sound an awful lot like Merle. Sometimes, like their good-for-nothing, low-life, drunk-ass father, too, depending on the situation and mood. On certain special occasions, when the circumstances were particularly dreadful, his conscience sounded like both of them combined.
Ya really think a fine lady like that's gonna settle for yer worthless ass? You best snap outta it and walk away while ya can. You was good for her when the world was shit. It ain't no longer shit, baby brother. She don't need ya no more. You just white trash to her 'gain.
"Shut up," Daryl threw the damp towel towards the hamper but missed.
What? Little Darylina gettin' his wussy feelings hurt? Did ya really believe she was gonna stick 'round once the world was safe again? Oh, no, lil' brother. You know she stuck around 'cuz she ain't got no choice 'fore. Now she does.
"Said: shut UP!"
This time, Daryl followed his response with the slamming of the bathroom door behind him before he threw his bare body on his bed and faced up.
You just wait 'n see, ya sorry piece of shit.
Great. It was his father's voice now.
She gonna want a real man. Not some fuckin' pussy kid trapped in a grown-ass man's body. You can't even get it up. 'member them whores you couldn't fuck? Shit! Reckon ya mighta's well tell'r you a fag!
Daryl bit onto his lower lip so hard that it began to bleed.
He remembered those times – the many occasions in which both his father and his brother had tried to make a man out of him, by any means necessary. Both men never truly saw eye-to-eye, except when it came to their attempts at making sure someone popped Daryl's cherry, as they had so eloquently put it. Daryl was not stupid, however. He knew the kind of foolish games the only family he had left after his mother had gone and barbecued herself were playing. They measured success in the amount of drugs and booze they could stick into their bodies, and in the number of women they could stick themselves into. That much had always been clear to him. Unsurprisingly, Daryl Dixon's measure of manliness had never been associated with either of these things, and both Merle and Will had given him hell for it.
Words that Daryl had spoken to Dr. Gray during their initial meeting came back to haunt him now. He had told the doctor that he had not gotten his rocks off since before The Turn. Truth was, he had never been with a woman in that way. Not for lack of trying, either – Merle and their father had forced the situation onto Daryl way too many times. One time, they had even drugged him so he would not fight back against his fate. Luckily for Daryl, the prostitute had taken pity on him and had simply watched over his helpless state all night, instead of raping him as she had been paid to do.
You gonna die a virgin, lil' brother, while the mouse shags hard and dirty with that fucker you loath.
"SHUT U–"
Oh, yeah. I'm telling ya. She sooner goin' be screaming his name instead of yours.
The hunter slammed the balls of his hands into his closed eyes, hyperventilating so hard that it made his lungs burn. Where had his confidence of moments ago run off to? Why in the holy hell was his conscience doing this to him? It was not as if he needed to be kicked in the nuts while down. He already had enough issues. He did not need the extra aggravation of fearing losing Carol to some educated prick – an educated prick that could give her things he himself could not. An educated prick who did not go off on her because he was jealous as fuck.
"I apologized," Daryl defended himself against… himself.
But ya wouldn't hafta done it in the first place, if you hadn't pissed her off.
"She knows I didn't mean it."
For whatever good that does.
"Stop it."
Make me.
"Said: stop!"
I mean it: make me. I'm not even here, brother. I'm in your head. You're bitching at a ghost… ya arguin' with yerself.
Daryl opened his mouth to make another retort, but snapped it shut instead. What was he supposed to say to that? There was not even a reason to say anything at all or continue this imaginary argument. No one was really attacking him. He was all alone in his room – he was doing it all to himself.
"I'm fucked up," Daryl said between gritted teeth, the taste of iron present in his tongue. "I'm so fucked up."
Dr. Gray had been right and Carol had been wrong. He needed the therapy. Three lifetimes of it, perhaps; one for his father, one for his mother, and one for Merle. Maybe a fourth one for the times the survivor life had punched him in the gut. And perhaps a fifth one, just to make sure the terrible things went away and only the good stuff stuck around.
Daryl sat up hunched by the foot of the bed, eerily motionless and almost not breathing, as if his life depended on his immobility, despite everything else around him telling him he had to move. Water dripped from the tips of his hair, soaking the fresh sheets and prickling his bare skin on his legs. The damp towel was still on the bathroom floor. His clothes were discarded by the entrance of his bedroom. He had never cared for order and cleanliness, but even he knew there was no call for living like he had before.
He needed to get up and get dressed again. He needed to pace around the room to get his anxiety out of his system before he went to see Rick again to tell him what Carol had found out. He wanted to go see Carol once more before he went to bed. And, worst of all, he also needed to meet up with Dr. Gray.
There was much to do, but he could not make himself move from where he was – not physically or mentally. The conversation with his brother – with his subconscious – had him stuck where he had made permanent residence before The Turn: in a never-ending spiral of guilt, insecurities and remorse. It had not hit him this hard for a while; the last time being when he had been locked in that cell, thinking about how he had inadvertently sent Glenn to his death. It was back with a vengeance now, brought on by almost nothing at all.
Then again, it was not really due to nothing at all – it was due to the gift of time. And the new situation he found himself in.
The weight of survival lifted from his shoulders gave him time to think about other things. Things that he had not wanted to think about or even consider. It had been all good and promising when he had been with Carol, minutes ago, her hand lazily and tenderly combing his hair. Now that she was gone and he was alone with his thoughts, he felt like a damned fool for thinking he could thrive here. Or anywhere, really. Be anything at all.
Without Carol, he was nothing. Without his family depending on him for food, supplies and protection, he was worthless – useless. Without any of them, he was that same lonely and self-doubting child he had once been. Perhaps, he had never truly stopped being that bruised and abused child, no matter how much older he got.
Maybe, he had just set that part of himself aside for a while, and it was now time to resurface once more.
Or maybe, what Daryl feared the most, his time for enjoying life had come and gone because maybe, just maybe, his only chance at life and redemption had taken place during The Turn.
Leave it to the end of the world to be kind to ya, baby brother.
But the end of the world was no more.
xxxXXXxxx
"What happened to your lip?"
The first question from Dr. Gray was already irritating Daryl, and he had not even sat down for the start of their session yet. Absentmindedly, Daryl brushed his fingertips against his bottom lip and shrugged.
"Some doors don't lock. People open them like nobody's behind 'em."
The doctor narrowed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. The lie, while almost plausible, was clearly not bought by the man. It was likely that someone new to the facilities could potentially harm themselves while being lost in thought. But Daryl Dixon was not just someone – all the high-ranking members of Arcadia were well aware of that. He had proven to be rather skilled and resilient during the survivor trials. He had not made it this far just on pure luck.
When the doctor continued to silently eye him with a skeptical look, Daryl had fully expected to be called on his bluff. Instead, Daryl watched Robert tap his chin with his pencil a couple of times before he scribbled something on his notepad and began speaking again.
"I'm sorry to hear that. But I have a feeling that being hit by a door is a walk in the park to you."
"What's that supposed to mean?" the archer asked as he reluctantly lowered himself onto a long couch that he was sure he was supposed to lay down on, not sit on.
Ain't doing that!
"The scars," Dr. Gray pointed at Daryl's form with the tip of his eraser. "They appeared to be made by lashes. A whip, perhaps?"
Well, he ain't wasting no time.
Daryl swallowed hard, wanting this to be over soon, so he gave an honest reply. "Not all of 'em."
"Oh?"
"TV antenna," Daryl found himself giving out the details before he could stop himself, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down at the memories of it. "Metal. Wet. Hurts like a sumabitch."
"Interesting."
"What?" Daryl scoffed, not at all expecting such a nonchalant reaction from the man. "Never knew antennas can hurt, Doc? Yer folks too good for that?"
"Oh, no. I knew that. Lashing is a typical form of physical abuse. Just didn't think you'd have a TV at home."
For a moment, Daryl visibly bristled and thought about walking out of the room. Perhaps even knock some teeth out as a goodbye present for the doctor… until he saw the beginning of a playful smirk on Dr. Gray's mouth and he was taken aback. A second later, Daryl shook his head at the man's audacity, but he had to admit that a little respect for the doctor had come about from what he had just done.
Got some sack on him. Gotta give 'em that.
"Asshole," Daryl grumbled as his shoulders relaxed. He had to acknowledge, nevertheless, that the attempt at a joke had worked a little bit to ease his tense back.
"That's what my wife calls me when I try to use humor to defuse an argument with her. Most of the time, it worked."
"You got a wife?"
As if coming out of a trance, the doctor blinked twice. "Yes. Had."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Get that a lot, too."
Daryl shifted in place, almost awkwardly so, and then began picking at his nails. "M'sorry."
"I am too. But at least she didn't have to live through this. A car accident took her, weeks before everything went down."
"Drunk driver?"
"No. Just asleep at the wheel."
"Caught him?"
"Yeah. Turned himself in."
"He go to prison?"
"No, I didn't. I got out on bail, thanks to the quick work of a lawyer that I didn't ask for, but my family hired for me anyway. I was set to begin serving my sentence a few months after the date the contaminant appeared and started doing its thing."
Daryl replayed the man's answer in his mind before his head snapped up, wide and incredulous eyes staring directly at the crestfallen doctor before him.
"What?"
"I had been working late," Dr. Gray began, "I was supposed to be home hours before, but I lost track of time. By the time I realized it was afterhours, I rushed home. I'd been awake for nearly a day, deep in a new case I had. I closed my eyes for a second… woke up when I heard the scream and heard the bump. She… she had been calling me. My phone was off. She got worried. Was walking along the streets near the house, wondering if I'd gotten in trouble on the way home. It was dark. I didn't see her. Didn't even know what I'd done until the accident woke me up…"
For the second time in a day, Daryl opened his mouth to say something, anything, but he again just snapped it shut. What was there to say to this man's confession, anyway? What words could anyone possibly offer that would make the situation any better? Dr. Gray had killed his own wife, even if he had not intended to do so. Would have probably gone to prison and lost his professional license as a result, even if he had not accepted responsibility up front. The Turn had probably been the only thing that had kept him from serving time… and from properly grieving the loss of his wife. There was no undoing that.
There was honestly nothing appropriate to say, so Daryl asked something else instead.
"Why you tellin' me this? You don't know me. You don't know who the hell I am."
"But now you know a little bit more about me. It's only fair that you do, if I expect to find out a little bit more about you, too. Don't you think? There's got to be an even trade."
Daryl narrowed his eyes. The man had a point, yet again.
"I guess," Daryl shrugged. "But you ain't gotta do that. That shit… that's best left unsaid. Ain't no man want to remember how he lost his wife."
Daryl Dixon may have never had a wife – but he had experienced what he thought was almost the equivalent for his case, when he had thought Carol had died at the prison. The archer could not even begin to imagine what it would feel like to not only forever lose the woman you loved, but also being the direct cause of it too. He honestly hoped that he never got the chance to find out.
"Maybe not," the doctor continued, "But I did tell you. None of us here are innocent, Daryl. I guess maybe that's the point I'm trying to make. Your group told me the things you had to do to remain alive. They were not that much different from what everyone else here had done."
"Does that include your friends?"
"Yeah. Even them."
"Huh. What they do?"
Dr. Gray sighed. "They killed a lot of people, trying to find the cure."
Daryl narrowed his eyes again. "What?"
"Not on purpose," Robert lifted his hands in the air in a placating gesture. "Most of them were volunteers. People who weren't gonna make it, anyway."
"And the ones that weren't?"
"That weren't what?"
"Volunteers?"
"They'd already turned."
"Oh," Daryl visibly relaxed at that. He had not even thought about it, if he were honest with himself – the details of the process for undoing what was already done. The closest he had gotten to considering how a cure would have come about was when they had been at the CDC. The images Dr. Jenner had showed them of his late wife had made little sense to him. He had been able to follow along with the explanation either way, but simply because it made overall sense: a virus or something got into their bodies, did bad things to them, and there was no cure for it then. Had he seen the images only, or had read the medical terms on the screen, he would have been as lost as a handless man trying to read Braille.
"How long is the cure good for?" Daryl found himself asking, a curious thought suddenly entering his mind, thinking about what Carol had said the plans for them were. If they were going to be sent out into the open to fight the world's remaining herds of walkers, he wanted to make fucking sure that his people were not at risk of infection and death if they got bit. Be damned if they had survived this long and had gotten this far only to die while society was trying to be revived.
"What do you mean?" Dr. Gray furrowed his brow. "Like, how long does it last?"
"Nah," Daryl shook his head, happy that the doctor continued to willingly provide information when asked. "Like, how late can you get it? The injection or whatever it is. Minutes after you've been bit? Hours? Right after you kick the bucket?"
"Oh!" understanding flooded the doctor's features. "Well, ideally, you get it before you get bit. That's when it's most effective. We've found that a round of the vaccine once every three months increases the likelihood of bypassing the effects of a bite. If you get bit, but you've been getting regular doses and boosters, you may not even develop the fever and pain that come with the bite. And even if you get the fever, you won't die of it because the infection will no longer be left unchecked by the body's immune system. And even if you do die later on, of whatever cause, you won't turn at all. The contaminant mutates when the person dies to reactivate the brain. The cure reacts to the mutation and prevents the stem from going through reanimation."
Daryl rubbed his chin in though. "So, it ain't really a cure?"
"Perhaps not by definition. But in practicality, it does prevent what we want it to prevent: people turning into those mindless beasts when they die."
Daryl gave the man a curt nod, a mischievous thought coming to mind as he processed what Robert had just said. "My brother was a mindless beast… and then he turned."
Unprepared for the archer's apparent attempt at humor, let alone morbid humor, the doctor was unsure what to do next. He knew that the impact of losing a loved one to the contaminant was something no one he had consulted with had been able to brush off. In fact, it had been the cause of many therapy sessions ending in disaster. One time, he had almost lost an eye, and that had been from an elderly person. The doctor did not want to find out what two-hundred pounds of muscle could do to him right now.
Thankfully, before there was an even longer uncomfortable silence, Daryl gave him the same smirk he had been mocked with earlier, causing the doctor to laugh in relief.
"OK. Fine," the doctor conceded as he rubbed sweat from his forehead. "Let's call it even. No more jokes for now."
"Alright," Daryl said with a nod, glad that he had gotten his point across, even at the expense of his brother's demise. He loved Merle, no matter what, and his passing would always tug at his soul. But Daryl was under no illusions about his brother's rash and questionable actions and how they affected him and those around him. In fact, Daryl had always been the first one to point them out to Merle, for whatever good that had done. It was probably what had gotten him killed in the first place – Merle's first and only moment of epiphany brought on by his very own flesh and blood.
For an instant, Daryl felt a pang of regret at using his brother's brashness to make a joke. But then again, his brother's voice had been an ass to him just a while ago. With his luck, Merle was probably in hell right now, sharing beers with Joe and Gareth and Negan, having the time of his afterlife while laughing his ass off at his younger brother's current situation, anyway. Might as well return the jab.
It was preposterous, he knew it, what was crossing Daryl's mind, but it still brought a warm feeling to his heart. Fuck, he missed his brother, and no length of time would change that.
In the end, what truly mattered now was that, even though he had been extremely apprehensive about this meeting, the doctor was at least trying to make it as painless as it could be… and he was giving Daryl even more valuable information, as well. More information meant more power. And more power gave them the ability to make better decisions. At the end of the day, as long as his people remained safe, Daryl was willing to put up with these sessions every now and then.
"So?" the doctor sat straight and returned his full attention to his notepad, his sudden change in demeanor announcing the shift in the meeting's tone.
"So, what?"
"So, what can you tell me about those scars?"
Daryl hung his head, knowing the moment of truth had finally come. He bit on the edge of his thumb, cleared his throat a couple of times, and then surprised himself as he told Dr. Gray how it all began.
By the time it was over, Daryl had felt too emotionally exhausted to talk to Rick. His feet had instead taken him back to Carol's studio, practically stumbling inside when she had opened the door with a worried look on her face. Everything after that became a blur, her words sounding slurred to his tired ears. So tired, in fact, that he missed the moment Carol told him that Michonne was going to become a mom.
xxxXXXxxx
He had practically fallen into her arms as soon as he had walked inside, temporarily scaring the living shit out of her in the process because of how beat he looked and the obvious injury to his lip that he had shrugged off. She had not expected him back so soon; let alone for him to be so drained and practically asleep on his feet. Their plan had been to meet up the next day at his place and she had been looking forward to it, but this impromptu visit of his had its perks.
Such as watching him sleep peacefully next to her in her bed.
At first, she had worried that someone would get the wrong – or the correct – idea of them if they saw him with her afterhours; perhaps even give them away. But the lights in the hall had already been off and the place had been deserted. Everyone had already gone to bed, even if she could tell that it was not even that late at night – if it was really night. Her sense of time was still somewhat off, having not cared about keeping track of it for so long. She did not trust the calendars or clocks in her room either, but she figured that she would have to start taking the passing of time seriously again, very soon.
Time tracking was going to be especially important to Michonne now, too. In just seven short months, she would be giving birth to Rick's third child. The parentage of all his offspring was surely going to be worthy of celebrity tabloids one day: three kids, of two different mothers and two different fathers – an interesting mix-and-match situation.
First Judith, Carol counted them in her head, Then little Hershel, and now… Rick Jr.? Little Michonne? Both?
More mouths to feed. More innocent ones to look after. More compelling reasons to stay and make it work where it was safe.
Another baby was joining the family – a baby. A joyous expectation in the old world; an unfortunate liability during The Turn. Nevertheless, things were different yet again. Easier, somewhat. There were doctors now. Real doctors, of all types, equipped with the proper technology, supplies and medicine. Living in-house, not miles away. They had clean facilities, not barely sterilized pseudo-clinics. They even had nurses and assistants. Trained and available medical professionals were a fact of life again.
Surely, that had to be enough. Count for something. Enough for them not to worry about bringing another life into this world, at least. However, Rick had seemed shaken when he had stopped by to tell her the news. He had not even seemed happy about it at all. It was probably just because they did not know enough yet about where they were – still did not know enough about these people to trust them with something as important as your loved one's health care and life.
Carol could understand this fear more than Rick would ever know. She was facing the same dilemma, to some extent, seeing as she had been a front-row witness to what Dr. Gray's first therapy session with the hunter had done to Daryl. He had been emotionally spent; tethering the line between feeling an overdue weight being lifted from his shoulders and having a mental breakdown because of it. It had taken her long minutes to calm him down enough for him to let go of her and accept the fact that he needed to rest. He had not even flinched when she had taken off his shoes and shirt before tucking him into bed.
He had looked so frail then. So broken. Nothing like the man that had helped her cook breakfast this morning and had joked and flirted with her. Or the man that had pleasantly surprised her by pushing her back against the front door to kiss her deeply and with barely-restrained want, his fingers splayed over her hips. He had left her in bliss this morning, until Thomas Clark had shown up.
Carol rubbed her face with her hands, dreading what her own visit with the same doctor could do to her. What it could do to whatever she and Daryl had. What these sessions could do to her entire family, actually, now that Thomas Clark had casually told her that everyone was expected to have regular visits with Dr. Gray. Some more often than others, and some for longer periods of time, but everyone all the same. And if anyone refused the sessions…
"Then they won't be cleared to go outside," Thomas had casually told her when he had visited earlier, in a tone of voice that she had not liked. This had been something that he had failed to tell her before: Dr. Gray had to give the OK to anyone who was scheduled to leave the facility to fulfill assigned duties or tasks. So much for her believing that Thomas was being fully upfront with her right off the bat. She would have to increase the signs of reciprocation to the obvious advances he had been making on her if she wanted to get more detailed information out of him.
Carol visibly flinched at that. She would have to talk to Daryl about it, too. Give him a heads-up that her intelligence-gathering work was about to become very public, perhaps even taking place in front of him, at times. She was not sure how that conversation was going to go, but she knew that it was going to be far from all right. She was aware that Daryl could be understanding to a fault, but any man had a limit as to what he would allow his woman to do with another man, logical reasons be damned.
It did not help that Daryl was so new to this as well – starting what she hoped was a long-term, committed relationship. Perhaps the only one she would ever have from now until the day she died. She was basically new to it, too; her only genuine experience had been with Ed, and everyone knew how that had turned out. Her relationship with Tobin did not even count, in her mind. This, however, what she had with Daryl, was for all intents and purposes, their first real relationship – their first try at love. And it was turning out to be quite unfair for Daryl so far. The way their status as a couple was being handled by either of them was far from being impartial to the emotionally-stunted archer, given that his first go at a serious relationship had to be kept in the dark. Hidden. And left him with no option but to allow his woman to develop fake intimacy with a second man.
And what if Daryl had to do the same? What if he had to feign interest for the nurse than would not let up? What would that do to Carol's heart? What if they got lost in a raging sea of pretending and ended up losing what they had? They had not even started nurturing their new bond, not really, and the situation was already getting out of hand.
Alas, she knew they would endure, regardless of what it could do to them in the long run. They had to. It was just the way it was. This was what they did for their family countless times. For all of them. All the time. Their devotion to them was the reason why they had not gone forward with exploring what they could be together before now – because putting everyone else's needs and wants before theirs was ingrained in their hearts and minds.
But maybe – just maybe, they could enjoy what they had before it all went to shit for them yet again.
"Merle…"
It had been barely a whisper, but it managed to startle her when Daryl's distraught voice reached her ears. She slowly turned on her right side to face him, expecting to see his eyes closed, which they were.
"Daryl?"
"No," his face scrunched up and his voice wavered, "Merle…"
Carol gulped, knowing exactly what was taking place before her. Daryl was having a nightmare, just as all of them did from time to time, very likely one where Merle died yet again.
"Daryl?" she kept her voice low and did not make any attempt to touch him. She knew that her well-meant attempt at providing physical comfort could backfire in the blink of an eye.
"Merle, no… no…"
Daryl's pleas were followed by his fists crumpling up the sheets. He had at some point during the night turned over and was now on his stomach; his nostrils flaring as strongly as if he had been running a marathon, tears running down his face, sobs wracking his chest.
"Nooooo…"
It broke her heart to see him like this; losing the battle against a dream. He looked worse now than when he had come to her for support, and she knew why. As much as she also knew that it would only deteriorate over time. He had not been having trouble sleeping in a long time, no more than usual, so it was no doubt that his session with Dr. Gray today that had unleashed the demons he had managed to somewhat silence and cage. Tonight, his nightmares would be Merle. Tomorrow, they could be of his father or mother. The day after that, they could be of Beth or Glenn. Next week, they could be of her.
Carol hated the fact that her hands were tied. Their hands were tied. They were at the mercy of these people and their ways. They had been stripped of the little freedom they had once had, in exchange for the luxury of full bellies, clean clothes, and no walkers. And all they could do for now was nod and smile.
"Daryl," Carol leaned her face closer to his. "Daryl, wake up."
Daryl paused his light sobbing for an instant and Carol held her breath. His tightly closed eyes, which had been rapidly shifting left and right until now, also stopped, signaling to her that perhaps he was about to wake up. However, when the grinding of this teeth and weeping resumed, Carol wanted to get up this very instant and go hit Dr. Gray in the face with the brass knuckles on the handle of her knife.
"Daryl," Carol's voice turned forceful. "Daryl. Daryl, wake up. Daryl, you're dreaming. Daryl!"
His eyes snapped open with a loud gasp, his gaze not focusing on Carol's face until she called his name one more time.
"Hey," she breathed. "Hey, you're al– AAAH!"
In a second, Daryl was on top of her, pinning her down against the mattress. His right hand went to her neck, squeezing it so tightly that Carol immediately felt the lack of air burning her lungs. His other hand supported his weight above her head, while his legs and hips kept her from thrashing around. On instinct, both of her hands went to pull on his wrist and then to scratch at his face, trying to stop him to no avail. Daryl was strong enough without wanting to be. The feats he could accomplish while high on adrenaline were not something she could hope to fight against.
"Daryl…" she could barely speak, tears involuntary pooling at the corners of her eyes. "It's… me…"
The tracker's eyes were unfocused and glazed over, as if he was miles away; still trapped somewhere between his nightmare and present time. Yet, when she whimpered his name again, pleading him to stop, it was as if a brick wall had fallen on him, immediately shaking him back to reality and what he had almost done.
Carol took long, deep breaths when his hand pulled away from her neck, but she did not make any effort to move away from him. Daryl, however, almost stumbled off the bed when he pushed himself up from her and kneeled by her side, shock and realization slowly dawning on him. He was breathing hard. His eyes were wide. His entire body shaking. His mind refusing to believe the unforgivable crime he had been about to commit.
For what was nothing more than just some agonizingly long five seconds, neither said a thing. They just continued to stare at one another, both in disbelief at what had almost taken place, until Carol finally found her voice. She could barely choke out his name, but she did. Her throat felt as if it were on fire. But she knew she had to make the effort. That she had to keep speaking, try to pull him right back to her before he closed off and hurt himself.
"Daryl," she tried again, her right arm extending towards him, hoping the touch would get him to come down from whatever guilt train he was already flying off to at neck-breaking speeds. "Please…"
"No," Daryl shook his head, his eyes now focused on his trembling hands, gasping painfully when he saw the blood under his fingernails. "I… no… didn't mean…"
"Hey," she sat up and slowly crawled towards him, ignoring the sting of the scratches he had left behind on her neck. "I know… I…"
"No," the archer cried and began pulling away from her incoming form, fearing that by just breathing the same air, he would end up killing her. "Stay back… s-s-stay–"
His next words were interrupted by his sloppy fall from the bed, not even yelping when the back of his head hit the hard floor. He heard Carol call his name, and he then felt her hands all over his chest and head, trying to gauge the severity of the injury.
"Daryl, talk to me. Open your eyes, please. Let me see… let me–"
"No!" he blinked his eyes until they focused, only to see her practically hover over him in very much the same fashion he had done so, seconds ago, but for different intents. "Carol, don't!"
He made a move to get up, making it only halfway up before his balance failed him. Without hesitation, Carol held him up in place as best as she could. She then guided him to lay on his back on the bed and sat next to him, refusing to just let him curl up and push her away.
"No… I said…" he tried getting up, but he must have hit his head in just the right way. The room would not stop spinning on him, so he flopped right back down.
"Shhh," Carol cupped his face, forcing him to stare at her. "I got you. It's OK. It's OK."
Daryl tried to deny her words yet again but, this time, what came out of his mouth was more of a cross between a groan and a painful whimper. He was clearly heading into a state of shock – a point of no return, if not stopped – unwilling to believe the damage he had caused to the woman he loved, while inwardly cursing at himself for allowing a moment of weakness to almost cost Carol her life.
Ed Peletier had not killed her. The tombs had not killed her. The flu had not killed her. Terminus had not killed her. The Saviors had not killed her. The walkers had not killed her. But Daryl Dixon almost had.
"Stay with me," Carol pressed her forehead against his, afraid of how his eyes kept losing focus. "Please, stay with me."
Damn that doctor!
He wanted to push her away, physically and emotionally, keep her safe from him, but the entire ordeal plus the fall were keeping him from finding his center. His body was barely responding to his will, shaking violently as if he were standing naked in the middle of a winter storm. His mind kept replaying the way she had looked under him when his hand had been on her neck – stunned and afraid of him. He could feel the blood – her blood – under his nails, making him want to use pliers to pull them clean off his fingers so that he would never harm her like that ever again.
But above all, his heart cried an ocean for what he had done to her. To the one person he had sworn to that he would never hurt. The person he had told that he was nothing like the man that had beat her senseless all those years back, just for fun.
Why'd I tell ya, lil' brother? You just up and done it now.
The archer shut his eyes tight. "'M so–"
"No, Daryl. Don't even go there," she closed her eyes as well and brushed her thumbs against his cheeks. "It's not… you're not… Just, look at me. It's not real. It wasn't you. It's not real. You didn't do it. It wasn't you."
Even though he did not feel worthy of it, he let his shaking hands land on top of hers, barely noticing when she sat on his lap and straddled him. She refused to release her grip on him, whispering to him words of comfort that were stopped only by her lips on his face. Had it been years ago – and had he been more in control of his faculties, he would have by now stood up and ran away from her; from this. He would have yelled and cussed and hurt himself in whatever way he deemed was greater than or equal to the pain he had inflicted upon her. He would have already rushed towards the hills or the woods… or to the nearest cliff to off himself.
Had they still been at the farm, he would have released his guilt onto her in the form of assigning her the blame. But they were no longer at the farm and he was no longer that hotheaded boy. Now, as she had put it, he was a man.
And a man took responsibility for what he had done. If only she would let him take it.
"It was a dream," Carol was relentless in her attempt to bring him back to her as she pulled away from his face, ever so slightly, to read the emotions on his face. "You thought I was someone else. I know it wasn't you. Daryl, please?"
He finally opened his eyes, and whatever she saw in them made her sigh in relief. She ran one hand down her cheeks to keep the tears from falling onto his face, and then pressed her palm against his chest.
"You wanna sit up? Does your head hurt?"
Unable to find any words just yet, and afraid of a possible return of the vertigo, the hunter grunted in response.
Without further prompting, and almost forgetting that she was sitting on him, Carol helped him sit up on the bed with her body still atop his lap. It was a little awkward at first, but she found a way to remain where she was without limiting his range. As he slowly found his bearings, Carol propped herself up on her knees and searched around him to look at the back of his head, moving aside his mane to find a bulging lump but very little blood. The ground had not appeared to be that unforgiving, but it was also likely that the nicely decorated floor was just painted-over concrete.
She sighed as she returned to her spot on him and brushed his bangs away from his face.
"Are you dizzy? Nauseous? Headache?"
All of the above, he wanted to reply, but opted to simply stare at her neck with guilty eyes.
When Carol noticed what he was looking at, she remained motionless and open to him as his fingers traced the red marks on her neck and the bruises that would be there tomorrow, if just so that he would see that she was not afraid of him, of his touch. She then saw him biting onto his already busted bottom lip, splitting open yet again, and she frowned.
"Stop that," she ran her index finger over his mouth, wiping away the blood that now dripped from it. "Don't do that to yourself. You don't deserve it."
"I do. I hurt you."
"Wasn't you," she insisted and lifted his head with her hands around his jaw so that he was now looking at her. "Wasn't you. You know that."
He locked eyes with her, searching her baby blues for any sign of doubt, of dishonesty in her words. He expected – anticipated, after years of abuse – to see anger and disgust in her eyes. He was waiting for the final blow; for the punch or for the kick that would send him straight to the ground. He was waiting for the punishment and for the lesson that would set him straight after fucking up.
But it never came. The retaliation never came to fruition. All he got in return for his mistake was understanding and love.
"I'm sorry," Daryl's hands landed on her hips, tentatively, as if still expecting Carol to push him away without a heads-up.
"I know. I know," she kissed his forehead. "But it's OK. There's nothing to forgive. I know you. I know you."
The guilt that was clearly eating away at him was breaking her heart. It would kill him dead, if he allowed it – if she allowed it. She was not going to let it go down that path. She would not give it a chance to even try to destroy him. She would do whatever it took to bring him back from the land of despair and self-loathing, by whatever means were at hand. Daryl Dixon had carried enough undue guilt in his life. She would not allow anyone or anything to drown him in any more of it.
With that idea in mind, and wanting nothing more than to let him know she did not blame him for anything, her lips suddenly found his; trying her damndest to ensure that he understood there was no harm done.
It took him a moment, but he eventually kissed her back as fervently, mutually drowning out each other's gasps. His hands became bolder by the minute, sliding up her back and then raking down until he gripped her ass. She did not seem to mind their location nor the squeeze he ventured to take, and he did not appear to care that she was starting to casually roll her hips on his groin… until her hand tugged roughly at his hair and caused him to hiss in pain and flinch back.
"What is it? What's wrong?" she exhaled, her heavy breathing and swollen lips a stark contrast to the worry in her eyes.
"Bump," he rubbed the spot she had inadvertently injured in the heat of the moment, feeling the crust of dried blood already attaching to his scalp.
"Oh, my God, I'm so sorry! I forgot!"
"'S okay," he gave her a small side smirk. "Did too."
"Did I make it worse? Did I pull too hard?"
"Nah. Just caught me off-guard. That's all."
"Mmhhh," Carol's lips suddenly thinned and she then looked to the side. "Well, that was a buzzkill. Unless… unless you actually wanted us to… stop?"
"What?" he momentarily frowned, but then immediately scoffed. "Hell, no!"
"No?" she chanced a side glance at him, both gradually becoming extremely aware of their position on the bed; Carol wondering when it would finally dawn on him what it meant and where it would have led them to, if they had not stopped.
"No."
"You sure?" she closed one eye and stared at him, trying to make the situation less awkward than she felt it already was. Here she was, asking Daryl Dixon if he had been OK if they had gone all the way, even though they had not even properly made out on her couch.
"I'm sure," he nodded with determination that only lasted a second and a half. "Unless you think… I… I wouldn't hurt ya, Carol. Not like... I wouldn't. Just now I ain't… I wasn't… But, if ya didn't want–"
"I do," Carol lowered her voice and licked her lips, staring him directly in the eye as she repeated her response. "I do."
Daryl swallowed hard, reality starting to set in. "Right… right now?"
She shrugged. "At some point."
"But not now."
"Probably shouldn't. Your head. Should get it checked before… you know. And…"
"And what?"
She inhaled deeply, hating what she was about to ask, but knowing that they needed to close the case and clear the air, no matter what.
"Are you OK? Are we OK? Your dream… that's all it was, right?"
Daryl's gaze momentarily lowered to her neck, hating himself for what he saw on her skin, and then the entire moment came crashing down on him. He had never been one to control his emotions very well, but at this moment he was way out of his depth. He had gone from sleeping to being angry to getting scared to feeling guilty to excited and then right back to being upset, all in the span of a few minutes – all without much say.
He had gone from hurting her to lavishing her. From almost killing her to almost making love to her. All too fast for him to fully process yet. All too much for one night and only one of him.
"Stay?" he heard her say after a long moment of thought and his head snapped up to watch her smiling face. "With me? Tonight?"
"Yeah," he immediately replied despite his fear that he would wake up again and finish the morbid job. "But, Carol, what if I–"
"I'll stab you," she deadpanned as she got up from his lap to lay on her side, the hormones at last leveling down. "Or knock a few teeth out. Whatever's easiest at the time."
"You promise?" Daryl asked in a serious tone as he pulled the covers for the two of them, and Carol nodded to him before getting under the blankets and snuggled up to his side.
"Promise. And we talk tomorrow?"
"We talk tomorrow."
"Alright."
After a moment of hushed bidding of good nights and sweet dreams, and in an unusual stretch of good luck, the rest of the night proved to be the best sleep either of them had ever had.
