AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!
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Carol slipped easily back off to sleep, but Daryl found that he could do little more than doze. He lay there for a while and dozed at intervals—each time opening an eye, when he began to get restless, just to see if the sun was starting to lighten the sky, and each time finding that it was just as dark as before—until he couldn't stand to stay still any longer and his throat felt parched.
He eased out of the bed, found his boxer shorts, and then found his jeans. He stepped into both, pulled a white t-shirt over his head that Carol had brought him from the community storage, and padded barefoot from the room, snagging his cigarettes and lighter from the windowsill as he went by.
The house had running water, and they were certain it was clean enough for bathing and even for brushing their teeth, but they tended to boil that which they intended to actually consume as a safety measure.
In the kitchen, Daryl helped himself to a glass from the jug of clean water. He drank it down in a few long and satisfied swallows. His thirst was mostly quenched by the glass of water, but he refilled it anyway and took the second glass with him as he made his way through the house.
In the living room, he paused a moment and picked up the pillows they'd left on the floor. He tossed them on the couch to keep someone from stumbling over them in the dark. He slid the game boxes under the coffee table with his foot to clear the walkway.
Then he quietly passed through to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch. He selected his favorite rocking chair and sat down in it. His glass of water went on the small table between the chairs, and he lit a cigarette before he leaned back and hummed in satisfaction at the absolutely perfect life he felt—at that exact moment—he'd somehow stumbled into leading.
Carol was sleeping in the other room. The marriage they pretended to have was, honestly, fiction, but the relationship wasn't entirely fiction. She'd spent much of the night tangled up with him in the bed and he was under no impression—even if he didn't dare to put the words out into the air—that his feelings for her weren't very real and very different than anything else he'd ever felt before. He might not have a wife, exactly, but he had something with a woman that he cared for more than he ever expected to care for anyone, and that was something that made him feel warm and relaxed.
Beyond that, she carried a child who wasn't his child at all. He was under no impression that the child could possibly be his because she'd been quite swollen by the pregnancy before he'd ever even touched her. But it was a child that, at the very least, he could care for. He could watch the child grow. Even if it could never be his, he could love it, and that was something.
He had a home now—a nicer home than he'd ever dreamed of having in a world that was lost to memory and consumed by some kind of plague that, honestly, he was afraid to admit was beginning to seem like some kind of horrible blessing to him. He had steady work within the community to keep his mind sharp and his hands busy.
And he had a nice porch with rocking chairs to sit on while he waited for the Earth to roll over enough that the sun could become visible over the horizon. Already, there was the faintest bit of light in the darkness around him that let him know that, somewhere not too far away, the sun was already visible to whoever might be looking for it. It wouldn't be too long before she peeked at him from the horizon.
When Carol woke, he'd take her to breakfast. He'd leave her with Andrea, more than likely, after the meal and they'd go off to do their assigned duties while Daryl slipped off to take care of whatever tasks came up on his list. Then, before lunch, they'd slip down to the woods to practice with Carol's aim—and the whole wonderful, repetitive, mundane, amazing day would continue on from there.
Daryl was reveling in the feeling of a perfect morning when he heard the door click behind him as someone turned the knob slowly and with purpose. Whoever was coming to join him on the porch didn't want to disturb the rest of the household.
It could be Carol, slipping out to see if she could find him since he'd left the bed without waking her and telling her where he was going.
It could be T-Dog, up early and coming to see the sun rise like Daryl.
Daryl decided that, if it was T-Dog, he'd share with him the secret of the relationship that he and Carol were enjoying—even if they had no proper name for it. He'd thank him, even, for arranging it so that their fantasy could become, at least to some degree, a reality.
He would let the man know that he considered himself in his debt for doing something so unexpectedly good.
Daryl turned partly in his chair to see who might emerge from the door, but he was surprised to see it was neither Carol nor T-Dog.
She didn't see him there until she'd closed the door behind her, easing it shut as gently as she'd opened it. It was clear that she hadn't intended to be heard by anyone. She was carrying her boots in her hand. Daryl didn't know if that was because she was making some kind of hasty escape, or if it was simply because she wanted to reduce the sound of her movements on the wooden floor of the house.
As she turned, Daryl smiled to himself. He saw the start when she noticed him there. If it had been pitch black, the end of the cigarette he was finishing would have given him away. As it was, the sun was becoming visible on the horizon—the tiniest sliver of orange—and there was a glow to the world around them that would have made him clear to her eyes.
"Sit down," Daryl said, reaching a hand out to rock the unoccupied rocker next to him. "Put'cha boots on. Unless—you in that much of a hurry."
The woman—Michonne—looked around her like she expected to see a whole herd of people closing in on the house to catch her with her boots in her hand. Daryl laughed to himself.
"You caught already," he offered. "It don't make sense to start checkin' for snares once you done put your foot in one."
The woman sighed. Maybe there was even a hint of a growl to the sound. Daryl patted the arm of the rocker again and it rocked back and forth in response.
With shoulders slumped slightly forward, the woman eased herself into the rocker.
Standing on guard with a katana strapped across her back, or even caging around the community like she was ready to strike at any moment, she was an imposing figure. She looked large—maybe even larger than life. She looked fierce and strong and powerful.
Sitting in the rocking chair next to Daryl with her boots in her lap and no katana in sight, she simply looked like a woman—and she was really a rather small-framed woman at that.
"I like the human you better," Daryl said before his brain had even had time to commit to the words. He winced at his own statement even as he heard it leaving his lips.
Michonne furrowed her brow at him and a bit of that ferocious look she wore at almost all times returned.
"What did you say?" She growled.
Daryl laughed to himself out of nervousness as much as anything else.
"Meant—you just seemed human for a minute there," Daryl said. "Like everybody else. Not like some kinda angry warrior god stompin' her way through the world."
Michonne softened a little, clearly accepting Daryl's explanation, and sunk back into her chair.
"You can put your boots on," Daryl offered. "Unless—you just like walkin' around barefoot."
Michonne accepted the offer and set about putting on her boots—producing socks from the toes of the shoes. She did so in silence—the way she seemed to do most things—and Daryl watched her. He lit another cigarette.
"You angry?" He asked.
"What?" Michonne asked.
"You walk around like you angry all the time," Daryl said. "So—you angry all the time? Or that's just how you're put together?"
Michonne considered it a long moment and Daryl let her. He had nowhere to go and the world wasn't quite awake yet.
"I guess—maybe I am angry," Michonne said. "Not all the time, but…"
"Close enough," Daryl supplied when she broke off. She hummed. "I used to be pretty fuckin' pissed off all the time, too."
"Not anymore?" Michonne asked.
Daryl smiled to himself and drew in a breath. He checked in with himself a moment before he answered her, wanting to be certain that he wasn't lying.
"Not really," Daryl said. "Come to think of it, it's been a while since I was really pissed off. What makes you so angry?" Michonne pursed her lips at him and narrowed her eyes. He accepted it with a nod. "We all got our secrets," he offered. She didn't respond, but her features softened. That was response enough, really.
"What changed?" Michonne asked. Daryl hummed at her in question. "You used to be angry. Now you're not. Most people are angry these days—about one thing or another. What changed? For you? Why aren't you angry anymore?"
Daryl smiled to himself. He shrugged his shoulders and took a draw from his cigarette before, realizing how rude he'd been, he offered her the pack. She shook her head and waved away his offer, but at least he knew that he'd extended the invitation to her to join him.
"Between you and me?" Daryl said. Michonne shrugged and nodded. Daryl's stomach tightened a little. Even if she told his secret, it wouldn't shock too many people there. They believed he was married, after all. And if she told Carol—maybe it would just help him to finally say everything he felt like got hung in his throat. "Carol," he said.
"You've been together a long time?" Michonne asked.
"Not long enough," Daryl answered without hesitation. "But I really do think Carol's the reason I'm not so angry anymore."
"She makes you that happy?" Michonne asked. Everything about her softened visibly. She relaxed. Her boots were on now and, her hands hung limply over the arms of the chair. She sat back and even allowed the rocker to rock back and forth.
Daryl nodded his head.
"And she deserves that I'm not angry," Daryl said. "She don't deserve to have to live her whole fuckin' life with angry. Livin' with angry all the damned time is hell for anyone."
"Even the person who's angry," Michonne offered.
Daryl hummed his consideration.
"You didn't ask me," Daryl said, "but I'ma say what the hell I got to say just the same…"
Michonne laughed, interrupting him.
"I see the resemblance between you and your brother," she offered.
Daryl laughed quietly in response to her statement.
"T's a decent kinda guy," Daryl offered. "I don't know what the hell you're angry about—and I respect the fact that you don't wanna tell me. Just—thought you oughta know that T's a decent kinda guy. In case your sneakin' around was you wonderin' whether or not you'd done gone an' put your foot in a pile of shit."
Michonne hummed in her throat. She pushed forward and got to her feet like she'd only just remembered that she was leaving the house under cover of darkness and the quickly rising sun was erasing any hope she had of doing just that.
"You said it yourself," Michonne offered. "Living with angry all the damned time is hell for anyone. Nobody deserves that. Least of all the decent kind of guys."
"It's also worthwhile to let somebody make their own choices," Daryl offered. "Just 'cause you angry today don't mean that it's gotta last forever. You can decide not to be pissed the fuck off."
Daryl thought he saw, for just the flash of a second, a smile tug at the corners of her mouth instead of the scowl. She glanced, briefly, back at the door before she stepped onto the top step like she was about to truly take her leave of Daryl.
"You at least tell him you was goin'?" Daryl asked.
"He knows," Michonne said. "I'd just rather—nobody else knew. Not yet."
Daryl swallowed back his smile.
"Does 'not yet' mean I'm likely to run into you again when I can't sleep?" Daryl asked. Michonne hesitated and shrugged her shoulders, clearly not even committed to the non-committal act. Daryl nodded. "Don't worry," he said. "I'm pretty damn good at keepin' secrets."