A/N: So, thanks to you all for reading, and especially to my reviewers; it makes me feel like I am sending this little story of mine out to each of you, rather than into the void of the Interwebs. This, I must admit, was my favorite chapter to write. Once I heard the Ray LaMontagne song "Hold You in My Arms", I knew where this story was going. The next three chapters (the last three) are each inspired by a verse of the song. The first is set out below. ~ CeeCee.
When you came to me with your bad dreams and your fears
It was easy to see that you'd been crying
Seems like everywhere you turn catastrophe it reigns
But who really profits from the dying
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you in my arms forever.
© Ray LaMontagne
She's begun to think of the storage shed as a treasure trove. It's full of useless, beautiful things, all the more beautiful because they have no practical value. Whatever happened to these people in death, in life, they were certainly pleasure-seekers. She's moving some of the boxes around, remembering that somewhere, there's at least one marked "Party Dresses". She's hoping to find something for Maggie to wear for the wedding.
She smiles, the idea of a wedding so foreign in this time, but also wonderful. She'd left the main house in the early evening, after helping the girls and Tyrese (who surprised her by being a creative and interested cook) try to prepare something special for the celebration. She had stood on the gravel path and her eyes instinctively landed on Daryl's tent, under the large maple towards the front gate. She hadn't seen him since their moment in the driveway yesterday morning, but she knew he'd refused to stay inside the house. The little camp he'd set up in the yard was silent and unused looking. She had kept herself busy, resisting the urge to seek him out. He was just so hurt, so angry. He wasn't ready for anyone to start poking around in his wounds just yet.
"Aha!" she now exclaims triumphantly. She pulls the large box she's been hunting for from a stack of a few others. She drops it on top of a box marked "Scuba Gear". Well, really, at least they had a good time until they got eaten by walkers, she thinks, ruefully. She rips the tape sealing the box and lifts the lid, exclaims with delight.
The box is crammed full of dresses in every color, made of those types of fabric you can't help but reach out and touch: silk, satin, tulle, velvet. She pulls out a dark green velvet gown, not remotely what she's looking for, but holds it up; the brushed fabric catches the light of the setting sun coming through the high windows, which burnishes it orangey-brown. So gorgeous, she thinks holding it up to herself. The woman that owned these dresses had been slim, like she and Maggie, but much taller: the dress drags in the dust on the concrete floor. So useless, but so gorgeous. A pink paperclip. She smiles, sets the dress aside.
She digs through the box, with a mission; she pauses only once again on a dress for selfish reasons. A simple, short, sleeveless dress with an a-line skirt. White polka-dots on a grey-blue background. She lays it to the side, brushing the wrinkles out of it, wondering how the silk would feel against her skin. She's never owned, never could imagine owning, something so perfect.
She's nearly at the bottom of the enormous box when she finds what she's looking for: an airy, white shift with cap sleeves. Probably something the women who owned these dresses wore on her boat, with blue-and-white espadrilles and $300 sunglasses. But Carol grins, imagining Maggie, barefoot in the summer grass, looking at Glenn and bursting with love.
She hears the door creak open behind her, and turns, saying, "Look what I found! I think it'll be perfect on you…" she trails off. It's not Maggie standing in the doorway; it's Daryl.
"I don't think that's my size," he says, but there's no fun in it. He looks like a wild animal that's been hunkering down in the woods: haunted, hunted, terrified and plain worn out. He just stands there, leaning against the closed door, his eyes bloodshot, face naked with misery. "What are ya doin'?"
"Trying to find something for Maggie to wear tomorrow," she says gently. She doesn't want it to seem that they're dancing on Merle's grave.
"Oh, yeah, the weddin,'" he says, a sneer in his voice. "Like that makes any sense." He folds his arms tightly across his chest.
"Some things aren't about sense," she says, taking the white dress, carefully placing it on a hanger, and hooking it over the windowsill to glow in the sun. She starts packing up the other dresses; logically, she knows she can just leave them out, for the mice and moths to get to; but she can't bring herself to do it. Can't bring herself to let them mar the gowns' useless beauty. "Some things are about love, or about beauty…or…or just about hope. Even if it doesn't last. Just about being hopeful, for a moment."
"You said that b'fore. But that's a joke. Who are we kiddin'? The world ain't never been good, not to us, and that's even truer now," he's head is tipped backwards, and she can see the tears that are threatening to spill down his cheeks. He kicks, kicks again, restlessly, with one booted foot at the door, the ground.
"Maybe the world, no. Maybe not Merle, not until it was too late. Never Ed. But why can't we all be good to each other, what's left of us? Even if we carry the scars of all the bad stuff?" She wishes he would look at her. But he's afraid. Of those tears, that he can't hide, can't cram back into his broken heart. She turns away from him to finish with the dresses. Finally, the only one left is the lovely grayish polka-dotted one that caught her eye earlier. She hesitates for a moment, holding it up.
"What's that one for?" he says from behind her.
She doesn't turn around, just stares at the dress in her extended arms. "Nothing…no one. I just thought it was pretty. Was thinkin' about wearing it tomorrow, but that's not a very practical idea." She sighs, gently placing the dress on top of the others.
"Try it on," he says, softly. He's stopped kicking the door.
Her heart leaps into her throat, begins to pulse fiercely. She looks at the dress, her back still to him. She takes a breath to calm herself. She knows what he's asking. It's permission, almost like praying. She lifts her shirt over her head, reaches a shaking hand to the dress, sliding it onto her body. It's cool against her warm skin. She wiggles out of her jeans, and reaches around to zip the dress up.
And suddenly he's there; his hand clumsily brushes hers away. He places one hand on her waist, the other on the zipper. He slowly slides it up, stops halfway. Carol holds her breath. He lifts his hand from the zipper and she feels his fingers hovering over her back. They land, barely touching, on the ridges of her spine. His fingers trace each slight bump downwards, and now the zipper is retreating down, back to her waist.
She is quiet and so, so still. All she hears is the rush of her beating heart, the whisper of his callused fingers on her skin and his breath. Then she feels the first warm tear splash onto her back, then another.
He backs quickly away. "I'm gonna ruin it." She hears something tumble to the ground. She spins around, the dress falling open in the back. He's sitting on a large trunk, the smaller boxes he's knocked over falling to the floor. His face is in his hands.
"No you aren't, Daryl," she walks over to him, kneels down in front of him. She takes his hands from his face, replaces them with her own. "You're not gonna ruin anything." She brushes his tears away with a quick sweep of her thumbs. And then, she brushes the anger in his eyes away, by placing her lips on his.
