Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or Steven King's "The Mist," wishful thinking aside.
Authors Note #1: This is an AU/Crossover fiction involving Frank Darabont's "The Mist" and "The Walking Dead." As fans of both productions will note, "The Mist" is host to a large quantity of TWD actors, including Melissa McBride. So, this story revolves around a Caryl spin on what might have happened between McBride's first and last scenes in the movie if Daryl Dixon happened to be thrown into the mix. Consider it an alternate universe look at what Caryl could have looked like with multi-dimensional monsters instead of zombies –with 'Carol' being a single mother of two and Daryl being well, Daryl.
Warnings: Contains spoilers for both the movie and just to be safe, all four seasons of the Walking Dead, adult language, canon appropriate violence, gore and mature content.
Flutter
Chapter Ten
He jerked awake, hand curling around the hilt of his knife as he tensed, uncertain of what had woken him. The room was dark. Not pitch black, but enough to make the shadows of nearby boxes threatening. Dawn was reflecting off the mist through the gaps in the curtains, filtering in through the blinds until the hazy, off-light lost the warmth of the sun – seeping in through the cracks like the dredges of someone's nightmare. Slow but certain.
He listened, counting out the seconds between breaths before he realized his concerns were unfounded. There was nothing there, not unless you counted the mist and whatever the fuck was lurking inside it. Musta' been a dream…
He slumped back against the cushions, squirming deeper into the headrest as he let go of an irritated sigh. He acclimated slowly, processing the transition from sleep to wakefulness before he realized what it was. There was a weight on his shoulders, soft, warm and unthreatening. Something that hadn't been there when he'd turned in.
His fingers curled around the edges of the thin blanket. He blinked, inhaling on reflex as the scent of her, the bird, filtered in. How the hell had this gotten here? He hadn't-
It was the soft sound that finally alerted him, trickling through the silence as his thumb scraped across the edge of his blade, waiting. The sound was more gentle than a snore, but too loud to be chalked up as heavy breathing. He chanced a look, unsure, and there they were, the bird and her chicks. They were propped up against the couch, sprawled out across the floor by his feet, not two centimeters away from his beat up mudders.
He blinked; watching as three chests rose and fell in the low light. Peaceful. His hands curled into tight fists, unsure of how to process it as the smallest one, the boy, made a quiet sound, rubbing his face into the bird's sleeve before he quieted.
An odd feeling rose as he looked down at them. It weighed in his throat, sinking down to the very heart of him the longer he watched. He couldn't think. Hell, he could barely breathe. They were so close he swore he could feel the heat of them. They could have been anywhere. In bed, comfortable, but they'd chosen this, him.
Why?
Honestly, he didn't know what to think, or even feel for that matter. Angry? Protective? Satisfied? Annoyed? They all sounded too god damn intimate. It didn't seem right to put a label on it, to define it when everything that'd happened since he'd found her on that road seemed one horror movie shy of a monster marathon on TV.
He rubbed his eyes. It was too fucking early to be dealing with this sort of shit.
He got up quietly, picking his way through a minefield of plastic bags, packing peanuts and splayed limbs, making a lop-sided circuit around the main floor before he deemed it safe enough to take a piss.
He peered out the tiny bathroom window as he aimed and let loose, a small sigh of relief escaping him as the stream plinked unevenly across the worn porcelain. Eventually his gaze strayed from the whiteout to the various knickknacks strewn across the countertop. The room, like everywhere else, was a mish-mash of plastic wrappers and half empty boxes. The edges around the sink and tub were littered with toys, a jumble of action figures and handheld games that had long run out of batteries.
There was a bottle of perfume perched on the top of the medicine cabinet, safely out of reach, but a handful of hairpins jammed halfway down the sink. Almost as if someone had made an effort to keep things at an arm's reach, but had failed in the follow through.
It practically screamed domesticity. He grunted, tucking himself back into his jeans as he let the lid whoosh closed – mind turning tricks as he considered what Merle would have to say about a lid that shuts itself rather than slams. Christ, he was out of touch.
Annoyance rose, but with only a shadow of its former ire as the candle light flickered off the walls, unsure of what to think when only comfort and irritation – or a bastardized version of the two – thrummed through him at the sight of the worn hair elastics and dirty tissues that'd missed the garbage can at his feet.
He curled his lip, but his heart really wasn't in it.
Instead, he left dirty boot prints across the linoleum and decided to call it even.
A/N #2: Thank you for reading. I realize this type of a crossover is something of a rarity so please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Sorry for the long wait between chapters, I realize it's been um, awhile. I should have another up before the TWD hiatus is over.