Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is a 'fix-it-what-Carol-was-up-to' sort of fic, meant to fit in after 4x04 to whenever Carol comes back to grace our screens. This is written in response to an anon prompt in my askbox on tumblr. Honestly, I just couldn't resist.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for all four seasons of the Walking Dead, strong language, probably very much AU, angst and more.
In Transit
Chapter Seven
She returned the papers to the box with a sigh. She couldn't read anymore. She didn't want to. Every word seemed to bring back memories, memories of the beginning, back when Sophia had-
The words weren't meant for her anyways.
Everyone coped in different ways. Some people had their families. Rick had Carl and Judith, Tyreese had Sasha and Hershel had his girls. Some people put up a shield, chasing things like revenge. Others made a new family, new connections, like Daryl and Glenn - even herself. The rest turned to less conventional fare, like writing and drawing, exercising their demons through the tip of a pen or the broad stroke of a paint brush against canvas. She'd seen Henry do magical things with just a chunk of charcoal and a blank wall. Therapy, Hershel had called it.
She turned, catching the flash of a stuffed animal peeking out from the sleeping bag tucked behind the wheel well, protected and painstakingly arranged under the covers with the amount of care only a child could rightfully muster.
Everyone had something, someone. Like she'd said before, just surviving wasn't enough – not anymore. You had to make sense of it, come to peace with it. That was the reality they faced, the cold hard truth that chased you into your dreams. You had to be strong, or else the world would eat you alive. But that didn't stop her from questioning it though, now more than ever.
What was she surviving for now?
She shook her head, angry.
The little voice inside her head, the one place that Ed's ghost still lingered, just laughed.
She let her gaze roam freely, taking in the layout of the bus with a curious eye. The cooking area wasn't well stocked; there was a spice rack, condiments, a few empty cans of baked beans and pineapple slices, but other than that, nothing. Perhaps the people who lived here were off doing exactly what she was doing, stocking up. Given the evidence, she knew better. But for now, she was content to ignore it.
There was a potted plant set up in a box below one of the windows near the stove, all drooping stalks that had long overgrown the confines of the cheap ceramic. It wasn't until she got closer that she recognized it, basil. She smiled as she plucked off a leaf, tucking it under her tongue as the flavour burst across her taste buds. There was nothing better than fresh basil.
When she'd been growing up, her mama had always kept a pot of it on the kitchen window. And when she'd finally left home, her mother had presented her with one of her very own, painstakingly re-potted from the very same plant. Ed had never much liked basil and frankly, she was glad of it. It was one of the few things in that old house that had ever managed to put a smile on her face.
There were pictures on the walls, taped up above the stove along the inside of the bus, playful crayon renderings of dogs, cats and smiling suns, of three stick figures holding hands. There were also drawings of other things, darker things, but they were few, half hidden under happy faces and riotous colors. The back of her eyes burned with unshed tears.
They'd made this place their own in every way that mattered. This wasn't just a vehicle or place to hole up in, it was a home.
It was what she'd always liked about Dale's old RV. It'd never really been about the tiny kitchenette or the toilet (though that had certainly helped) but more about the atmosphere. It had provided a semblance of normalcy, a hint of permanence in a world that offered anything but.
She shifted in place, arms crossing underneath her breast as a blanket of discomfort washed over her, suddenly painfully aware that every breath she took here was a violation. The wrongness of it was staggering. She was the trespasser here, the invader. And despite the tightness building in her chest, she couldn't help but marvel at it.
It had been a long time since she'd felt this way. She'd spent so long going through other people's lives, rifling through their homes, their vehicles, backpacks and suitcases that she'd become numb to it. She'd been the sole witness to a hundred final moments; she'd inadvertently read peoples' last thoughts, she'd stumbled across love notes from regretful husbands and hopeful wives, messages scribbled on walls from children, parents, friends and lovers. She'd seen acts of cowardice, bravery, and love. She'd discovered wedding dresses carefully pressed and tucked away in back closets and Christmas gifts hidden in attic crawl spaces. And yet, now, it was this, of all things, that was getting under her skin.
And honestly she didn't know if this feeling, the one tightening in her chest and trickling down her spine like a winter chill, was a good thing or a bad thing.
It wasn't long after that she rabbited, half wondering if the pressure on her back were from the eyes of the owner or just her own guilty conscious.
It took another two and a half days for her to work up the nerve to fill the old sedan with everything she'd managed to gather over the past week. And another hour or so of idling - waiting for some sign that the people were going to return before she finally pulled up beside the bus.
Her heart was in her throat the entire time as she quickly lowered her things in through the emergency hatch, almost worried now that someone would just magically show up. She all but threw herself into the driver's seat, not sure what to think when she realized that the keys were already in the ignition.
She burnt rubber, unused to such a massive vehicle as she did u-turn back onto the highway, letting the reinforced bumper nudge the sides of overturned trucks and cars firmly out of the way, angling the bus deeper into Macon county, figuring a mobile home was shelter enough for as long as the gas tank would last her.
She didn't look back.
A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Sorry for the shorter chapter this time around, glad you guys are still enjoying! There will be more to come!