AN: This is from a request that I got some time ago on Tumblr and misplaced.
I own nothing from The Walking Dead.
I hope that you enjoy! Please let me know what you think!
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Carol wrang the water out of the rag and folded it again into a cool square. She placed it on Daryl's forehead. Her fingers touched his face and neck again. They came to rest on his chest. His skin was hot, but it was difficult to tell, especially without at thermometer, how much she could attribute to the heat in his body, and how much she could attribute to the cold in her fingers.
Carol sat and watched his face in the dim light from the oil lamp that burned by the bed.
He hadn't opened his eyes since they'd found him in the woods. Carol didn't know why the person that had shot him had done so. She didn't know if it was a vengeance killing for something that happened—maybe even with the Whisperers—or if it was something unrelated. She didn't know if he'd come upon them and startled them, or if there had been some kind of argument. She didn't know if Daryl's arrow had flown first or if the bullet had left the barrel first. She'd reacted too quickly to have answers—of course, maybe she was good at that.
If she'd been there ten minutes earlier, maybe he wouldn't have been in this bed at all. Maybe she wouldn't have been checking him, hourly, for signs of a fever.
If she'd been there ten minutes earlier, maybe it would have been her that would have surprised the person or received their vengeance, whichever the case may be.
She'd give just about anything to switch places with him.
The world was a better place with Daryl in it. They would all be better off without her.
"OK," Carol said softly, cooling the rag in the water again and using it to mop at his face. "You've slept long enough, Daryl. You need to—wake up, OK? It's time to wake up. We'll let you rest, if that's what you need, but…if you won't do it for me, you're scaring Lydia."
Lydia—Carol hadn't meant for her to be here.
Of course, Daryl hadn't meant for either of them to be here.
He was pissed off at Carol. He had a right to be. Everyone had a right to be pissed off at her. She didn't do anything but fuck up what they had. She could ruin just about any damn thing. He hadn't told her that—not exactly—but she'd felt it. He didn't want her around. He didn't want her to be there.
That was, perhaps, what hurt the most. The only person that had ever really wanted her to be there, through everything that they'd been through before, was Daryl.
He was angry that she'd left so many times before, but he didn't want her there. Still, she'd been struggling with the thought of what to do. Should she pack up and leave—this time for good? Or would her resolve wear out and leave her to return, as she had before?
She could leave it all behind without another thought, if she had to, except for Daryl.
She'd come to find him to tell him that she would leave, if that's what he wanted. She'd come to find him to tell him that she needed to hear it, from his mouth, if he wanted her to leave or not. She would stay, or she would go, but she wanted to do what he wanted.
Because she loved him—except she'd never exactly managed to tell him that part.
Carol lovingly mopped at his skin. At least he was hanging on. He was still there. Every moment that he fought to stay alive was another little step toward guaranteeing that he'd survive. At least she hadn't killed him yet.
He wasn't waking, though.
"OK," Carol said, rinsing and wringing the rag once more before she rested it on his forehead. "If you need a little more sleep—we'll give you an hour, OK? But then you're going to have to wake up, sleepyhead."
She rested her fingertips against his chest again. Her palm barely touched the bandage that was, at this moment, still relatively clean. Beneath her hand, his heart—thankfully missed by the bullet—pumped in his chest. It confirmed his life—she'd listened to it, herself, and found it to be one of the most beautiful sounds she'd ever heard. She longed, sometimes, to lose herself to sleep with her head against his chest, lulled by the sweet sound of his heart pumping.
She longed to sleep next to Daryl, safe in his arms and wrapped in the comfort of his love.
Carol swallowed against the hard lump in her throat. She patted his chest, and she stopped herself from doing what she almost felt compelled to do—she didn't press a kiss to his lips. He wouldn't have appreciated it. He wouldn't have wanted it—not from the likes of her.
He wouldn't want her there, more than likely, but he was lucky that she'd come along when she had. She didn't know what had led to the confrontation, but she knew that Daryl had taken a bullet—and the moment that she'd seen that, she'd dispatched a bullet immediately into the brain of his assailant, never knowing if the arrow Daryl had shot would have eventually killed the man.
Carol hadn't known that Lydia was following her. If she'd known, she would have sent her back. Just like Daryl was lucky that Carol had come along when she had, though, Carol was truly lucky that Lydia had followed her. Lydia had shown up while Carol had been trying to staunch the bleeding. She'd helped Carol to get Daryl here—back here to the cabin where he'd been before. Lydia had helped Carol mind the fire. She'd helped her as a gopher while Carol had managed to remove the bullet as carefully as possible.
She had helped Carol save Daryl's life. Now there was nothing to do except wait to see if he would live—and then to let him tell Carol what she needed to know.
Everything she had worth keeping fit into the backpack that she'd tossed into the corner of the living room. She'd leave from here if that's what he wanted, and it likely would be.
Carol closed the bedroom door behind her as she stepped out.
Lydia sat in a chair in the living room with her feet up in the chair and her chin resting on her knee. She stared straight ahead like anyone who had simply had too much. She'd had more, really, to deal with in her life than anyone needed—especially anyone her age.
Carol sighed and sat down on the couch.
"Where's Dog?" Carol asked. She knew the animal had followed them. He'd been with her since she'd split from Daryl.
"Kitchen," Lydia said.
"You fed him?"
"There was some meat—in a can."
"Did you eat something?"
"There were some beans." It was better than nothing, and Carol certainly didn't have it in her to cook. She hardly had it in her to breathe. "You should sleep."
"Is Daryl awake?" Lydia asked.
There were times when Lydia seemed far more mature than any child her age would be, and there were times when Carol felt that she showed clear evidence of having missed out on a lifetime of nurturing and care. She seemed so much smaller, and so much younger, at the moment.
"Not yet," Carol said, softening her tone from the one that almost slipped out. "Why don't you—get some rest? I'll wake you if he wakes up."
"You should rest, too," Lydia said. "Can I get you something to eat? I didn't finish all the beans…"
Carol felt heavy. Her heart felt heavy. Her body felt heavy. The weight of everything felt heavy.
"I'll eat something later," she said, doing her best to make her tone one that would soothe Lydia. "Get some sleep. I'll wake you…"
Lydia finally nodded. She unfolded herself and stood up. Dog must have heard movement because he came running from the kitchen and came straight to Lydia. She patted him affectionately on the head.
"I'll leave the door open for Dog," she offered. Carol nodded. As Lydia passed by the couch, she suddenly stopped. "You should tell him you love him." Carol looked at Lydia. She might play dumb and pretend she was questioning whether or not the girl meant Dog, but they both knew that she wasn't confused. "You do love him, don't you?" Carol found that she couldn't speak. She couldn't respond. Maybe she didn't have to. Lydia smiled softly, the curve of her lips barely changing. "You should tell him. I think he'd like to know. He loves you, too."
"He loves someone else," Carol said, before her mouth could stop the words from spilling out. She hadn't meant to respond at all. Lydia was staring at her with those damn big doe eyes. "Go to sleep," Carol said, her voice cracking slightly.
Lydia simply nodded, and she leaned and kissed Carol on the cheek. She said nothing else, and she quickly went into the extra bedroom. Dog's toenails tapped on the floor as he followed after her. Carol listened as the girl got in bed. She heard the dog jump up and settle in with her.
Carol closed her eyes—not to sleep, but rather to simply shut out the world around her.
She loved him so much that even Lydia could sense it, but he didn't love her—not that way. He deserved so much more anyway—and maybe she'd already cost him some of what he should have had.
Carol sat on the couch until her body felt heavier with the need to sleep. She fought it, refusing to drift off. Sleep made her dream, and her dreams were painful places where she was happy. In her dreams, many times, Daryl loved her. In her dreams, she was a mother—a mother to live children. Her family was whole and happy. There was love, and comfort, and warmth.
Carol was experienced in pain, and one of he most painful things she'd ever experienced was waking up from those dreams to realize that they weren't true, and they never would be.
Carol pulled herself up from the couch. She passed through the kitchen and drank down a glass of water in long swallows. She splashed her face, and then she made her way back to Daryl's room.
Daryl looked peaceful, at least, though she thought that maybe the muscles in his face were a bit more tense than they had been before. Maybe she saw a little flitting movement behind his eyelids or the twitch of a facial muscle. Maybe, though, that was just some hopeful imagining.
Carol dampened the rag, again, that had rested on Daryl's head. She sat down on the side of the bed. She wiped at his brow with the cool rag. She rested her palm on his face and touched his forehead, his cheeks, and then his chest.
He was cooler than before, and that was a good sign.
"You need to wake up," Carol whispered. "I can't stay here long, and I need to know you're OK before I leave."
Carol almost called out when a hand unexpectedly curled around her wrist. There was no mistaking that movement. There was no mistaking the repeated bobbing of Daryl's Adam's apple either.
The first sound he made was a gruff growl, like someone testing their vocal cords.
"Always leavin' me," Daryl said.
"What?" Carol asked. The word was a knee-jerk response. She'd heard him, but she hadn't fully digested his words.
"Always leavin' me," Daryl repeated, opening his eyes. His fingers flexed—tightened and loosened, but still held onto her. His eyes opened. Carol smiled, in spite of her heaviness.
"You're OK," she said.
"Feel like shit."
"That happens when you've been shot," Carol said.
"You would know," Daryl said.
"I thought you might…"
"Leave?" Daryl asked.
Carol nodded.
"So, you tryin' to leave me first? Even nearly dyin'…I can't get you to stay? You ever gonna—stop runnin' and just…be?"
"What are you trying to say, Daryl?" Carol asked.
"Same damn thing I been tryin' to say for years," Daryl said. He frowned. "I been—awake—just layin' here…wishin' I knew how the hell to just say it."
"Say what you want," Carol said, her chest aching.
"Stay," Daryl said. "Don't go."
"I don't want to come back to the community," Carol said. "I don't want to just…be there."
"Don't," Daryl said. "Don't just be there. Be…with me."
"You mean—like here?"
"Here, there…wherever," Daryl said. "New Mexico's still there."
He was still holding her wrist. His hold was loose, but Carol didn't try to pull her arm away. She felt him rubbing his thumb against the underside of her wrist.
"Please?" He pressed.
"Are you asking me to run away with you?"
"If you gotta run," Daryl said. "Be with me."
"What about—Leah?"
"What about her?" Daryl asked. "She's gone."
"You belong with her," Carol said. "You said…"
"I said I know where I belong. Always have. Even if I couldn't say it."
"The note…"
"You told me to get on with my life. You left me. You're always leavin' me. Don't—leave me no more?"
"You deserve to be with—someone you love…" Carol said, her throat almost feeling like it was closing up and her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest.
"You're here right now," Daryl said. A hint of a smile danced across his lips. "Weak as I am—you gonna make me say it? Make a big damn deal of it?"
Carol swallowed back her tears.
"You love me?" She asked.
"I do," he said, simple and matter-of-factly. "I love you. Always have."
"I haven't known you forever, you asshole," Carol said with a laugh. A laugh rumbled in Daryl's chest and he made a sound protesting it. He squeezed her wrist with discomfort.
"Don't make me laugh," he said. "Maybe I knew it before I knew you. Doesn't matter. Close enough."
"I love you," Carol said. "I love you," she repeated, louder than before. It sounded good to say it. She'd said it in her mind a thousand times. She'd mouthed the words when he couldn't see. She'd whispered them when he couldn't hear. It felt good to say them now.
She leaned forward, and she kissed him. He returned the kiss, somewhat weakly. Still, it was the greatest feeling that she could recall in a long time.
"You said you gotta leave—we headin' for New Mexico in the morning?"
"You have to heal," Carol said.
Daryl's thumb rubbed rhythmically against her wrist, and Carol's pulse kicked up. He looked at her wrist, and then he looked at her. He could, without a doubt, feel the increase in her pulse's speed.
"Tired. If I close my eyes—you gonna run?" Daryl asked.
Carol shook her head.
"No," she said.
"You gonna stay? Be with me?" Daryl asked.
Carol nodded.
"Yeah," she said.
"Stay," Daryl said.
"You too," Carol said.
"Always," Daryl said. "Say it."
Carol smiled and nodded.
"Always."
"You look tired," Daryl said. "Gotta rest." Carol laughed to herself.
"You're the one that's just been shot," she said.
"You need to sleep," Daryl said.
"I'll go in the other room."
"No," Daryl said. "Stay. Be with me."
Carol sucked in a breath and let it out as she calmed herself. Daryl didn't release her wrist until she nodded her agreement. She undressed as much as she dared for bed and slipped under the cover next to Daryl. She didn't dare to touch him too much, but she scooted over to fit herself against his side with her urging. He looped his arm under and around her. She felt his thumb rubbing rhythmically, now, on her arm.
"Are you sure you're OK?" Carol asked.
"Never been better," Daryl offered. "Can you sleep?"
Carol smiled to herself. She closed her eyes and let her fingers just barely touch the skin of his side.
"I think—better than ever," she said with a contented sigh.