But plant your hope with good seeds
Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds
Rain down, rain down on me
-Mumford & Sons, Thistle and Weeds
Summers in Georgia had never been very kind, but a second summer without the luxury of air conditioning was brutal. Sweltering, but quiet. New people trickled in, bringing new skills, new supplies and ideas. By June, they numbered 27. Rick, Daryl and Glen were busy creating work schedules, Herschel was effectively turning the yard into a garden and the rest were busy turning the prison into a home. They had cleared cell blocks B and D, the infirmary, the kitchen, the laundry and the workshop. Mike, one of the newer members, with help from Tyreese, had rigged up several car batteries to provide for regular, but rationed, electricity.
With all the activity, Carol overlooked Daryl's quiet demeanor. He still looked for her and kept her whereabouts at the forefront of his mind. She still took on the chore of washing and mending his clothes, cleaning his kills, and making sure his voice was heard. He spent extra time with her when training everyone on new weapons, knowing she needed a sense of independence. And every time he left for a hunt, for a run, for watch duty, he simply said to her, "Stay safe."
Daryl and T-Dog, after nearly two years of surviving together, their friendship had grown. There had been time, during the quite nights on watch, during the hours in the car on the road, where they had nothing to do but get to know each other. While Daryl was a man of few words, T-Dog was intuitive enough to know when to be quiet, and when to engage him.
Sitting up in the watch tower as the sun set, the air was still stifling. Daryl and T-Dog sat with their legs dangling off the tower, Daryl just coming on watch to relieve T-Dog. Neither man had the energy to move, their shifts sticking to their skin.
"Man, I miss air conditioning." T-Dog pulled his t-shirt away from his skin and wiped his front lip with his collar.
"What I wouldn't give for a fan." Daryl agreed.
"Ice cold beer… Maybe a Daiquiri…"
"Jaegermeister right outta the freezer."
T-Dog grimaced. "You like that shit? Ugh."
"Hell yeah! Ice cold, goes down real smooth. Could get those little test tubes from the bar down the road from my job – Mac's." Daryl thought for a minute. "We shoulda hit up that liquor store in that town we were in last week…."
"I'd even just take a cold bottle of wine…" T-Dog shook his head and gazed out over the prison yard. "What else you miss?"
"Never thought I'd say I missed fast food."
"Yeah, the fastest food we got now is a deer!"
Both men chuckled as the door opened. Carol was carrying two plates of food, balancing them precariously. They both jumped up to help her.
"Aw, thanks Carol!" T-Dog took a plate and kissed Carol on the cheek. Behind him Daryl bristled. T-Dog turned away, tucking into his food in earnest. Daryl took his plate from Carol, meeting her flushed cheeks with a shy grin.
"Looks good. Thank you." Daryl began to turn away.
"What? No kiss?" Carol had her hands on her hips, clearly teasing. T-Dog chuckled with his mouth full.
Daryl froze. Carol giggled, her tease having the desired effect.
"Here." Carol handed him a bottle of water. As he took it, she leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek. Daryl just stood there.
Carol left as quickly as she came, leaving Daryl standing there, holding his plate.
"Man, you gotta get over yourself. Seriously." T-Dog told his friend as Daryl finally sat down next to him on the edge of the tower.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about." Daryl had turned surly.
T-Dog shook his head. "C'mon, man. We all know how you feel about Carol. She's gonna be the last to know!"
Daryl ate in silence for a few minutes. While the thought of everyone knowing how felt, or thinking they knew how he felt, made him more than a little uncomfortable, he was also grateful for the wide berth they had given him.
"I ain't…." Daryl sighed heavily. T-Dog gave his friend his full attention. "I've never done anything like that." His voice was small, trailing off into whisper.
T-Dog was at a loss. If Daryl had said he was gay, T-dog wouldn't have been more surprised. "Shit, man, are you serious?"
Daryl's embarrassment was evident in his anger. "I was too busy surviving for any of that romance shit. I didn't have time to be worrying about anybody else."
"Okay, okay. I get it. But, damn. Never?" T-Dog was incredulous.
Daryl moved to get up.
"Whoa, Daryl, hold up." T-Dog put a hand on his shoulder. Daryl wanted to bolt, but the firm hand on his shoulder at least made him pause. "I ain't gonna give you any sage advice on women. But I know this is the end of the world, right here. I don't know what you're waiting for. Carol trusts you, more than anyone."
"I don't want to fuck things up."
"The only way you can fuck things up is if you don't say anything, man. That woman survived an abusive husband, losing her daughter and more walkers than I can count. You really think you can fuck up her world?"
Daryl mulled this over. The guilt of not having brought Sophia back to her mother alive and well was a ghost that hung over T-Dog's words.
"I don't want nobody to get hurt." Daryl finally said.
T-Dog rose, taking his plate with him.
"Dude, the only person you're gonna hurt is you, if you don't man up and do something about this."
T-Dog walked away, leaving Daryl to think in the growing darkness. With a shouldered rifle, water bottle and plate, he struggled for a second with the heavy door. As he walked through, Daryl stopped him.
"Hey, T!" Daryl called. T-Dog looked back from the top of the stairs. "You ever kiss her again, you're walker chow."
Daryl could hear T-Dog chuckle the entire trip down the tower stairs.
A run for canning supplies and tools was a necessity. There was no getting around needing to go on runs. They needed to go further out each time, having picked clean most of the small towns and subdivisions nearby. They made a calculated spiral from the prison outward. Today was about two hour's drive to check out what used to be a tourist area, with hotels, bed and breakfasts, a vacation spot. Daryl bristled when he learned that Andrea would be joining them, but he stayed silent on the subject.
Andrea, Tyreese, Michonne and Daryl had already scored several cases of jars and lids from a mom and pop shop that had been empty of walkers. Andrea was feeling good, Michonne was stoic as ever, but Tyreese was picking up on Daryl's bad mood. Something was off, and he couldn't put his finger on it. They walked down the sidewalk in front of a strip mall, looking into the shops to see if any might hold something useful. The fact that most of the town appeared empty and untouched was a concern for Daryl.
"I don't like this at all." Daryl glanced nervously around the main drag.
"What are you thinking?" Tyreese trusted Daryl and respected him.
"It's too quiet. We ain't seen a walker this entire trip."
"Not a walker, not a corpse, no one is here." Michonne agreed.
"Come to think of it… you're right. I haven't had to kill anything all day." Tyreese looked around nervously as well.
Ahead of them, Andrea tugged on the doors of a bar and restaurant. They were wooden, carved to look like saloon doors. The door opened easily, but was heavy.
"C'mon, it's about time we had some good luck!" Andrea pulled the door open wider. "Let's bring back some beer, see if there's any food in here – "
Dead hands reached through the door and pulled her inside. Andrea screamed, wailed in agony. Daryl and Michonne took off running toward the bar, Tyreese right behind. They could hear the tearing of flesh and the wet moans of walkers tearing Andrea apart. Her screams permeated the air around them, even through the heavy doors.
Daryl got to the doors first, putting his shoulder into them, as Michonne reached for a handle and tried to pull it open.
"No!" Tyreese grabbed Michonne by the shoulders.
"Andrea!" Michonne called. The dead began beating on the doors, pushing against Daryl.
"Help me, dammit!" Daryl yelled. Tyreese leaned his large body against the door.
The dead had heard them, smelled them, knew there was more food just outside the doors. Michonne stopped trying to pull on the door, understanding flashing on her face. Andrea was gone. Her screams had stopped too quickly. She saw the fear and pain in Daryl's eyes as the reality sunk in, and she put her own shoulder into the door. Her face crumpled as she started to cry. He barely heard her weeping Andrea's name.
"What do we do? There could be hundreds of walkers in there." Tyreese couldn't reach back to pull out his machete, any more than Daryl could notch an arrow in his bow.
Daryl met Michonne's eyes. "Get the car!" His body bounced against the wood of the door, and dead faces began to appear in the windows of the strip mall. "Michonne, get the Goddamned car!"
"Go on!" Tyreese's voice spurred her into action. She ran for the SUV parked half a block away. Tears clouded her vision, but she was able to start the car and floor it, bringing it up onto the sidewalk.
Daryl and Tyreese looked at eachother. Daryl started, "One,"
"Two," they said together, "Three!" They moved out of the way as Michonne drove the SUV up to the door, blocking it closed.
"Fuck!" Daryl pounded both his fists on the hood of the SUV, as the dead banged their ruined hands on the door.
Tyreese helped Michonne out of the truck, reaching over to pull up on the parking break before turning it off. He took the keys out of the ignition and throwing them down the street as hard as he could.
"How the hell are we gonna get back now? Fucking Andrea…"
They were all at a loss. They knew she had to have been ripped apart. They knew opening that door was a suicide mission. They knew there was nothing they could do about it, and they would have to tell the others they had lost one of their family.
"We're screwed, man." Tyreese leaned heavily on the SUV.
Michonne took a deep breath. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said very calmly, "We're gonna be just fine. Look." She pointed to a large billboard at the end of the street.
Blue Moon Cycle. Ural Motors dealership. New, Used, Vintage. 5 miles.
"Son of a bitch." Tyreese would have smiled, had he not just lost a friend.
If not for the circumstances leading to their find, Daryl would have been ecstatic to be riding a brand new Harley soft tail with a sidecar full of canning jars. Tyreese rode just behind him in a 1972 Pannonia T6, it's sidecar filled to the brim with tools and several leather jackets. Michonne brought up the rear on a Champion trike with a trailer attached.
Pulling up to the prison, Daryl's heart skipped a beat when he saw Carol opening the outer gate. As was protocol, she only opened the first gate until she knew who was arriving. Her smile brought a grin to his lips, but his stomach turned. He would have to tell her about Andrea.
"Nice rides! Look like you traded in the truck." Carol ran a hand over the chrome fender and the teal detailing on the front tire of Daryl's bike.
It was evident something was wrong. All three were silent as they pulled through the second gate Carl had opened for them. Carol followed.
"Hop on." Daryl motioned for Carol to get behind him on the motorcycle. Carl waved them off, acknowledging Carol's glance back at him.
They road up to the entrance to C Block, Carol's fingers gripping Daryl's belt loops. Carol looked back several times as they crossed the yard, expecting to see the truck come around the corner any second. As they pulled up, their heavy hearts caused the air to go stale.
"Where's Andrea?" Carol took a box of jars as Daryl handed them to her. She bent down so that Daryl was forced to meet her eyes.
Daryl choked. He couldn't meet her eyes. Michonne spoke up. "Walkers got her." Michonne walked away, taking a load of supplies across the yard.
Carol nearly dropped the box of glass jars. Tyreese took them from her as the strength seemed to leave her body. Daryl caught her around the waist and pulled her into him. Carol sobbed in earnest. She didn't even need to ask how. She didn't want to know. They had been here too many times before. He didn't know how to feel, recognizing that the weight of her body against his and the heave of her shoulders were familiar.
"I'm sorry Carol…" Tyreese tried. "I… I'll go talk to Rick." He left Daryl and Carol, carrying several boxes of jars as he went.
Daryl's sullen mood and tendency to be quick to anger only got worse in the weeks following Andrea's death. Even Carol wasn't spared from his wrath.
He was nowhere to be found when it came time to dig Andrea a grave, even if they had nothing to put in it. Glen sought him out, finding him at in the workshop of the prison.
"Hey, man, you gonna come to the service for Andrea?"
Daryl didn't answer, keeping his back turned, eyes on the floor.
"You should really come say goodbye."
"So everybody can guilt trip me?" Daryl mumbled finally.
"What? What are you talking about? Tyreese told us what happened." Glen was genuinely surprised.
"I should've gone in and helped her. I should have –"
"Daryl, no one blames you for what happened. Andrea was a hothead who wasn't careful enough. You might have saved someone else from getting bit." Glen wanted to reach out and touch Daryl's shoulder, but he kept his hands in his pockets, knowing better.
"Just leave me alone." Daryl's voice was measured. Final.
Glen hesitated, "You're the one on a guilt trip here. I know you feel bad. I know she was a bitch to you. I know – "
"You don't know shit, Glen!" Daryl rounded on Glen, who shrank back. Daryl was scary when he was angry, even if he wouldn't actually hurt anyone. "I've wanted that bitch dead since we found her again. I've thought about feeding her to the damned walkers. And now she's gone and it's my own damn fault!"
"OK." Glen conceded. "I get it." Glen backed out of the workshop, leaving Daryl to his guilt.
A few days later, Michonne had asked Carol to clear Andrea's things from her cell. She couldn't find the strength to do it herself. Among the collection of threadbare clothing, Carol found Andrea's Smith & Wesson Ladysmith. It was unloaded, safety on. Carol picked it up, feeling the grip that had been comforting in Andrea's hands so many times. A lump formed in her throat, remembering T-Dog having carried this gun when they believed Andrea to be lost with the farm.
Pushing down the urge to cry, she tucked the Ladysmith into her waistband and bagged up the rest of the clothing, quickly leaving the cell, and the scent of Andrea that seemed to permeate everything.
She found Daryl in the holding cell inside the common area, where they stored the weapons. He was quietly, dutifully cleaning a rifle, reassembling it with skilled hands. He barely looked up as Carol entered.
"Found this in Andrea's things." She held the Ladysmith out to him, properly, barrel toward her.
Daryl paused for just a moment, before returning to his task. "Lot of good it did her. Stupid bitch didn't even bring it with her when we went out."
Disappointment radiated off Carol. She couldn't find words to say what she felt in that moment. She knew he was hurting. She knew he felt guilty.
"Why do you hate her so much?" Carol asked. She didn't expect an answer, and didn't receive one. She set the gun down on the bench beside Daryl. "Fine. Let me know when you're done wallowing in self pity."
Carol left the cage in disgust. She knew he felt guilty for Andrea, ultimately responsible for her death. What she couldn't see was his total fear of her. Andrea had made him admit his feelings for her, and he hated her for it. Now Andrea was gone, just like he had thought about, laying awake at night, and he was ashamed. He watched Carol walk away, arms crossed. Herschel was sitting in the common room and met Daryl's eyes, shaking his head. Daryl pretended not to notice.
Since bringing back tools and canning supplies, planting began in earnest. Herschel oversaw the operation, the able bodied members of their group who didn't have watch duty or laundry, working under his guidance. They began at sunrise and continued until the insects were too much to bear.
Herschel sat at a picnic table at the edge of their field, his bible beside him. Daryl joined him, carrying a large blue jug of potable water.
"Last night was the summer solstice." Daryl offered conversationally, sitting beside Herschel.
"Longest night of the year." Herschel regarded him, "Only a true outdoorsman would know that just by watching the sunset and the sunrise every morning."
"Yeah. My brother taught me how to find my way in the dark using the stars. I've been keeping track when I'm on watch."
"We could start a calendar. Mark off the days. We may even have reason to celebrate our accomplishments once in awhile. Birthdays… Christmas…"
"Nah." Daryl leaned back against the table, putting his weight on his elbows and looking out at his family planting in the field. "All those holidays and shit are done. We need to make our own."
Herschel looked at Daryl with new eyes. A man he had originally thought of as an uneducated, crass, and uncultured individual was proving to be a learned, deeply loyal and extremely intelligent man.
Herschel, despite his religious convictions, had to agree with Daryl. "Indeed. This is a new world we're building after all." Herschel watched the other man with interest. "Daryl, do you know the Parable of the Sower?"
Daryl, without missing a beat, began from memory: "A sower went out to sow his seed: and as he sowed, some fell by the way side; and it was trodden down, and the fowls of the air devoured it. And some fell upon a rock; and as soon as it was sprung up, it withered away, because it lacked moisture. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprang up with it, and choked it. And other fell on good ground, and sprang up, and bore fruit a hundredfold."
The grin on Herschel's face grew as Daryl spoke. "You know your Bible, then?"
"It was all my mama ever talked about til she died. That and getting her smokes."
"Some say the parable is about how we choose to honor God. That we can throw away his word, and let it wither away, or we can use it and allow it to grow within us, to nourish us."
"What's everyone else say?"
Herschel studied Daryl as he spoke. "I believe it's about how we choose to use our words and our emotions to lift up others. We can either scatter them among the rocks, where they will grow into weeds and thistles, or we can plant them in good earth where they will grow."
Daryl looked up to meet Herschel's eyes finally. He was open to the words Herschel spoke, allowed the older man to counsel to him. "And son," Herschel continued, "We often say hurtful things when we hurt. We throw our words and our feelings around where they can grow resentment. And we often comfort those who need comforting only in bad times. We need to plant our seeds where they will grow into something we can use, something that is good for us. I see you offering comfort to your friends, and yet they cannot comfort you. Unless there is a crisis, you stay in the shadows. The moment something bad happens, you're there."
"And that's a bad thing?"
"No. No. It's not a bad thing, but it's not the only thing. You can't build something out of sorrow and loss. You can't eat what grows from the thorns."
Daryl bit his lip and looked out into the field, deep in thought. Herschel could nearly hear the gears turning in Daryl's mind. He followed his gaze out into the field, where Carol was working on hands and knees to clear rocks where they had planted corn. Her skin shimmered with sweat, and her hair clung to her, framing her face in wet curls.
"You can build a life, Daryl, but where and how you plant your seeds and how you approach those you love will determine how fruitful your work will be."
Daryl simply nodded and continued watching Carol work.
From out in the field, she felt his eyes on her. Looking up, she saw Daryl watching her. His hands were covered in grease, his shirt sticking to him along the seam of his chest. She gave a small grin, earning a thin smile in return.
That night, the sky opened up, setting the sky ablaze with lightning, fueled by the heat of the day. The strikes lit up the prison like a strobe, and cracks of thunder rang off the bars in deafening peels. No one was really sleeping; there were no snores, no heavy breathing or dream whimpers. Flashlights and candles pierced the darkness, and Daryl could see a sliver of light coming from Carol's cell.
"Hey." Daryl rapped on the concrete outside the cell.
"Hey." Carol laid her book down on her lap. "What's up?"
"Nothin. I just…" Daryl took a deep breath and fully entered the cell. "I wanted to apologize."
Carol hadn't been expecting an apology, and grinned. "Apology? Daryl, have you been drinking?" She teased.
Daryl frowned. The urge to get angry and nip at Carol rose in his chest. But instead, he knelt next to her and reached into his waistband. "I think you should keep this. She'd want you to have it." He put Andrea's gun in Carol's hands.
Carol turned the gun over in her hands. "Andrea's. She thought it would keep her safe." She said sadly.
"Now it can keep you safe." Daryl met Carol's sad eyes, his hand still in her lap. Carol took it, and pressed his knuckles against her lips. Daryl took in a sharp hiss of breath as he felt her lips against his skin.
"Thank you, Daryl." Carol released his hand.
Daryl sat back on his heels. He caught his breath, her touch and her kiss having sent his mind spinning. He focused himself and cleared his throat. "There's something else. Something I need your help with."
Carol's brow creased in confusion and interest. "My help? With what?"
Daryl regarded his boots, silently praying she wouldn't laugh at him. "I found a sewing machine. In the workroom. I fixed it, I think. I saw you emptying out Andrea's cell and I thought… Well, I thought we could use it to make something for Michonne."
Carol clapped both her hands over her mouth. "Oh my God! Daryl!" She sat up on the edge of her bunk, facing him. He couldn't read her face, but as she moved her hands away, he found her smile. Thin tears had turned to yellow jewels on her eyelids in the candlelight. "That is so sweet!"
Daryl gave her a genuine smile. Relief flooded into him. He moved to stand as Carol moved to place a kiss on his cheek. Instead, their lips met.
Eyes open, their chaste kiss lasted longer than a few of their pounding hearts. They both pulled away, Daryl on his knees in front of Carol, who sat on the edge of her bed. Carol bit her lip and Daryl… Despite the flutter in his stomach, he couldn't take his eyes off Carol's lips. He could smell her, and the taste of her was on him. Sweat and the faint smell of soap mixed with the scent of his leather jacket and the candle burning down next to them – it was sensory overload.
He reacted with instinct. He covered her hands with both of his and claimed her lips with his own. He hadn't even considered she might not reciprocate, and as she leaned into him, a small moan escaping the depths of her throat, he felt like he had come home. He had only kissed one other woman, in one of Merle's attempts to "make him a man". For Daryl, this was his first kiss. He reveled in the taste of her, the softness of her, the feel of her lips against his own. He brought a hand up to her neck, finding the shape of her ear fit perfectly above his palm.
She could have let him kiss her forever, his hand on hers in her lap, the other holding her gently to him. He didn't lean her back onto the bed, or try to invade her mouth with his tongue. She could feel his complete awe with the act of kissing her. She could feel him trembling slightly, and so she opened up to him, to reassure him that she was present, that she was there with him in his reverie.
Carol licked at his bottom lip, attempting to take their kiss deeper. Daryl pulled away abruptly, gasping for air. He squeezed his eyes shut and steadied himself with both hands on her shoulders, bringing their foreheads together.
"I can't…. I can't do this yet." He stilled himself, trying to gain his composure. This was not going how he had planned. He was at war with his emotions. His body trembled, in response to her kiss, her scent, her taste, and he wanted nothing more than to press himself into her. But he wanted more than her body, and it would take more than one kiss to tear down all the walls he had built around himself in order to let her in.
Carol was confused. Was this an unfortunate misunderstanding? Did he actually want what she thought he wanted? As he kissed her, she was sure he wanted her entirely, right then. But he had been the one to pull away. She had never had any kind of choice when it came to sex, and here she was ready to surrender herself, simply because she thought it was what he wanted of her. Did she want it from him? They were both hurting. Was this a way to ease this new pain, or was there something more he wanted – no, needed –from her? His face was pinched as if he was in pain.
His words were measured and concrete as he pulled away from her. "Tomorrow. I'll show you… tomorrow."
He stood to leave and the loss of his presence was overwhelming. She stood and grabbed his hand. "Please. Stay."
He looked into her eyes, her face creased with shadows. Oh, how he wanted to stay. But instead, he raised their hands to his lips, kissed her knuckles, and walked out of the cell.
A/N: Thanks for sticking with me. This chapter was hard to write, and I'm not entirely happy with it. Hope to get the next chapter up in the next week or so - we shall see. :)
