A/N: Alright so... Firstly, I am very evil, and demented, and (hopefully) you shall all absolutely hate my guts when you reach the end. But hate me in a good way. I'll admit, this kind of took a swing out of left field, but all will be explained. I swear! Already half done with the next chapter, look for it Sunday or Monday. Thanks go out to imustbeamermaid for basically being my sounding board with this. The next few chapters will have some SERIOUS Caryl angst/comfort. Probably one or two new warnings as well, but I can't tell you what they are without giving away the story line. : )


Two days. It'd only been two days. What the hell had happened?

Carol couldn't move from her spot at the end of the bed, staring at the bruised and bleeding body laying there, as Hershel, Patricia and Maggie all hovered over the body.

"Patricia, cut his clothes off, and then start cleaning some of this dirt and blood off; careful around the cuts, we don't want him to start bleeding again. Maggie, I'll need bandages, the stitching kit, and some antibiotics."

God, he was so still. He hadn't moved since they'd first seen him come stumbling out of the woods. And Daryl Dixon wasn't ever still. The man wouldn't know the meaning of the word if it bit him in the behind. He was always moving, always twitching, always fidgeting. Even when standing still, the man drummed his fingers, or tapped his foot, or shifted from foot to foot. To see him laying there, so still she could barely see his chest moving, was almost more than she could handle.

"Carol! Either help Patricia, or find someone who can!"

Hershel's firm words yanked Carol out of her stupor, and despite her horror, she accepted the proffered washcloth from Patricia. Slowly -gently- she began to wipe off the blood and dirt off his feet.

Absently, she wondered how many new scars she would find there when all was said and done.


It had been two days since Daryl's outburst. Two days since he'd stormed off, taking nothing with him but his buck knife. Two days that he'd been gone, and two days that Carol had fretted and worried.

Rick and Dale were constantly trying to reassure her. He would be back, they said. He just needed some space. Just needed to blow off some steam. Just needed to take some time.

She snorted to herself as she started hanging the laundry on the line. That was all well, fine, and good, except for her worrying. While he 'blew off steam', she sat and fretted. While he 'took some time', she paced nervously. While he found 'some space', she chewed on her nails, and worried until the wee hours of the night.

She shouldn't have pushed him. She knew that now. Looking back on it, it all seemed so obvious. She'd pushed him and pushed him, before finally finding his breaking point. Pushed farther than he could handle, and he'd bolted like an injured animal. She'd never word it like that in Daryl's earshot, but it was the simple truth of the matter. He'd ran away from her like she had grown a few dozen heads, before disappearing into the woods, where he knew he always had the upper hand. Probably the only place he felt comfortable anymore.

She hadn't followed him, and she had come to regret it. She'd let him go, thinking he'd be back in a few hours; by nightfall at the latest, probably with some sort of meat for the group, be it a brace of rabbits, squirrels, or maybe even a full grown deer, trying to apologize for his behavior. Behavior that didn't need apologizing for in the first place.

But he hadn't come back. Carol had spent all day sitting at that stupid camp, sewing his clothes, giving into the urge to clean his tent, building him a real fire pit from the remains of the stone shed he'd set his tent by, before picking up 'Journey To The Center Of The Earth', and starting to read.

When he hadn't returned by dinner, Dale had actually come up and sat with her at Daryl's campsite. Fed her some supposedly-reassuring platitudes, that had done nothing to ease her mind, as dusk had given way to nightfall. And then as night gave way to dawn. Which gave way to morning.

But just as she'd done with Sophia, Carol forced herself to keep moving the next day. There was always meals to prepare, clothes to be repaired, things to be cleaned... she had more than enough to keep her hands busy, and her thoughts focused.

And then night had fallen once again, and still, no sign of the tracker.

So -as she always did on Wednesdays- Carol had started laundry. Trying to keep her mind occupied. Trying to keep focused. Trying to keep from worrying.

She knew Daryl wouldn't have actually left the group; in fact, the thought that he might have said 'to hell with 'em', and vanished into thin air never even occurred to her. But it was dangerous out there, even for a man like Daryl Dixon. Accidents like the one that had nearly killed him just a week ago, when the horse had thrown him into the quarry for example. It was nothing less than a miracle that he had managed to scale that cliff, and crawl back to camp. Miracle that Andrea hadn't killed him with that bullet, instead of just grazing him.

She shook her head angrily, swiping the tears away from her face, as she pinned up a pair of Shane's jeans. He was going to be just fine. No point in worrying; if anyone could survive two days by themselves with nothing but a knife during the end of the world, it'd be Daryl.

Sighing as she swung the now-empty basket onto her hip, she decided that tomorrow, she'd tell Rick that if he wouldn't go looking for Daryl, she'd do it herself. She wasn't going to wait for his rotten corpse to come walking out of the woods, and -

She squinted as she gazed across the field. What in the world...

"Dale?" She called quietly, to the man sitting on top of the RV. She waited until he swung his head around towards her before speaking again. "What is that?" She pointed towards the eastern side of the farm, waiting on tenterhooks as Dale dug around for his binoculars.

"Walker?"

Dale frowned. "No, I... I think that's... Daryl."

Before the words had even left his mouth, Carol dropped the laundry basket, and was racing as fast as she could towards the shambling form. Belatedly, she heard yelling behind her, realized Shane or Rick must have seen it, and was chasing after her.

"Carol, stop!"

She was only a half a dozen yards away when she felt Shane's arms wrap around her, ripping her backwards, and holding her tight. Instantly her mind began to flash back, as sobs started wracking her body. Oh God, not this. Not like this, not again.

He was covered in blood, dirt, and gore. A large gash nearly split his cheek in two, while blood still poured from a clearly broken nose. His left arm hung at an odd angle, while his right was firmly pressed against his leg, where a few thin trails of blood had still seeped through his fingers.

Rick had raced by them, and had stopped a few feet away.

"Daryl? You alright?"

Daryl stopped, tilting his head a bit, licking his lips, before spitting, "Do I look a'ight, dumbass?"

She nearly screamed for joy. He spoke, he wasn't a Walker, he was alive, and he was still breathing, and -

Her joy was short lived, as Daryl's beautiful blue eyes rolled into the top of his head, whites flashing, before his legs collapsed, and he hit the ground.