For some reason I don't understand the site decided they were going to let me post this chapter, but not have it show up unless you clicked directly on the link in the new chapter email. So I deleted and reuploaded it. So let's hope it works this time!
I think I've said this for the last 2 or 3 chapters, but this is my favorite chapter so far. I think y'all will agree! I apologize it took me so long to get it up, especially compared to how quickly I've been updating, but I am actually drowning in work. Just a warning: Don't major in hospitality.
But I'd like to thank everyone for the reviews! They mean SO much! I love writing this story and I'm absolutely delighted to get everyone's positive feedback! The more reviews I get, the quicker I update. ;)
And of course, thank you to ResidentGoth for putting up with me clogging her inbox with my extremely fragmented writing. If y'all haven't read her fic "Running Away Never Works," you need to! Seriously.
But enough from me.
I don't own The Walking Dead. Wishful thinkin', y'all. I do however tweet at Robert Kirkman more often than I should. Just wanna see if he'll give me a job once I graduate... )
He had half a mind to bury the damn thing. Leave it in the dirt and mud and pretend he had never found it. She was always slipping in and out of his mind. He supposed, in some fucked-up, teenage way, he had loved her. And you never forgot your first love, right? Wasn't that the way the saying went? She was always in the back of his mind. Always floating around somewhere, somehow. But lately – with the world going to shit and all – he hadn't been thinking about her so much. Well, he was. But that was more when he couldn't sleep and he needed to rub one off. He hadn't thought about her – about her death – for years. He couldn't. It was just too damn painful. His mama had gone, not even a week before. He only ever had two women in his life and he lost them both so quickly. He knew life wasn't fair, but Lord. That really took the fucking cake. For his mama's funeral, he got his first ever tie. Well, his only tie. He never needed one before. He had never gone to a funeral, never gone to a wedding. It was a plain, red silk tie that he bought from the Goodwill. He bought it because he didn't think his mama would want him to wear all black. She didn't like the color. Said it was too sad – made her think of bad things. She liked lighter colors like blue and yellow. But Daryl didn't think it would be appropriate to wear a yellow tie to his mama's funeral. So he decided on red. He kept it for years, too. Would have had it longer but Merle took it one day and used it as a tourniquet. It was ruined after that.
He could feel it coming on. Slow and surely, he could feel it. Just the same as ever. Funny how some things didn't change.
He remembered the first time. It was funny, really. He had a more vivid recollection of the first time he got stoned than the first time he fucked.
He had been with Merle, of course. Merle was already gone. Strung out on something Daryl didn't even know the name of. He was eleven – almost twelve – at the time, and it was back when Merle still had his old and beaten up F-150 with the Confederate flag sticker peeling off the bumper. They were in the truck together, on the way back from the package store. Merle pitched a fit when he realized there was no bourbon in the house. He never was a big bourbon drinker, but for some reason, it had been the most important thing that he had some. Daryl had just come along for the ride. They were halfway back when Merle just stopped. Pulled the truck over to the side of the road and rolled the windows up.
What're you doin'?
Merle didn't answer. Just leaned over and opened the glove compartment. He pulled out the cigar box and flipped the lid open. The paint was just beginning to fade, chipping at the edges. Daryl watched as he rolled himself a joint and lit up, right on the side of the road. He inhaled deeply, letting the smoke just tumble out of his mouth. It had a sweet, sickly smell to it. A smell that, after that day, he smelled everywhere. In his clothes, his hair, his sheets, on the tips of his fingers. When Merle passed him the joint, he had half a mind to refuse. He knew what it was, knew what it would do to him, what type of road it would lead him down. But the beating that Merle would give him if he refused was worse than any of the circumstances he could imagine if he just smoked the damn thing. So he took it and copied Merle.
He never liked smoking pot much. But it opened the door for him. Got him onto bigger and better things. Merle always laughed at him, when he came to him and asked for the painkillers, or for the Adderall. But that was what Daryl liked, and he wasn't about to deny himself anything. He liked to chew the pills. Grind them between his teeth and let the bitter taste invade every inch of his mouth. Cover every single taste bud. He knew what he was doing was bad, that it was wrong – and that was his punishment. A bad taste in his mouth for a few minutes. It kept him balanced. Kept him from turning into Merle, who had no boundaries. No limitations. It didn't completely fuck him up. Just partially.
So, when he found Sarah Jane's cross, he decided it was the Lord's way of telling him to get stoned. He wrapped it up in his bandana and tucked it away into his back pocket and chewed one of the white pills. And then he chewed another, just for good measure. One and he would feel alright. Two and he wouldn't feel anything.
Daryl returned to the camp slowly, his hands empty. He lingered on the outskirts of the farm, out of sight, for several minutes. He waited to see if the crowd outside would thin out. It didn't. He hitched the crossbow up, and starring resolutely ahead, went straight to his tent. He passed Lori and Rick, who stopped mid-argument. Rick called his name, stepping forward with his eyes narrowed. He was trying to stop him. He knew. Oh Lord, he knew. He heard his name again and sped up. He was only feet from his tent when he saw Carol approaching, arms crossed over her chest. He ducked inside, kicked off his boots and dropped the crossbow to the ground. He took the box from his waistband and hid it in his pillowcase. He didn't have to hide it, he knew. But old habits die hard, right? He lay down on the sleeping bag and for the first time in nearly a day, he let himself relax. The tent was pleasantly warm. The sun was just beginning to set and the whole thing was practically glowing with the light from outside. He was sweating, but just slightly.
He felt strangely disembodied, as though time was passing by but he couldn't feel it. From outside the tent he could hear voices. A man laughing, a woman calling for Carl.
His mind was racing, but his reactions were delayed. When the flap of the tent opened, Carol was already inside before he had even sat up.
"We need to talk," she said firmly.
It wasn't the first time he had heard those words. Sarah Jane had said them to him, all those years ago. They had been sitting on the lowered tailgate of his truck and she was eating peanut butter out of the jar with a plastic spoon. She had shown up unannounced and demanded that he drive her halfway across town to buy that goddamn peanut butter. She ate it slowly, told him we need to talk, and then took nearly an hour just to break down into sobs.
"Alright," he muttered.
He knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. He had dreaded it, planned on avoiding her for the next few days, but now? Maybe it was the pills he had ground into oblivion, or maybe it was that damned cross in his back pocket, but he was too tired to try and avoid her any longer - avoid the conversation any longer.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I don't sleep around. You're only the second man I've ever slept with, and quite frankly, I feel like I just gave you my virginity. You can pretend all you want, but that won't change what happened. It was special to me, but it obviously wasn't to you."
He took his time replying. His body may have been working slowly, but his mind was reeling. He had to be careful. That's what growing up with Merle and the old man had taught him. Pick your words carefully.
"That ain't true," he said softly. Softer than he meant to.
She started slightly, seemingly realizing that she was still standing while he was sitting. With the clumsiest movements he had ever seen the woman make, she lowered herself to the ground, not taking her eyes off of him. "Then why have you been hiding from me?"
Well, shit.
Where to begin? His thoughts didn't come naturally. They were all jumbled up. One coherent thought would suddenly burst forward and that would lead to another thought and before he knew it, he had turned over half a dozen topics in his head. Focus. He had to focus. There were so many reasons. Did she want all of them?
"I don't wanna let you down. I ain't good for nothin', other than lettin' people down."
"Daryl, you're not going to let me down," she said. She was smiling slightly, but her voice was sad. Heavy. "Not unless you keep acting like this. I don't like you talking like you're worthless."
He wanted to argue. To throw her words back at her. But that urge was fleeting, and replaced by a wild, bucking desperation.
"C'mere," he murmured, his voice husky.
She frowned, just slightly, but still scooted herself closer to him. He could see the dirt in the corners of her face, the tears welling up in her eyes.
She leaned forward, bringing her hand to his cheek. He flinched involuntarily. "I don't know who did this to you, but you don't have to be scared anymore." Her voice shook as she cupped his jaw in her hand, stroking his cheek along the bone. The skin was smooth, warm. It was probably the softest part of him. "This isn't the type of world where we can make promises lightly, but I'm making one right here, right now. I promise you that you will never, and I mean never, let me down. You'll never disappoint me."
He closed his eyes. All he could think was that this woman had just lost her little girl. That her entire world had been torn apart right in front of her eyes, and she was powerless to stop it. And yet, here she was. Comforting him. It didn't make sense.
"C'mere," he repeated, opening his arms and beckoning her forward.
She came to him easily. He wrapped his arms around her and held her as though their very lives depended on it. She clung to him, her fingernails bearing down into the exposed skin of his arms. But he didn't mind. Not one bit.
"I cried," he said, arching his neck so he was whispering directly in her ear. "Y'know, after the barn. Hell, I think we all did. You ain't alone."
He was never the type to offer comfort or support. He didn't hold women in his arms, or run his fingers through their hair. Hell, he didn't even let them stay the night, if he could help it. But it just felt so damn natural.
Carol was crying openly. She shook gently, her tears falling onto Daryl's shoulder. "You know what I can't stop thinking about?"
"What?"
"My parents. I mean, they're dead. They have to be. But I keep thinking that Sophia has to grow up without her grandparents. And then I remember that she's gone. And it's just like seeing her come out of that barn all over again. I lost my little girl. I lost my parents. I lost my husband, even if he was the biggest bastard in all seven hells."
Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her voice low. Daryl shifted, bringing her closer to him. She was shaking harder now, crying openly. He kissed her wherever he could reach. The top of the head, her temples, her forehead. He wasn't embarrassed or ashamed, and for once, there was no voice nagging in the back of his head, asking what would Merle think? "Well, you ain't gonna lose me. You're stuck with my redneck ass."
She laughed slightly, her sobs subsiding. She pulled away until she was face to face with him. "I don't – "
He cut her off, pulling her closer and kissing her. He tried to be gentle. To be calm. To keep his head level and not let his hormones rage. He wanted to show her that he could control himself. That they could make this work.
He was the one that pulled back first, regretting his actions. He hadn't done it right. He had messed up somehow, sent the wrong signals.
"I never done this, bein' perfectly honest."
Her fingers ghosted over the muscles in his shoulders. She kissed his neck slowly, moving down to his collarbones. She kissed up the length of the scar from where Merle had slashed him. "You just did, few nights ago."
He pulled away, looking at her straight on.
"I ain't talkin' 'bout fuckin'."
She knotted one hand around his neck, raising the other to his forehead, brushing his hair away from his eyes. "You're a quick learner."
He laughed dryly. She was wrong. Flat wrong. He could survive, sure. He grew up hunting, knew how to bag a catch, clean and prepare the kill. But it had taken the end of the world for him to learn the most basic of social skills. He didn't know how to build relationships with other people. He didn't know how to interact and socialize and all the things that he should have been born knowing.
"No, I ain't."
She sighed, her hand moving back to his face. She stroked the line of his jaw, gently and slowly. "You're doing it again. You're talking about yourself like you're not worth anything. If we're going to do this, and I think we already established that we are, then you're not going to talk like that anymore."
He nodded gruffly. Carol's hands had slipped to his chest, playing with the buttons of his shirt. He knew what she wanted, and he'd be damned if he didn't want it too. "'M tryin'."
"Try a little harder."
The first few buttons of his shirt were already undone. She undid the next one slowly, deliberately, eyes fixed on him.
Only, Daryl had never been the patient type.
He clashed his mouth against hers and yanked his shirt off. She ran her hands over the muscles in his arms and she was below him, his full weight pressing down on her.
Her hands dropped below his waist and he kissed her feverishly in the fading light.
Daryl Dixon was not a gentle lover. He tried, bless his heart, but she still woke with her thighs aching and bruises blossoming on her hips. Angry red marks were scattered in patches on her neck and shoulders. She could even make out a few faint bite marks.
Daryl was still asleep, his back to her. He had his fair amount of battle scars, too. His back looked like a kitten's scratching post. She couldn't help but smile. She had a made a mark on this man. Literally.
Almost as if on cue, he rolled over.
"Mornin'," he said, his voice heavy, eyes hardly open.
"Good morning," she said, repressing a sigh.
Last night, when she came to him, she didn't know immediately. But it didn't take her long. She felt that the whole experience had been cheapened because of it. Daryl only opened up to her because he was stoned. He wasn't in his right mind. He wasn't thinking straight. She knew the excuses. She had heard them all from Ed. She braced herself for the inevitable. When he came to – when really came to – and the reality of the previous night hit him, he'd never speak to her again. She figured she only had a few more seconds left of this, before he was completely awake and his eyes would widen with the realization of the previous night. She'd ruined whatever possibility there was for a relationship. She hated to admit it, but she had grown to really care about Daryl, to want to be with him. She had ruined that all. And for what? Some brutal, animalistic sex and meaningless promises? She was ashamed of herself.
But Daryl turned onto his side and propped himself up on one arm, the other coming to rest on her hip. He fought to keep his eyes open.
"How long you been up for?"
"Not long."
His eyes fluttered shut and it seemed that he had fallen back asleep. But he opened them again, slowly this time.
"I ain't the sleepin' in kind, but damn woman. Got me fuckin' tired."
She didn't want to believe it. This was Daryl Dixon. Where was the anger? The denial? He had slipped away the first time. Why not now?
"Sleep in all you want," she slowly, testing the waters. "No one's gonna bother you."
"Temptin'," he mumbled, settling back onto his back. "But someone'll start bitchin' sooner or later. My money's on Lori."
He stayed put, not showing any signs of leaving. Or asking her to leave, for that matter. He was silent, and once again, she wondered if he had fallen asleep. His eyes were shut and his chest was rising and falling in a steady, rhythmic pattern. She looked at him and felt her judgment clouding. Maybe it was better if she just went back to sleep. She pressed herself up against his side and in his sleep, he brought his arm up, wrapping it around her.
Let me know what you thought! From here on out, y'all should expect the updates to be a little slower but the chapters'll get longer and the plot should be picking up within the next chapter or two.
Like I said, hope everyone enjoyed. Don't forget to review. :)
