A/N: Because I love all of you, have a monster of a chapter. Have fun! ;)
Chapter 12: The Fury and the Sound
The sun beat down, casting its light in a warm orange glow over them as they rolled naked in the grass. Daryl groaned, his head lolling back in the soft green of the small clearing with the scent of peaches filling his nose. Carol twisted her hips as she straddled him, grinding down on his erection as her nails dug into his chest. She was panting, whimpering his name over and over while his hands explored every inch of smooth skin, pale gold in the light, skimming around the curve of her hips before sliding up to pluck at her pebbled nipples. She leaned down to tease at his lips, licking and lapping until his control snapped. He grabbed and rolled them again, pressing her into the grass as he settled between her legs, all semblance of rhythm gone as his tongue darted into the wet cavern of her mouth.
"Can't wait anymore," Daryl panted. Carol was moaning, her luscious body writhing beneath him as her hands pulled at his hair, sending shivers of delight racing down his spine.
"Oh, god. Please, Daryl. Now, Daryl. Daryl! Daryl!"
Daryl jerked awake, sitting up in his bed with a shout. The sheets were damp, clinging to his sweat soaked skin as he tried to remember how to breathe. The dream was so real, so vivid, he could still feel the ghost of Carol's hands on his body. His worn cotton sleep pants felt sticky and wet; he'd come in his pants like a fuckin' teenager. Christ.
"Son of a bitch," he gasped. His heart was pounding, a rapid thumpthumpthump in his chest that ran counter to the solid thwunks of Merle banging on the door and calling his name. "Shit, Merle, what?"
The door banged open and Daryl yelped, grabbing the duvet to cover his naked body as his brother lurked in the threshold. Merle was dressed already, his face red and eyes still bleary from sleep.
"Rise and shine, lil' brother," Merle said swiftly. "Powder delivery's been moved up."
"To when?" Daryl rubbed his hand across his face, trying to shake the cobwebs of sleep and will his still half-hard cock back to sleep without Merle noticing.
"This mornin'. I'll explain in the car. Hoof it, beautiful." Merle was gone, leaving the door slamming against the jamb in his wake. Daryl groaned and slumped down into the tangled mess of pillows and bed sheets. His body ached, need and sleepy desire still pulsing through him, warring with the need to get up, get alert.
I'm losing my fuckin' mind.
Carol flipped the rashers of bacon, enjoying the pop and sizzle of the frying meat. She had the radio turned on low, filling the room with the sultry siren song of Peggy Lee. The Knuckleheads, as she thought of Jackson and Randall, were already at the table. Her mama used to say you could take the measure of a man by how he ate his food. Randall drove her crazy, slopping his grits and honey over the edge of his plate like a toddler. He ate like he'd never see another meal again; head down and snorting like a pig as he inhaled his food. Jackson talked with his mouth full. Already she could see bits of egg and toast sprayed halfway across the table.
The door swung open and Thom Crowley came into the kitchen. He already had on his coat, which Carol knew by now meant he wouldn't be eating. She quickly poured him a cup of coffee, passing it to him with a small smile.
"Morning, ma'am." Crowley was quiet and polite. He never called her by her first name, always addressing her as 'ma'am' or, rarely, Mrs. Peletier.
"Hey!" Jackson's abrasive voice cut through the air. "Are we gonna get bacon here or what, sweet cheeks?" Carol resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she turned back to the frying pan. She judged the bacon to need another minute or two.
"It's almost done," she shot back. "Hold your horses."
"You're feisty this morning." Smarmy asshole.
"Wait until you get me going," Crowley said lowly. "Now shut up and eat your food."
"Ain't my boss," Jackson growled. Oh, good. We're going to have one of those mornings.
"No, but I am." None of them had noticed Merle make his entrance. He leaned casually on the new blue and white Philco refrigerator, a "gift" from Hershel Greene to accommodate the increased food storage needed to run the house. Merle was in his vest and shirt, his suit jacket folded over his arm. "You're done eatin', both of ya. No questions." Merle produced an envelope and handed it to Jackson, who had leapt to his feet, albeit with a disgruntled expression on his face. "Now get gone, boys. It's a busy day."
Carol turned her back to the scene, quickly scooping up the crispy bacon and turning off the stove as the clatter of feet told her Jackson and Randall had left. She heaved a sigh of relief as she went to turn the radio off. Merle had made it clear he didn't like the radio on while he ate.
"It's all right." Carol turned to see Merle pouring himself a couple of coffee. "Ain't staying long this mornin'."
"I'm gone," Crowley said. "Daryl with me today?" Carol busied herself with straightening the kitchen. She opened the cupboard where she kept kitchen supplies and grabbed a small paper sack.
"He will be later," Merle replied. "I need 'im this mornin'."
There was a large bowl on the counter that she kept fill with fruit for anyone to snack on throughout the day. Carol stole a couple of apples and stuffed them inside the paper sack and passed them to Crowley without asking.
"Fair enough." Crowley drained the last of his coffee and put his cup in the sink. He turned to Carol, lifting the sack with a small smile in her direction. "Go raibh maith agat." She smiled at the use of old Irish as Crowley let himself out the back door. Merle leaned against the counter, dunking his bacon in his coffee and checking his watch impatiently as he munched on his breakfast. Carol grabbed a rag and started wiping down the counters.
"Is Daryl going to eat?"
"Not if he takes much longer." Dunk, munch, munch. Carol went to clear the table and groaned at the mess The Knuckleheads had left behind.
"So how much do you think Mr. Greene will make me pay to have Jackson and Randall live somewhere else?"
"I'll chip in for a piece of that action," Daryl said as he came in. He wore his trenchcoat and hat already, so Carol guessed he wasn't planning to eat after all.
"Ha!" Merle snorted into his coffee mug. "I'll have to ask the old man about that one."
"Please do," Carol said archly as she passed Merle, snatching the empty coffee cup from his hands and adding it atop the armful of dishes she carried. "Is anyone going to be home for dinner?"
"If the boys keep to the schedule, we should all be here," Merle said as he slipped into his jacket. That was rare. Most of the time she didn't have more than two or three for dinner, even though it was a meal she was required to provide them under the terms of her agreement with Hershel Greene. "And we'll be using the dining room tonight. Got some things to discuss." A business dinner. That makes more sense.
"I'll keep myself scarce, then," Carol replied. Merle nodded sharply in return.
"Well, Widow Peletier, do we look respectable enough to go about our day?"
Carol gritted her teeth at Merle's address. He was aware of her distaste for the moniker 'Widow Peletier', and she knew he was only doing it to rile her up. It seemed to be a favorite game of his. Most times she ignored it, part of staying as far away from Merle as possible. Screw it. Let's see what happens.
She turned and narrowed her eyes at the Dixon brothers, giving each of them an obvious once-over. Screw it. Let's see what happens.
"Daryl looks terrific," Carol purred slowly, "but you look like a Bible salesman."
Merle looked gobsmacked as Daryl let loose a shout of laughter, real laughter, and pushed his brother out of the room, leaving Carol alone and tickled pink at her daring.
"Bible salesman," Merle muttered. He was slumped low against the plush leather as Daryl drove, weaving the Cadillac through the increasing traffic as they approached downtown Atlanta. His brother was still smirking, clearly trying to hold back at Merle's continued grumbling. "Woman's startin' to get damn cheeky."
In truth, he liked Carol Peletier with a bit of bite to her. It suited her, that hint of sass that lurked just below her respectable widow's surface. He didn't care much for women beyond what pleasure he could get from the sweet notch between a great set of gams. A dame was always one of two things: emotional and clingy, so desperate to please a man that he'd take care of her, like his ma had been, or frigid and tough as nails, all talk and no pussy. Like Andrea. God, there was a broad that was turning out to be a particular pain his ass.
He pulled his flask from his coat pocket and took a long swig, the Irish whiskey flooding his system and bringing a grim smile to his face.
"Mr. Blue is extending his stay," Merle warned. Daryl didn't say anything, just sighed and nodded. "The old man wants to reroute the shipments from Mexico. He doesn't want it anywhere near the club anymore."
"Where to?" He could tell his brother was in work mode now, already clicking through the list of things that needed to be done in his head. Good boy.
"Mackie's," Merle replied, referring to one of the larger drugstore's downtown. "Basement job for now while Crowley scouts out a couple places." He knew without saying anything further that Daryl had heard the silent order to handle the smaller details of the temporary operation. Daryl was good with details, keeping the cogs in the Greene machine turning.
He'd worked hard with Daryl, ingraining in him the same mindset and skills he'd used himself to climb up the ladder in Greene's empire. Some things hadn't taken as well as Merle would have liked; Daryl's token sympathy for the plights of women and children would to be his undoing if they weren't careful. The situation with the Peletier woman was a prime example. It had been Daryl who'd fought with him and Greene to make sure the arrangement with Eddy P's widow kept her out of harm's way. Merle hadn't given two shits what happened to the tomato, personally. It was the old man's deal and he'd let Daryl win that round. He still wasn't sure he cared - he'd have let Jackson paw up that skirt all he wanted. That was her problem to deal with. Greene had insisted though, after Daryl's bellyaching, that she was off limits for all of them. Fine and dandy. He could get better pussy at 2 o'clock on a Tuesday and everyone knew it. No skin off his nose. Still, he kept one eye on his little brother, now more than ever. His other eye he kept fixed firmly on the prize; the sweet, sweet take that drew ever closer to his fingertips.
Most people didn't realize it, but Merle Dixon was a big picture kinda guy. He weighed all the consequences of any decision, the immediate and the long term. It was that vision that got him to where he was, the second to the big man himself. Years ago, he'd thought about starting up his own operation, but had immediately nixed the idea. Greene was already a powerhouse in the South by that time and Merle would have had to start from scratch. At that time the old man had been ruthless, an attitude that allowed zero competition for his businesses. Merle picked up quick that it was better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path, so that's what he shot for. It worked, and he'd striven swiftly to prove himself the most loyal of all. Greene gave direct commands to only a select handful of men, loyal and trusted through their years of service, and even then Merle was usually in the room. Most of the orders were given through Merle and he had a large amount of control in the day to day mechanics of the Greene machine. He knew that someday soon, it would all result in the big prize.
Hershel Greene had no sons, just a spoiled chit of a girl barely out of her pleats and pigtails. His sham marriage to gold digging Lori Grimes had not provided him with the sons he'd hoped for. He retaliated now by ignoring his wife, spending hours of his day locked in his offices drinking and occasionally indulging himself with one of the girls from Andrea's bordello. Even that was becoming rare as Greene crept closer and closer to facing his own mortality. While his mind was sharp, he confessed more than once to Merle of lacking the stomach for much of the severe ruthlessness that had defined his youth. 'It was a younger man's game', he said. Merle nodded seriously every time, giving his ear and indulging his master with every luxury he could think of. Merle knew, deep in his bones, the day was coming where he would inherit Hershel Greene's empire. It was his right, the reward that he'd spent years dreaming of. Soon, he'd be the one with all the power.
That's why this war was so unnerving. The last upstart who'd tried to muscle their way into Greene's territory had found himself at the bottom of the river with cement shoes. That had been over a decade ago. The lousy Daego had been stupid, young and hotheaded, which made him easy to catch. Merle had personally overseen his demise and enjoyed every second of it. This guy though… Philip Blake. That's all they had: a name. Rumors of him came through their various connections across the country. He was apparently smart and charming yet vicious and unpredictable. Word was he'd been run out of Los Angeles by Mickey Cohen himself. What the hell he was doing here in Atlanta was anyone's guess. All of their birddogging had given them bupkus. No ID, no tax records. Hell, Merle couldn't even find immunization papers on Blake. The guy was a ghost. Merle had put up enough reward money that something good should have come up through the grapevine by now. Yet… nothing.
There was no pattern to the places Blake hit or the people he killed. It was guerilla warfare, plain and simple. Greene was near breaking and Merle was itching for the signal from the old man to finally, finally fight back. Fire with fire. It was time to throw down with this West Coast asshole, before there wasn't anything left for Merle to inherit.
Merle was jolted from his inner turmoil as the car jerked to a stop in the alley behind Mackie's Drugstore. He checked his watch and saw it was just after ten. Right on time. He and Daryl made their way from the alley to watch the trucks pull in, the precious cargo already being loaded into the basement storage area.
To his surprise, the back door opened and Thom Crowley came outside, looking worried and waving for Merle.
"Handle them, will ya?" Merle said quietly to Daryl. His brother just nodded, nudging him in the shoulder before striding off to talk shop with the men unloading the crates. If Crowley was here, something had gone wrong. The burly Irishman leaned in, speaking almost directly in Merle's ear.
"Got a message from Theodore," Crowley said urgently. "The old man wants to talk to you. Now."
Fuck. Merle nodded, clapped Crowley on the shoulder and went inside Mackie's to use the phone.
Daryl slipped the leader of the transport crew the thick roll of bills as the last crate was unloaded. He could see Crowley pacing by the door, a move that set his teeth on edge. Somethin's wrong.
He waited as the door to the cellar was padlocked and the men shuffled themselves into the back of the box truck before making his way to Crowley. Daryl pulled his lighter and the slim gold cigarette case from his jacket pocket and tapped one out, taking a long, slow pull and letting the nicotine ease his nerves. Out of politeness, he silently proffered the neat rows of slim, white hand-rolled cigarettes to Crowley, who shook his head.
"I'd rather drink," Crowley said tersely. He knew Crowley didn't smoke, but he was the only person on earth Daryl would be willing to share with. He offered every time, and every time Crowley refused. Daryl soughed around the cig in his mouth, stowing his case and lighter back in their pocket.
"No time like the present," Daryl mumbled. He knew Crowley didn't smoke, but he was the only person on earth Daryl would be willing to share with. He offered every time, and every time Crowley refused. He waited, impatiently tapping his foot, but just as Crowley opened his mouth, the door slammed open and Merle sidled out, the look on his face unexpected in its calm smugness. Whatever it was, Merle had accepted it, welcomed it even.
"Well, fellas," Merle said quietly as he snatched the cig from Daryl's mouth and took a long drag, taking a moment to blow a series of small smoke rings out of his mouth before exhaling the rest into their faces. "Orders right from the old man. We're going to the mattresses."
The day had flown by. Carol had managed to finish most of the chores for the day: floors polished, linens changed and the bags for cleaning delivered to Jacqui's Launderette. She'd even managed to get the rug in the parlor turned. Now she was back in her kitchen, getting dinner ready. With all of the men expected to be home, she decided to go all out and make fried chicken. The dining room table was set for the five of them; she'd take her own meal here in the kitchen once the men were eating. The chicken was marinating in a mix of buttermilk and herbs, the potatoes were in the oven, the salad mixed and set aside in the fridge to keep alongside a large pitcher of lemonade. Now her hands were sticky with the short dough she was rolling out onto the floured cutting board.
"Carol?" It was Daryl's voice calling out for her.
Daryl. That was a thing Carol tried hard not to think about. Not about how the blue of his eyes reminded her of the ocean, or how the sound of his voice sent shivers through her body. Stop that, Carol.
"In here!"
The door swung open to allow Daryl and Crowley to stroll their way into the kitchen, both of them with their jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. Carol swallowed thickly at the sight Daryl made, with his tie loosened and the top buttons undone enough that she could the dip in the hollow of his throat and the faint tan line left behind by his collar. Quit it, girl. There was no denying Daryl was handsome, with a thick mop of fine, sandy hair and fine features. She hadn't been dead, all those years with Edgar. She had eyes and could certainly see the appeal of men like Daryl Dixon. The trick was that five months of sharing space with Greene's men had given her an insight others missed. That road only leads to trouble.
"Sweet lord, but it smells good in here," Daryl groaned. "I'm starvin'."
"Well I thought I'd make enough food for an army," Carol smiled as she grabbed a shot glass that had never shot anything but short dough, "but knowing you boys, it won't last the meal."
"I have nothing against good Southern food," Crowley said as he leaned on the counter, snatching an apple from the fruit bowl, "but I'd damn near sell my soul for a good bowl of colcannon."
"You can get colcannon at McLeod's Diner," Daryl laughed.
"They don't make it right."
"You sound like a little boy who just found out he won't get any cake after supper," Carol said.
"Yeah, he gets like that when it comes to Irish food," Daryl said as he grabbed a couple bottles of Blue Ribbon from the fridge. "Don't take it personal, now."
"Well, I've never tried to make colcannon," Carol said as she slid the tray of biscuits into the oven next to the potatoes. "Tonight's fried chicken, but I do make a mean bowl of Dublin Coddle."
"Ma'am, you just found the way to my heart." Crowley took her hand, ignoring the grit of oil, flour and bits of dough that covered her skin and brought it to his lips with a grin and a wink. Carol smirked and rolled her eyes, turning away to get the chicken when she saw Daryl, standing there watching them with a dark look in his eyes. She hadn't seen him look like that since they spoke at Ed's funeral. Crowley must have seen the same because he dropped her hand as if it had burned him.
Carol turned to her cooking, mixing the batter of flour and spices and setting the oil on the stove to heat while she tried to ignore Daryl and Crowley, now huddled at the kitchen table in a whispered exchange. What on earth was that about? She dipped the chicken in the batter and started laying pieces in the hot pan, enjoying the pop and sizzle as the meat started to fry.
A door slammed and she heard muffled voices, shouts of abrasive laughter. Jackson and Randall, most likely. Merle was nearly as quiet as Daryl could be when he got home.
"Dinner should be up in five," she called softly over her shoulder. Nobody answered and she looked to see she was alone in the kitchen. Figures. She went to pull the potatoes and biscuits from the oven.
"Never a dull moment," Carol sighed.
Almost an hour later and Merle still hadn't arrived. Daryl sat at the kitchen table with Crowley, Jackson and Randall. The silverware jangled in time with the impatient tapping of his fingers on the polished wood. Merle was never late like this, especially to a meeting he'd called. Not for booze, not a skirt, nothing except a call from the old man himself could divert Merle. Somethin's wrong...again.
Randall was on his third beer in an hour, more concerned with the piles of food growing cold on the table than anything else. Fuckin' screwball. He really needed to talk to Merle about having Randall transferred. Hell, maybe they needed to just get rid of the chump once and for all. Jackson's parrot wasn't doing them any good and Daryl didn't see a whole lot of growth potential in the kid. Fuck sake, even Rhee would be better than a chisler like Randall. Now there was a thought worth a chuckle or two, but even that couldn't get Daryl to break.
Where the hell was Merle?
"Fuck this. I'm eating," Jackson announced sullenly. He grabbed the largest piece of chicken from the platter and bit down, crunching through the thick fried skin and letting the juice from the tender meat drip down his chin as he glared defiantly at Daryl across the table. Uppity-assed motherfucker.
Daryl realized he was clenching the table knife in his fist, the thick loops and swirls from the Francis the First pattern digging into his palm. His jaw was locked so tight it was starting to make his head hurt. He had a vision of himself, leaping across the table and sliding the knife across Jackson's throat. Oh, it would go so easy, like butter, with Jackson's blood spilling on the table all hot and sticky, that idiot expression frozen permanently on his smarmy face. Merle would be pissed and he'd have to buy Carol new placemats, but he didn't think she'd mind so much. The vision danced through his head, clear a picture, for about five seconds while he sat frozen in his chair, his face and posture a perfect mask of indifference. Breathe.
There were rules in place for this. Protocols. He knew them backwards and forwards. Merle… Christ. Daryl leaned to his left to speak quietly in Crowley's ear.
"I'm makin' the call." Daryl pushed his chair back and stood, nodding to Randall, who was half slumped over the table as tipped his bottle end over end, his mouth opened wide as he laughed, trying to catch drops of beer like a child catching snowflakes. "Cut him off, will ya? Whatever it takes." Crowley said nothing, just nodded as Daryl strode quickly from the room.
He stopped by the kitchen door, listening to the gentle clink and clatter of Carol moving around. He dismissed the idea of asking her if she'd heard from Merle at all; she was good at passing along messages and she'd have told him by now if there was anything to tell. The sound of her minding her tasks were… comforting.
There was something in the air, something that had the hairs on the backs of his arms standing up. It had him on high alert, his fingers twitching for the cold comfort of his gun, but it was in his jacket pocket, hanging on the rack in the hall. Simmer down, boy. First things first.
He made his way to the parlor, sliding the glass door shut behind him. He settled himself into the worn armchair, the old leather weathered over time to be soft as kid gloves. The old 1920's coin-operated phone had been replaced by a sleek, black rotary dial at Merle's insistence. It was close to eight, which meant the old man would be home. He had the number that would link him to Greene's palatial estate half-dialed when he heard the low thunk-thunk of someone knocking at the front door. The hell… No. This ain't right.
Daryl slammed the receiver down and leapt to his feet, Carol was already halfway down the hall. Daryl reached over and flicked the light switch, dousing them both in darkness. He was on her before she could turn, his hand hovering over her mouth to muffle her startled cry as he met her eyes and held a finger to his lips. He grasped her elbow and gently pulled her with him to the coat rack. Her eyes grew wide as he pulled out his Colt, flicking the safety off and sliding the barrel to check the chamber.
"Daryl?" Carol whispered, her voice trembling at the sight. He gently pulled her to him by a handful of her thick curls, leaning down to whisper in her ear. He could smell the light, floral scent of her soap underneath the heavier flavors of fried chicken and biscuits.
"Trust me."
Daryl felt her nod. He pushed her to the door and waited in the shadows, his gun ready. To her credit, her hand was steady on the knob, her posture relaxed and her face calm as she pulled the door open. Good girl. The door swung wide and a figure fell across the threshold, forcing Carol to leap backwards.
"Merle?!"
Daryl dropped to his knees, roughly turning the figure on the floor to his back and staring with shock into the slack, gray-tinged face of his older brother. Merle was gasping for breath, his eyes bloodshot as he gestured weakly towards his shoulder. He could make out the thick, dark stain of blood seeping through Merle's clothes. Daryl didn't think as the orders came barking out of his mouth, yelling at Carol to get the door and hollering for the others as he hefted Merle to his feet, throwing a limp arm over his shoulders to brace his brother's weight as they made their way into the living room.
Crowley and Jackson were suddenly there, taking some of Merle's weight and helping to get him settled on the couch.
"Carol!" Daryl called. He looked over his shoulder to see her in the entryway, so pale yet steady on her feet, watching them with a hand pressed to her stomach. "Call Emerson-four-seven-seven-nine. Doc Lassiter. Tell him you're calling for Daryl Dixon, give him your address and nothing else. Right now."
She was gone in a flash, the click of her heels echoing down the hall. Jackson was shutting the heavy drapes, offering them as much cover as the house could provide. Daryl turned to Crowley as together they tore at Merle's clothes, the thick woolen trench coat and the soft jacket of his blood-soaked bespoke suit.
"Where's Randall?"
"Plastered," Crowley muttered. "Passed out under the table."
"Leave him," Daryl ordered tersely. "Goddamn."
The gunshot wound was deep in the meat of Merle's left shoulder. Blood gushed from the entry point in a steady stream. Daryl pulled at Merle, leaning over to check his back. The shirt there was clean and crisp white cotton.
"No exit," Daryl muttered. Merle was gasping, grasping at Daryl and his mouth worked, trying to form words through the pain. Daryl pressed his hand against Merle's cheek, forcing his brother to meet his eyes. "Merle, just breathe. It's gonna be ok."
"He isn't home." Carol was back, her voice low and even behind Daryl. He didn't look at her, focused on Merle as he pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and applied pressure to the wound. "The doctor, I spoke with his wife. She said he was at Hershel Greene's house."
"What?!"
Carol was talking, explaining, but it was a haze of white noise in Daryl's ears, muffled by a single thought: the doctor wasn't coming. Merle was shot, bleeding out before his eyes and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Daryl didn't know what to do. This wasn't some stranger or even his boss, this was Merle. Merle, who taught him how to throw a punch, gave him his first drink, showed him how to drive and talked to him about girls. Merle, who looked out for him and always had his back. Merle. His big brother Merle. He suddenly felt like the lost little kid he'd been, years ago, when he couldn't see anything beyond his father's belt coming at him.
He could hear Merle's voice in his mind. Do. Not. Panic. Think. Daryl shook his head, trying to bring himself back to the chaos erupting before him. It's just a job. They were looking to him, counting on him. Waiting for his orders. It was his show. Do the job. Merle was still mouthing something, a single word over and over, desperate to make them understand. Daryl watched his lips. Slowly it came to him as Merle gasped.
"Followed."
Daryl's mind raced through the options. Crowley was sharper, faster with his gun. Jackson was the better driver, not to mention he got on Daryl's nerves a lot faster. Like he was now, just standing there by the windows with an expression that could be amused. Daryl's blood boiled. Get him out of here. Carol was gone, vanished to who knows where, which gave Daryl the chance to speak freely.
"Merle may have been followed here," Daryl spat. "Check the roads, Jackson."
"You want them alive?"
"Hell no."
"Yes," Crowley said at the same time. He arched an eyebrow at Daryl as he spoke again. "Yes. Hurt them if you have to, but keep them alive. The warehouse on Fifth. Call us if you find them."
Jackson nodded, reaching behind the wet bar to pull out a long black case. He opened it and revealed a Thompson submachine gun, which he laid across his shoulder as he gathered the extra clips with his other hand. With a nod and a wink, Jackson was gone. Smug bastard. For once, Daryl half hoped that Jackson didn't follow orders and killed the sons of bitches that shot his brother.
"What the fuck do we do now?"
Crowley was hunched next to him, steadying Merle by his shoulders as the injured man's shuddered with a sudden spout of deep, hacking coughs. Blood pulsed from the wound with each cough, the cloth and into Daryl's hands useless now. This is bad. This is so bad. His control was fraying, slipping away and he was helpless to stop it.
"No idea," Crowley admitted. "I put bullets in people. I've never had to pull them out before."
"First time for everything?" Daryl grimaced at the thought of performing surgery here on the sofa, but suddenly Carol was there, pushing him out of the way with a determined look on her face, her arms laden with a huge stack of bowls and cloth, a black bag under her arm.
"I need more light," she said grimly as she threw her supplies down on the parlor table.
"The hell are you doing?!" Anger flared in him and he realized his hand was raised, ready to strike when she pinned him with a glare that was fire and ice all at once.
"I know how to fix your brother," she said firmly. "Now do what I tell you to and get me more light." She shot this last over her shoulder at Crowley, who moved at once, grabbing every lamp in the room, pulling off the shades to fill the room with brilliant light as Carol got her supplies organized. Bowls of water, stacks of linens, thread, needles and silver tools that gleamed in the light.
"You know how to do this?" Daryl asked in shock.
"Yes." Carol's reply was short, her manner cool despite the paleness of her face.
"How-"
"In a minute," Carol said. "Is it through and through?"
"No." It was Crowley who answered, coming back to hover at Merle's other side. "It's still in there."
"All right." Carol was up, gently pushing Daryl off to the side. "I need to see it. Thom, hold that lamp up here. Daryl, just sit here a minute." She gently pried his hands from the wound on Merle's shoulder, her fingers warm and steady over his. "Daryl, it's all right. Let me see him."
He finally lifted his hands and blanched at the amount of blood that seemed to keep coming out of Merle. Carol was poking at the wound, pulling lightly at the edges and ignoring the groan of pain Merle gave.
"I know it hurts, Merle." Low and soothing, almost crooning. He knew she was focused on Merle but the tone of her voice was calming his nerves as well. "I just need to see… There. I can see it."
She reached behind her to rummage around her tools. Linens and a small glass bowl were shoved into Daryl's hands.
"Hold those," she ordered. Carol climbed up to straddle Merle's leg, pushing on his chest to lay his shoulders flat against the back of the sofa. Daryl felt his eyebrows rise almost to his hairline as she took Merle's right hand and placed it on her hip. Did I miss something? "Merle, enjoy this, because you'll never get me this close again."
Incredibly, Merle was smiling, snorting a laugh that turned into another bout of wheezing, deep coughs that tugged at Daryl's stomach.
"Thom, one hand on his shoulder but keep that lamp raised right there. Daryl, put your hand here," she pointed to Merle's upper arm, "and stay by me. Merle, bite down on this." She shoved a rag into Merle's mouth. "One, two, three."
Daryl pushed down as hard as he could as Merle jerked and screamed through the cloth in his mouth. Carol was digging into the gunshot wound, pushing down on Merle's chest with her elbow and letting the weight of her lock Merle's legs in place.
"I know, I know. Almost there," Carol mumbled softly. Her hands were so steady, so sure as she worked. Not a hint of nervousness or uncertainty anywhere, just cool, calm control.
Clink. Clink. Daryl looked down into the bowl in his hand to see two large pieces of shrapnel, rough and bloody; the remains of the bullet. She actually knows what she's doing. Son of a bitch.
"One more, Merle," Carol said softly. "Almost there." She was digging deep, Daryl could tell, and her hands were red with Merle's blood. It was everywhere, on Merle, the couch, Carol. Merle was growing whiter by the second as his head fell back against the sofa, his eyes falling shut.
"What's wrong with him?" Daryl didn't recognize his own voice, high pitched and panicky.
"He passed out," Carol replied as she tore the rag from Merle's mouth, throwing it over her shoulder without a second glance. "I just need to get this last one." Come on, one more.
Clink.
Carol sighed as she dropped the last shard into the bowl. She grabbed the lamp from Crowley and pulled it as close to the wound as she could, the cord stretching with an audible squeak as the wire pulled tight.
"OK," Carol said softly. Daryl wondered if she was talking more to herself at this point, feeling like nothing more than a spectator. "No major arteries. Clean, pack, stitch." She shoved the lamp back into Crowley's hands and quickly ran her hands across her face, muttering so low Daryl couldn't make out her words anymore. Definitely talking to herself.
She moved fast, pulling supplies from Daryl's hands or reaching behind her to grab from the supplies. Daryl sank down to the sofa, watching her work at saving Merle's life. It didn't make sense. Carol hated Merle. Why is she doing this?
"He's going to need blood." Shit, she's looking at me. What?
"Daryl," she said urgently. "Merle needs blood. I don't have the supplies for a transfusion. He still needs a doctor."
Fuck. Think, think, think.
"Go call the old man," Daryl finally said. He looked at Crowley, summoning every ounce of willpower he had to work his face back into some semblance of his normal self. "See why the doc is there, get him here if possible."
"And if I can't?" Crowley asked.
"I'll think of something," Daryl said. "Go!"
He had no idea how long he sat there while Carol played doctor, her hands a flurry of activity that belied the calm exterior she portrayed. A curly tendril of her hair had worked itself free from its pins and was in her face. He wasn't sure she'd even noticed, but as the minutes ticked away it was all he could see. He couldn't stop his hand from reaching out to tuck the lock of hair behind her ear, a small piece of him thrilling at the silky feel of the auburn strands. Carol didn't respond, her hands working at smearing a thick poultice on a folded scrap of linen and pasting that onto Merle's shoulder. Finally her hands stilled and she sat back with a groan, rolling her head so Daryl could hear the joints in her neck pop.
"I think that's all I can do for now," Carol said, looking at Daryl. She wiped her hands clean on a towel and ran her arm across her forehead, rubbing away the beads of sweat Daryl could now see had formed. Her hand brushed against Daryl's knee as she reached for Merle's wrist. "His pulse is a little slow, but steady. That's good."
He's alive.
Daryl let the last of his supplies fall from his arms, reaching out to help Carol as she pushed herself off of Merle. He pulled her closer than he should have, keeping her hands in his. She blazed with a strange glow, all fierce confidence that blew him away.
"Ya all right?" he asked softly. He barely noticed his thumb tripping along the soft skin on the underside of her wrist.
"Me?" Carol almost laughed. "Merle's been shot and you're asking if I'm ok?" He felt himself giving her a tiny grin as the absurdity of his question sank in.
"Doc's on his way." Crowley was back, standing on the other side of the table with an incredulous expression pointed at their joined hands. "Old man's fine. Lil' girl Greene had herself a fever so they called Doc Lassiter. T's bringin' him over now. You need to call him back, Daryl."
"Yeah, ok." Daryl sighed, running his hand through his hair. He felt like he'd aged a hundred years in the past hour.
"Get Merle upstairs first," Carol said. "He'll do better in a bed."
Daryl nodded, gesturing to Crowley as he moved back to his brother's side. He's alive. It bounced around in his mind as they hefted Merle's bulk to his room. He's alive because of Carol.
Why did she help him?
Carol waited for the men carrying Merle to disappear upstairs before allowing her knees to give out, sinking down to rest on the parlor table. She buried her face in her hands with a moan, her fingers tangling in her hair and wrenching her curls free from their pins. Her hip ached where Merle had clenched down on her as she'd worked to remove the bullet fragments from his shoulder and she knew she'd have bruises to show for her efforts.
"Holy shit," she whispered. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit."
She hadn't stitched a bullet wound since she was a teenager, some shylock who had 'just been passing through' and found himself on the wrong end of a farmer's shotgun as he tried to crawl in through a bedroom window.
Her father had stitched up the farmer's wife.
She'd been able to hear his voice in her ear as she worked, the sound of his long slow drawl bittersweet as he rattled off the steps she needed to take to do what she could to save Merle's life. Oh Daddy, what would you say if you could see me now?
She was soaked in blood, sticky and tacky all over her skin, her hair, her dress. It had even dripped onto her shoes, dark spots along the cream suede. She slowly slid her feet free, one after the other, and ran her stockinged feet along the rough fibers. There was so much blood everywhere, along the couch and puddled along the weathered carpet. It was ruined, they were ruined: the sofa and rug both. Her shoes and stockings. Her dress, from the feel of things, although she was afraid to look. She just kept staring, instead, at the stains that filled her vision until they were all she could see.
Shelter. Food. Housekeeping. Laundry. Cover. The five things Carol was supposed to provide under the terms of her contract with Hershel Greene. In her wildest dreams and worst nightmares, she'd never envisioned having to patch up a mobster in her parlor. How did it come to this?
A hand fell on her shoulder and she jumped, spinning around and putting as much space between herself and the other as she could. It was Jackson, of all people, and she felt her flesh crawl.
"I thought you left," she said flatly.
"I did," Jackson replied with an arched eyebrow. "But I got back over an hour ago."
Carol turned to the grandfather clock that loomed in the far corner of the room to see that two hours had passed since Daryl and Crowley had taken Merle upstairs. Two whole hours she'd sat in a daze in her ruined parlor while who knows what happened around her. This isn't good.
"I have to go clean up dinner," Carol said suddenly. It was as good an excuse as any to get out of this room, away from Jackson and that lecherous leer. "Excuse me."
She spun on her heel and bolted for the dining room as quickly as she could. The food was still laid out for dinner, but half the table was a wreck, beer bottles everywhere, half eaten biscuits scattered all over and the pitcher of lemonade spilled over and soaked into the wood, the place mats ruined. Randall was curled on the floor, lemonade dripping onto his head while he snored, an empty beer bottle wrapped in his hands like it was a teddy bear.
"Moron," Carol muttered as she started clearing the table. She made her way into the kitchen, slamming the dishes onto the counter. It took her a few trips to get everything cleaned up. She debated calling one of them to get Randall, but she could hear the rumbles of the men talking upstairs when she poked her head in the hall and decided to leave it. Randall could stay where he was, as far as she was concerned.
She could smell the blood, the iron tang of if permeating the whole of the house. She grabbed at the sink, clenching her fingers tight on the porcelain in an effort not to faint. She didn't want to think, the delayed shock tickling at the edges of her consciousness. Nonono. Just keep moving. Something monotonous, that's the ticket. Carol ran across the room, flicking the needle of the record player down and turning the volume up as high as it would go. She had no idea what was playing, couldn't remember what she'd had on while she'd been eating her dinner hours ago. She just needed something, anything, to help crowd out the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her.
Just keep moving, Carol.
Daryl leaned back in the chair with a sigh. His arm ached and he pressed down on the fresh bandage wrapped around his elbow. The blood transfusion was finished and now he was feeling faintly dizzy. Merle was stretched out on his bed, the blankets they'd piled on him pushed aside as Dr. Lassiter inspected the gunshot wound. Crowley was leaning against the dresser, his face drawn and tired, as Theodore Douglas lurked in the doorway.
"Where's Jackson?"
"Here." The man in question poked his head in the door, looking smug about something Daryl was pretty sure he didn't have the patience to deal with.
"It'll be easier if we can move him to the Hibernian," Dr. Lassiter said as he replaced the bandage on Merle's shoulder. "I can keep a better eye on him there."
Caleb Lassiter had been a hotshot physician in New York City before being run out of town after he was caught performing illegal abortions on the unfortunate ladies under the thumb of Lucky Luciano. He'd run south, come across Hershel Greene and now enjoyed the perks of being on Hershel's payroll. He lived in the Hibernian, one of the hotel's permanent residents. His sole responsibility was the welfare of Greene's men and family. By all accounts, he spent most of his time gambling at the hotel's basement casino. Daryl didn't quite trust him, but he was the best option they had. Taking Merle to the hospital was out of the question.
"How bad is it?" God help him, he almost didn't want to know.
"It could be worse," the doctor replied. "Your landlady does terrific work. Was she a nurse?"
"I… have no idea," Daryl laughed. It was one of the many things he planned on discussing with Carol very soon.
"Well, she's clearly had some measure of training. It was very close. Without her, Merle would be dead by now."
"Oh…" Daryl couldn't think of a single thing to say in the face of just how close his brother had come to dying on that couch. "I… need to make some calls. Everyone just sit tight up here for a bit." Daryl pushed his way out of the room and down the stairs, desperate for air but tasting only the sharp iron of spilled blood. He poked his head into the parlor and immediately turned away, his stomach churning at the mess inside. Not yet.
Jackson had reported the roads were empty, no signs of anyone else in the five mile stretch between Carol's house and the edges of suburban Atlanta. He did report signs of tire burns about three miles out, possible signs of a car chase, but it would be impossible to confirm the details before the sun came up. Even then, until Merle woke up they were completely in the dark. He needed to think, he needed air, he needed…
Daryl turned and made his way down the hall on quiet feet, stopping just outside the kitchen door. He could tell the lights were on and could hear the sounds of Carol puttering around inside. It was ludicrous, but he had an idea that just the sight of her would be enough to soothe the rage inside of him. He pushed his way inside the kitchen and froze, realizing quickly the scene inside was not the haven he'd imagined it would be.
She must have had music going at some point, probably while she'd been cleaning dinner. In all the chaos, she must have forgotten the record player. He could hear the scritch-scritch-scritch of the needle spinning ceaselessly at the end of the disk.
He needed to go upstairs, go check on Merle. There were people to call, orders to be given, arrangements made. A list of a hundred things to be done and he was standing here like some chump.
The kitchen lights seemed too bright, glaring like an indoor sun. Carol was at the sink, her back to him as she dropped each dish, one by one, into the sink full of water. Colors seemed overly bright to him, his eyes catching first the delicate blue on white pattern of the china, following a plate on its path to the sink only to find the rainbows reflected in the slippery bubbles frothing over the rim as the water level rose with each new offering. He followed the sweet cream of skin up Carol's arm to the swirls of auburn, chestnut, rust and even threads of grey weaved together in the tumble of curls cascading down her back, so vivid against the pale yellow of her dress. Edges blurred, his vision going slightly fuzzy until all Daryl could see was dark spots dancing against the backdrop of brightly swirled colors and his ears shut down until all he could hear was the never-ending scritch-scritch-scritch. Everything was muted, like his ears were full of water. Everything except that maddening sound of the needle scratching heedlessly on black vinyl that grew louder with every second.
Scritch-scritch-scritch-scritch.
He was going to be sick.
His chest heaved and his face flushed, bile bubbling up inside him, and just as he bent, ready to splatter the contents on his stomach onto the gleaming tile floor, something caught his eye that brought everything into sharp focus.
Carol didn't have shoes on.
He could just make out the faint shimmer of light on the thin fabric of her stockings, but she wasn't wearing shoes. She always wore shoes in the house, was never less than perfectly put together in front of them. This one thing, so insignificant in the face of everything else that had gone wrong, was enough to tip Daryl back over the edge into something resembling sanity. He straightened, swallowing down the tart slime that had lodged itself in his throat and breathing deep through his nose.
Control. Find it, grab it, use it. Daryl reached out with a shaking hand to grasp the door frame to steady himself. He kept his breathing slow, counting to four with each inhale and repeating the process as he exhaled. He watched Carol while he breathed as she slowly and methodically washed the dishes, setting each item on the rack to drip dry while she washed the rest. It took him a while, but he let the ritual actions of Carol cleaning soothe him as his pulse settled back into its normal rhythm. Finally he found his feet, taking measured steps across the room and lifting the needle. Scritch-scri-... The silence seemed louder than anything else. It was enough to jerk Carol's focus from her task. She peered over her shoulder at him, her eyes huge and glassy in her pale face as her hands stilled in the water.
The silence stretched out between them, long and heavy with so many things he couldn't put a name to that it made his chest ache. She was waiting on him but he couldn't find words, his control enough to get him moving but not speaking, apparently. For once in his life, Daryl wanted to speak, only his tongue had turned traitor. Without a sound, Carol turned her head back to her task, the only noises now the gentle clink and splash of dishes being cleaned.
That got him.
"Carol." Daryl's voice was soft, cautious, like he was approaching a fawn in the woods. She didn't answer him, didn't even dip her head to acknowledge he was in the room with her. He strode over to the counter next to her and finally realized how dire the situation was. The front of her pretty yellow dress was matted and tacky with huge splashes of blood. Splotches of blood dotted the fine mesh of her stockinged legs down to her ankles. Merle's blood. Christ on a cracker. She was pale, so pale, but her hands were steady as she took a sopping rag to a fork, tending to each individual tine with infinite care. She was calm, in control, but only just. He decided to try again. "Carol-"
"Don't." It was barely more than a whisper, yet sharper than a slug to the gut. Her voice was even, firm, but he didn't think she was actually angry. This was something else. "Just… don't."
He had a hundred other things that he could do right now, things he needed to do. He needed to get in touch with Greene, make arrangements with the aldermen who reported to Merle. He needed to talk to Morgan at the Hibernian, confirm the reroute the shipments coming from Mexico. There were a dozen things he needed to delegate to the boys, from checking the rackets to getting Randall's sorry ass up and sober. With Merle down for the count, it was his show until the old man could take the reins again. The whole world was waiting. Carol could finish cleaning up.
Daryl snagged a dry towel from the rack on the wall and set to work drying the dishes.
He could see her watching him from the corner of her eye, just like he was watching her. They worked in tandem, her washing and him drying until she was done, pulling the plug in the sink so the soapy water could drain with a loud, long squick. She moved to his other side, stacking plates and cutlery in an orderly fashion. They moved around each other in the kitchen, stowing items away like they'd been doing it for a hundred years. It was calming, peaceful, and utterly ridiculous.
He turned to grab the last glass from the counter, not realizing that Carol had reached for it a millisecond earlier. His fingers brushed over hers and he felt the electric crackle of pure wanting zip down his spine. She gasped and let the glass slip from her grasp. It hit the tile with a crash, shards of glass scattering around their feet. Neither of them moved, less than a foot of space between them as they stared at each other, their fingers still loosely tangled together between them.
"I should-"
"No," Daryl said quietly, urgently. "No." His free hand snapped out to paw at her hip, holding her still. Don't walk away from me. Not now. "You'll cut your feet."
He was moving before he could think, reaching down to sweep her into his arms, one arm tucked under her knees while the other cradled her back. She didn't speak, didn't move other than to let her hands hover above his chest. She just kept her wide blue eyes trained on his face as he carried her to the round kitchen table. He set her down as gently as he could, perching her on the end of the table before he straightened in front of her.
"It's ok. It's my job."
"No. I'll do it."
"But-"
"I'll do it. Don't get up."
Daryl moved swiftly, pulling the broom out from the cupboard and sweeping carefully, making sure he caught even the tiniest shards of glass. He tried not to think about why he was doing this, tried to ignore the pull in his gut, the realization that he would take on any burden, no matter how large or small, to keep Carol from harm. He could feel her eyes on him. As a man who had made a life out of staying unnoticed, it was a revelation to find that he welcomed Carol's attention, the idea of her seeing him.
He wanted her to see him.
He made sure everything was cleared and put back in its place. Carol was still sitting on the table, her hand folded in the lap of her bloody dress. He surprised both of them by reaching out to grasp her ankles, lifting her legs to inspect her feet in their torn, soiled stockings.
"Get any on ya?" he asked softly.
"No," Carol answered carefully. "I'm all right."
He let her legs drop and stood before her, holding his hands out to her with his palms up. He wasn't sure what he was offering.
There were fifteen hundred things he wanted to say, was desperate to say. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was about all of this, about everything. He wanted to thank her for saving his brother's life, for taking charge in the moment when sheer panic had threatened to overwhelm him. For fuck's sake, all his years of training for these situations had been as useful as a cold; the prospect of his brother dying on Carol Peletier's sofa had sent him spinning out of control like a rookie his first time at bat. He'd faltered, stumbled, failed. She'd been brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant. He'd seen the full force of the steel core that must have held her together all these years with that worthless sumbitch she'd married. It left him humbled and in awe.
He wanted to ask about her father, about the things she'd learned at his knee. He wanted to hear about her family, about what she liked, what she didn't, her hopes and dreams. Four months of living with Carol and he realized he knew so little about who she was beyond "Mrs. Peletier"... and he loathed it. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted to listen to her sweet voice talking about her day, telling him stories, even when she was putting him in his place. God Almighty, she could put him anywhere she wanted. The thought didn't frighten him half as much as it should have.
He had no idea how long he'd stood there like a fool, with his hands extended to her, before she finally slid from the table to stand on her own two feet. She ignored his outstretched hands, didn't reach for him at all and the crushing blow of disappointment felt like a physical blow, forcing his hands to drop limping at his sides. He jammed them into his pockets so she wouldn't see. She wasn't looking anymore; she was moving past him, across the kitchen to the dark little hallway that lead to her small rooms. She paused in the doorway, pale, bloodstained and weary, turning to look back where she'd left him in her wake.
He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life.
"Don't you have a job to do, Daryl Dixon? Go play your role now. They're waiting on you."
God. It was sadness that tinted her voice and it made his fists clench where they hid in his pockets. His voice died, useless again, on his tongue as she turned and left him standing bereft and lonely in the big kitchen.
She was right. He had a job to do, a role to play. He hated himself as he turned and clicked the lights off, plunging the kitchen into darkness. He didn't need the light to find his way. He moved in the shadows.
A/N: Now that's what I call a rough day! ;)
"Go raibh maith agat" is Irish Gaelic for 'thank you'. I'm running with the idea that most of the members of the gang are Irish-American and can speak a few key phrases here and there, but that's it.
"Going to the mattresses" is an expression used when a gang went to war with a rival. You'll see it explained better later on.
"Tomato" - woman
"Gams" - a woman's legs
