A/N: We're almost there, readers! I present you with the penultimate chapter of "Pink Paperclips". The action will back up a few moments, so we can get Daryl's perspective on what's happening.
I've also included the second verse of "Hold You In My Arms" below, as it's been a primary inspiration for these final chapters for me. ~CeeCee
When you kissed my lips with my mouth so full of questions
It's my worried mind that you quiet
Place your hands on my face
Close my eyes and say
Love is a poor man's food
Don't prophesize
I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
And I could hold you in my arms
I could hold you forever
© Ray LaMontagne
"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's looking at him earnestly, and he's doing his damndest to avoid catching her eye. These tears, these tears – he has no room for them in his angry heart. Especially not in front of her. Something in him wants desperately to hold onto his anger, like a safety blanket he's always had, and he childishly refuses to give it up.
She thankfully turns away and begins packing up the dresses scattered everywhere. He watches her small form as she carefully folds each garment; he's restless: rhythmically kicking the wooden door with one booted foot.
He notices she keeps passing over one dress to put others away first. He might not have, usually, but it's the same color as her eyes, with little white dots scattered all over it. Finally, it's the only one left. She holds it up, her profile slightly turning towards him. He can see the happiness the dress brings out in her. He can see that she really doesn't want to put it away. What did you come in here for, really, Daryl? To show her how right you are, to be royally pissed off at everything? When she's just lookin' at that dress like it's the best thing she's ever seen? Or is it because she's the best thing you've ever seen, when she's lookin' at the dress with a smile on her face?
"What's that one for?" he asks, because he knows…something in him, knows. She wants him to ask. Because the dress means something to her. Because he means something to 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, almost tripping over the words. He realizes he's stopped kicking the door. He realizes…maybe…just maybe, he's not all that interested in being pissed off anymore. He's interested in seeing her in that dress, right now.
Something tenses minutely in her, as if she's more awake than she was a few seconds ago. She pauses only briefly, slides her shirt over her head. She pulls the dress on, slides out of her jeans. And suddenly, that sticky, hard ball of anger in his guts slowly starts to unravel. She is the best thing he's ever seen, standing barefoot in this lamp-lit, dusty shed at the end of the world.
She's struggling to close the dress and before he knows what he's doing, before he can think, he is there, one hand sliding over the silk at her waist, the other pawing her hand away from the zipper. She is so still, so quiet. He begins closing the dress slowly, but he stares at her back, at the ridges of her spine. He stops, raises one calloused hand, hovers, so afraid but so hungry, so desperately hungry for the feeling of those tiny raised bumps along the curve of her back.
Hunger wins over fear, and his hand strokes the line of her back, brushing down those tiny bumps like small hills. His hand, almost of its own accord, is sliding the zipper back down towards her waist. He can feel the pulse of her heart, Carol's warm, unique, wounded heart, radiating into his hand. Her heart, in his hand.
And then, the tears, hot with shame and guilt and that fading but still-present anger, the tears fall, splash on her back. "I'm gonna ruin it," he cries wildly, not knowing if he means the dress, or her, or his own mighty fortress of scorn and rage. He swings his arms blindly, knocking boxes and crates over, slumping down onto a large trunk.
But she is there. Holding his face. "No you aren't, Daryl," she says. Her grey eyes are the world now, her fingers brushing the tears away are a balm. "You aren't gonna ruin anything." Her warm lips are on his, answering all of his questions. Quelling all of his fears.
He reaches out and grabs her, pulls her closer, stumbles a little off of the seat. They are both kneeling in the dust, in the semi-dark, in this shed at the end of the world. And he kisses her back, unfolds the dress that's the same color as her eyes, and pulls it slowly down. It makes a soft whisper as it hits the ground.
And then it's just her. And him. And Daryl is hungry, and happy, and sad, and yearning and scared. And it's like coming home. A home he's never had. A home he's always wanted.
Daryl Dixon isn't angry anymore.