A/N: I made an upload mistake and skipped a chapter! If things didn't make much sense, that might be why! Sorry. Please go back to Chapter 30 which now has the correct chapter.
[*]
Sasha swings open the gate to the prison yard when Carol rolls up in her brown sedan around noon the next day. DeShawn wouldn't let her borrow the farm truck again, not that she blames him, but it's also good to run the car every once in a while, she supposes. She had to top off the old sedan with gas. Fortunately, Garrison, who rarely uses his gas rations, was generously willing to trade her six gallons for the two bottles of milk she got this morning (the extra one to make up for the morning she was gone). That was just enough to get her to the prison, but now she's running on fumes again.
She parks the car inside the prison yard and switches off the engine. She can spy Tara in the watchtower. Jody, Patrick, and the food manager Robbie are at work in the gardens, while Tyreese and Karen are poking sharp sticks through the links in one of the fences to stab the walkers that are piling up there. Carol wonders why they don't just set up a pike-line like they have outside of Copper Creek. Maybe she'll suggest it.
When she, Sophia, and Oscar get out of the car, the heavy metal door at the side of the prison bangs open, and Carl comes running out, as though he's been watching from a window for their arrival. "Sophia!" he cries.
Sophia embraces him. It's an eager hug at first, but then Carl pulls awkwardly away, possibly because Sophia's developing in places she wasn't a year ago.
"You're a lot taller," Sophia says.
"So are you."
"I like the long hair. It's really braining."
"Braining?" Carl asks.
"It's like…awesome."
"Oh, braining. I like your darker hair."
Sophia's hair is slowly turning from strawberry blonde to more of a light auburn color. "I'm sorry about your dad."
"I guess you know what that's like," Carl says. "Since yours got bit."
Sophia shrugs. The truth is, Carol thinks, she doesn't much miss her father. "You got to keep his hat?"
Carl tips the worn brown deputy's hat up slightly on his head. "Yeah. And his revolver." He pats the butt of his gun in the holster.
"I just have the knife Daryl gave me." Sophia pats the sheath at her hip. She looks at Carol, "Can I carry a gun?"
"Uh…well, I just have the one. And I don't know what the rules are at Copper Creek about kids carrying guns."
"You have to be at least thirteen," Sophia informs her, "which I am, and pass the gun safety test, which I have, and the range accuracy test, which I will eventually. And your sponsor has to approve. And your parents if you have any. And then they issue you a handgun from the warehouse."
"Oh. Well, we'll discuss it when you pass the range accuracy test, then." Sophia's only been shooting for two weeks, after all. It took Carol months to kill a walker in less than three shots. Of course, she didn't have a firearms instructor out there on the road. She had to learn everything through trial and error.
"I have something of yours," Carl tells Sophia. He reaches behind his back, where Sophia's doll hangs wedged in his belt, and jerks the toy out before surprising Sophia with it.
"Pippina!" Sophia cries and grabs the doll and hugs it tightly, but stops abruptly and tries to look more nonchalant. She must think it's not very braining for a teenager to be excited about a doll. "How did you…?"
"You left it in the farmhouse, and I grabbed it." He laughs. "I don't know why." Carl doesn't tell her what he told Carol, that he wanted to save something of Sophia's if he couldn't save her.
"Well, thank you. I'm going to hold onto it forever. In case I ever see Eliza again."
"We're never going to see Eliza or Louis again," Carl says solemnly.
"How can you be so sure? You probably never thought you'd see me again."
Carl smiles. "Yeah. So…you want to come in? Meet my baby brother? See Glenn?"
Sophia begins to follow him, saying, "Can we play some poker?"
Meanwhile, Carol pops open the trunk of her sedan to grab her pack. Sasha strolled back to them after closing the gate and is now peering in the rear windows of the car.
"You're not going to cut up my car seats, too, are you?" Carol asks.
"Just checking if you got any loot on the way. Sorry about that, by the way."
"We went to a lot of trouble to get that furniture, you know."
"And we went to a lot of trouble to save your friend," Sasha reminds her.
"Don't hold it against Sasha too much," Oscar insists. "The Governor started his attack by sending us a big cardboard box full of food. He said he didn't consider the defectors traitors anymore, and that was his good will offering. Except there wasn't food inside, there was a bomb. And that's how Big Tiny died."
"Oh. I see." Carol turns to Sasha. "But you trust I'm not trying to blow up your camp now?"
Sasha shrugs. "You don't appear to be." She peers in the open trunk. "Loot?"
"One box is ours," Oscar tells her, "and one is Carol's. We broke into some trunks of abandoned cars while we were trying to siphon gas. No luck with the gas, but - " He waves to the cardboard boxes. "Someone was clearning out the pantry before running."
Carol's box contains a cannister of grits, a cannister of oatmeal, three bags of uncooked rice, four bags of dried beans, a jar of honey, a 3-liter box of wine, two large bags of beef jerky, a jar of chicken bouillon cubes, four cans of vegetables, a cannister of salt, and a jar of peanut butter. The peanut butter is iffy. The commercial variety can potentially last up to twenty-four months, but it can also spoil within nine. She notices Sasha eyeing the jerky. "I'll give you both bags of jerky for six gallons of gas." That should be enough to get them back to Copper Creek, and she knows the prison camp has three hundred gallons of regular gasoline in storage, not to mention all their diesel.
Sasha laughs. "One gallon."
Carol never thought she'd go for it, but the lowball offer gives her room to negotiate. "The jerky, two bags of rice, and one bag of beans for six gallons."
"The jerky, the oatmeal, the grits, two bags of rice, two bags of beans, and the wine."
"I thought Bob had an issue with alcohol."
"That doesn't mean the rest of us do," Sasha replies. "And he can control himself now. He doesn't sneak it. He's been sober four months."
"That's three whole liters of wine. I'll agree if I can keep the grits." Daryl loves grits, and she planned to claim that for her finder's fee.
"I'll discuss it with the council at our meeting tonight," Sasha tells her. Then she nods to Oscar, who is slinging his pack on his back. "How'd it go?"
"I agreed to twice a month meetings for trade and information exchange. I'll be the representative."
"That's for the council to decide," Sasha tells him. "Glenn and Maggie are probably going to want to visit Carol. And you can't all three be out at the same time."
"Trust me, Isabella is going to want me to be the trade representative. Glenn and Maggie can take turns joining me."
"And maybe you can bring Carl with you to see Sophia, if Lori agrees?" Carol suggests. "Sophia could teach him to ride a horse while he's visiting. You might capture one someday. And you have to think of the future. That will be your best transport when all the gas spoils."
"The council will discuss it," Sasha assures her.
[*]
Carol goes straight to the infirmary once she goes inside the prison, eager to see Daryl, but he's not there. His pack is there, leaned in a corner, and his crossbow, too, leaned against the foot of his bed. His handgun is sitting on the end table by an empty plastic cup. His boots are there, too, so wherever he's gone, he's gone barefoot. Unless he's simply gone. Bob did say things could change on a dime, just when someone seems out of the water. The thought strikes in her a sudden sense of panic, and she goes careening into the hallway. She looks left and then right and then starts walking.
She winds her way past empty cell blocks, including one that has a calendar counting the number of days "without an accident" (it's been 97, apparently), one that has a crib (that must be Lori's, and Carl is in his own cell next to it, she can guess from the size of the clothes left hanging on the back of the desk chair), and several more cells with privacy curtains drawn down. She peers into the window of the gym and sees Shumpert at work there on the heavy bag before she moves on anxiously.
As she rounds a corner, she almost runs smack into Axel. "Whoa!" Axel says. "Hey, Carol. Why the hurry?"
"Have you seen Daryl?"
"Umm…your friend who was shot? I assume he's in the infirmary."
"He's not."
"Sorry, don't even know what he looks like."
She moves quickly around him and on down the hall, with no particular idea where she's going. And then she hears it – the sound of Daryl's laughter – drifting out of the open door of the library. She walks faster, peers inside, and finds him sitting in a chair by one of the tables, with RJ in his lap. He's now wearing a white t-shirt and a pair of borrowed gray sweatpants that are long enough to cover his bare heels. The baby is leaned back against Daryl's right shoulder and toying with his little left ear as if sleepy.
Five kids under twelve sit cross-legged on the library floor. Carol remembers their names from her dinner canvassing – Luke, Owen, Meghan, Eryn, and Norris. All five faces are turned up at the 26" television perched on a cart stand, the same kind of carts teachers used to wheel out to show documentaries when Carol was in high school. Only back then, they were showing VHS tapes, and there appears to be a DVD player connected to this ancient television. A Simpsons episode plays on the screen, and Daryl is laughing right along with the children. Beth is nowhere to be seen.
RJ, as he dozes off, bangs his head back against Daryl's chest, right where his stitches are, and Daryl hisses in pain. "Watch it, buddy!" He grabs the six-month old by one foot and drags him sideways across his lap as he catches him in a football cradle with one arm. RJ cries. Daryl reaches over and, with one hand, unzips the insulated lunch bag that rests atop the circular table, pulls out a bottle, and shoves it in the fussing babies mouth. RJ sucks happily.
Carol comes inside the library and eases down in an empty chair next to Daryl. He gives her a lopsided smile when he sees her, and that greeting makes her heart twist just a little. "Did they make you the babysitter?" she asks.
"Nah. Got bored, went roaming, heard the kids singing. Joined the class. Then told Beth I'd cover for 'er while she went and took a leak."
"In your condition, you probably shouldn't be picking up a twenty-pound baby. No heavy objects, remember?"
The little curly headed boy, Luke, turns around and says, "Shh! Mr. Dixon says if you talk during the educational video, you're gonna be sorry!"
"She's allowed," Daryl tells him, and Luke turns his face back to the screen.
Carol chuckles. "The educational video, huh? Did you choose this?"
"Saw Sophia," he says. "Carl brought 'er to meet RJ. Then they went to the cafeteria for lunch."
RJ fusses and pulls away from the bottle. "Hey, what's your problem?" Daryl asks, and RJ fusses more loudly.
"I think he needs to be burped," Carol tells him. "May I?"
Daryl relinquishes the baby to her. RJ is heavy for a six-month-old, a good twenty pounds, she estimates. She holds him upright against her shoulder and rubs his back gently until he lets out a little burp.
"Nice work, little man," Daryl tells him. "Ain't ready for the belching contest quite yet, though. I can do better." And then Daryl works up and lets out a loud belch.
Luke, Owen, and Eryn laugh, while Meghan cries, "Ewww!" and Norris continues to keep his eyes glued to the screen. RJ, who now stands his feet planted on Carol's leg while she holds him up by his waist, turns his head and looks at Daryl in wide-eyed wonder.
Beth comes through the library door now, exclaims, "Daryl, I said to put on the US History for Kids video! She paces between two children and shuts the television off, to a chorus of plaintive "Ohhhhh!"s.
"Hell you talking 'bout?" Daryl asks. "That is American history. The Simpsons is a television classic. Was airing it's 21st season when the world ended. Became the longest-running American television series that year! Beat out Gunsmoke!"
Beth sighs. "I left you alone with them for fifteen minutes."
"Don't have a cow, man!" Luke shouts.
Beth glares at him.
"Sorry, ma'am," he backpedals.
Beth backpedals a little, too. "Thanks for watching them." She comes over and takes RJ from Carol. "But I've got it covered now." Beth carries RJ off on her hip to the TV stand and, holding him in one arm, ejects The Simpson disc, which she replaces with another DVD.
Now Lilly comes into the library. "There you are," she says to Daryl. "I stopped by to change your dressing and saw you'd bused out."
"Hi, Mommy!" Meghan says and waves.
"Hey, sweetie," Lilly calls back. "We need to get that changed," she insists to Daryl. "I need to check for any oozing, and you need to keep the area dry for another twenty-four hours."
"Fine," Daryl mutters. He stands, winces, and puts a hand on the head of the chair for support.
Carol stands with him and puts a hand on the small of his back. "You all right?"
"It's just a flesh wound," Owen says in a terrible British accent.
"Did you show them Monty Python, too?" Carol asks.
"Nah, but I would of if the library had it."
Carol goes with Daryl back to the infirmary, where he sits on his bed and Lilly helps him out of his shirt, Daryl wincing the whole time. The nurse doesn't seem to care about his lashes. To Lilly, they're probably apocalyptic scars. Carol, however, feels a flash of anger at Daryl's father, which she swallows as she assists Lilly with changing Daryl's dressing. She can't help but admire Daryl's bare chest as she does so. She'd love to trail her fingers over his flesh, she thinks, trace the sinews of his shoulders with a fingertip, kiss him right at the base of his neck where – Stop it, she tells herself.
"Have you eaten, Carol?" Lilly asks.
Carol shakes her head.
"Then maybe you can take Daryl to the cafeteria to get some lunch. They're still serving, I think. I'd have it brought here, but he's not going to sit still all day even if I tell him to." She gives Daryl a scolding look. "But after lunch, it's time to come back here for your meds. We have to stay ahead of the pain. And put on some socks, for goodness sakes. These prison halls are not the most sanitary surface. In fact, I should probably wash your feet."
"I'll do it," Carol tells her.
"There's washcloths under the sink," Lilly tells her before she leaves the infirmary. "Have him take two of those pills"—she points to a bottle next to the cup on his nightstand, "after lunch."
After Lilly slips out the door, Daryl says, "You ain't gonna wash my feet."
"Yes, I am. Even Jesus wasn't too proud to let his disciples wash his feet," she tells him as she goes to the sink and turns on the hot and cold water.
"You got that backward. Jesus wasn't too proud to wash his disciple's feet."
"So then I'm Jesus in this scenario?" asks Carol, looking back at him with a smile.
"Pfft."
When she comes over to the bed with a wet, warm soapy washcloth, he takes it from her hand, saying, "Can do it m'self," but when he tries to lift up his leg to cross it over his knee to reach his left foot, the twisting movement causes pain to shoot through his wound, and he let's out an "Ahhh!" His leg slips back down.
Carol takes the washcloth from him. "Just let me." She moves a chair in front of his bed, sits in it, and then raises his leg so his foot is almost in her lap before she begins gently scrubbing the sole. As she cleans his foot, she tells him Oscar worked out a truce with Jefe. She also tells him what she overheard Oscar and Garrison saying on the porch.
"You sound fucking delighted to tell me," he says. "Like a little small-town gossip."
"I'm just glad it means she won't be chasing you anymore," Carol admits.
"Jefe never chased me."
"She propositioned you. And she's clearly attracted to you."
"She ain't made a pass since I turned 'er down."
"Well, I'm happy for her. She could use a little unwinding. Maybe she'll be less uptight if she's getting some twice a month."
Daryl swallows. "You ain't uptight," he says, and she wonders if he thinks she was hinting that she needs sex soon.
"No, right now I'm very relaxed just being here with you, seeing you alive and healing up." She wiggles his big toe and then resumes her washing. The cloth is soon dark with dirt, so she goes to ring out the dirt, add more soap, and then returns. He chews on his perpetual thumbnail as he watches her take his other foot into her lap and begin her efforts. He closes his eyes at one point, apparently enjoying the sensation. When Carol's done with that foot, she washes the cloth one last time and comes back for a final wipe-over to get off any lingering soap.
As she slides the cloth up to his ankle in one last gentle sweep over his right foot, she teases, "You have big feet. You know what they say about a man with big feet."
"Stahp." He pulls his foot away.
"So it's not true?"
"You got a ruler on ya? Want me to drop drawers?" What if she said yes? "I wear a size ten and a half. That's about average for a man."
"But is it a ten-and-half wide?" Carol asks.
He snorts.
She stands to return the cloth to the sink, but as she does, she can't help but let her eyes dip below his waist. The light gray sweatpants leave less to the imagination than his heavy, dark charcoal Wranglers did, and now she finds herself flushing as she wrings out the washcloth. "We should get you some lunch," she says, and then she brings him the socks Lilly left rolled in a ball on the counter. Carol helps him to pull the socks on so he won't have to lean over enough to pain himself. She bends to do it, and when she looks up, she finds him looking down, possibly down her shirt. He turns his head away.
"I was worried," she says quietly as she lets a hand come to rest on his hip. "When I came to the infirmary and you were gone, I was afraid maybe you'd taken a turn for the worse and…" She laughs slightly, because it seems ridiculous now that he should have died suddenly. "Anyway, I'm glad you're safe."
"Glad you're safe, too," he murmurs. "Was worried 'bout you out there on the road."
"Yeah?" she asks.
"Little bit."
She helps him back into the large, clean white T-shirt they gave him to wear. Her fingers brush the bare flesh of his left shoulder while she does, perhaps not unintentionally, and she thinks she feels a little jolt in his muscles, whether from desire or instinctive defense, she doesn't know. She steps back once he's dressed. "You ready for lunch?"
"Ain't ya gonna…you know?" He ducks his head at murmurs, "Kiss me hello?"
Maybe Dr. Eastman was right. If she's patient, maybe he'll make a shy move here and there until he gradually grows bolder. Maybe he'll become confident that his desires are good and beautiful, and not at all a dirty thing.
She puts a finger under his chin to tilt his head up and then leans in to kiss him. He must have brushed his teeth this morning because he tastes minty, but there's a hint of tobacco, too, so at some point he probably snuck out for a cigarette. His lips are chapped, but there's a warmth and softness in his kiss that overcomes the rough feel of them, and then when his tongue, all tinged with smoky mint, tangles with hers, she can't help but gasp. When she gasps, he moans against her mouth and then pulls back abruptly. "Sorry," he mutters.
"For what?" she asks.
"I…nothing I guess."
"Nothing at all," she reassures him, but she doesn't try to resume the kiss. Instead, she kisses his forehead. "You hungry?"
"Starving." He slides from the bed onto the floor in his yellow-stocking feet.
Before they get to the door, though, Oscar swings it open and hands Daryl a pair of slippers. "They're mine. You know, for end-of-the-day relaxing. But Lilly said I should share." He leaves them in Daryl's hands and heads back out.
"I ain't wearing slippers like an old man."
"Just put them on. They'll keep your socks clean."
Daryl sighs, drops them on the floor, and begins to slip one on, but Oscar must have really big feet, because it's too large for Daryl. He kicks the slipper off. "Don't say a word," he warns Carol, who chuckles as she follows him out the door.