AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
Her baby girl was sleeping.
Her baby girl was sleeping peacefully.
Carol stayed in bed, beside Sophia, long after the girl had drifted off to sleep and had even passed over the threshold into the deeper sleep where next to nothing could wake her. Carol wondered how long it had been since Sophia had slept that deeply. She wondered how long it had been since she'd felt safe and secure enough to let go of the world entirely and just sleep with abandon. She could sleep like that now. She was safe. The house was safe. The fences around it were secure against Walkers, and Carol never let them pile up enough to be much of a threat to the integrity of it, anyway. If anything were to somehow make it through all of that, it would have to get through Daryl and Carol, both, to reach Sophia.
Carol felt a swelling in her heart at the thought. There was nothing, she was confident, that could get through the both of them. Personally, she would never, ever, let anything hurt her baby girl again—not if she could help it, and she was much more prepared, now, to help it than she had been when she'd lost Sophia.
Carol carefully touched Sophia's face with the pads of her fingertips. She barely let them connect, not wanting to wake her. She remembered touching her face like that so many times before—when she was newly-born and sleeping for the first time in Carol's arms, and Carol had hardly been able to believe that she was real and she'd been blessed with this amazingly important job of being her mommy, when she was a small child, and she would cry over Ed's actions and the results of those actions, and Carol would finally get her to sleep with promises that things weren't as bad or as scary as she thought they were, when she would fall asleep peacefully while Carol read her stories and snuggled with her in bed on the nights when there was precious peace in their home, when they'd been at the CDC, and Carol had held her and promised her that they were safe and everything was going to be OK in more ways than they had ever imagined before, and Sophia had drifted off with that promise.
"It's all going to be OK now, my baby," Carol whispered, her voice nothing more than the quietest release of breath. She swallowed against the lump in her throat that had ached through most of the day—rising out of happiness for what she had now and the sadness she felt over all that she'd lost and all that she'd missed. "It's all going to be OK. Mommy's here. Mommy's—always going to be here. She loves you, baby. She loves you…so much."
Sophia didn't stir. She was asleep, and the only movement from her was the slow rising and falling of her chest with her breath. Occasionally, her eyes moved and her eyelids fluttered, but Carol was sure that was her body moving through the different cycles of sleep.
Carol became aware of the exhaustion of her own body. She kissed Sophia carefully, delicately, by barely brushing her lips against her daughter's cheek and forehead. She eased out of the bed and took one last look at her sleeping daughter—waiting, just in case Sophia opened her eyes, like she had sometimes done as a child, and said "wait, Mommy…just a little longer…"
Sophia didn't wake, though, and Carol didn't linger too long. She blew out the lamp, eased out of the bedroom, and closed the door behind her with such care that it barely made a sound.
Carol expected to find the living room dark. She expected to find Daryl asleep on the couch—since he insisted that Henry's room, although empty, be left empty for him. She expected to slip through the darkness to the bedroom she called her own, and she expected to fall asleep in the sometimes-suffocating silence of the night.
Instead, when she slipped into the living room from the tiny hallway that housed the two bedrooms and their small shared bathroom, she found the lamp burning on the coffee table. She found Daryl sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette, staring at the lamp's flame like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
"Did you fall asleep with your eyes open again?" Carol teased.
She was, honestly, surprised to hear her own voice. She'd said the words before her brain really caught up with the fact that she was dedicated to saying them and they were more than just a passing thought. She smiled. There had been many times, through many years, that they had teased each other about not sleeping, and they had teased each other about learning to sleep with their eyes open.
Daryl jumped almost imperceptibly. He loudly sucked in a breath, and then he stretched. He smiled at her—a quick smile that then settled into the soft little smile that sometimes lingered on his lips when he was just watching her and waiting for her to do something to entertain him.
"Was just thinking," he said. His voice was thick. If Carol didn't know he hadn't been asleep, she might have thought her original assessment was correct. On second thought, though, she realized that she'd been in Sophia's room for a while, and Daryl's voice hadn't been used in that time. He'd been entirely silent, as though he wanted to make sure that he did nothing to disturb the sanctity of their time together.
"Looked like some pretty serious thinking," Carol said. Daryl patted the couch as a way of inviting her to sit instead of standing somewhat awkwardly. Part of her mind and body cried out for sleep. She hadn't slept the night before and, honestly, there was a part of her that hadn't slept well in years—a part that felt like it could sleep, tonight, with Sophia safe in the house and all the levels of defense against the world that she knew were there and in place.
The other part of Carol's mind, though, wanted to sit with Daryl, and she decided that at least a moment or two couldn't hurt.
Carol sat down on the couch and immediately sank into comfort. The couch, itself, was not that comfortable. It was a well-worn couch and, because of that, wasn't entirely uncomfortable, but it wasn't the most comfortable couch she'd ever imagined.
The comfort came from her surroundings. The comfort came from the feeling of the still house, the knowledge that Sophia slept soundly in the other room, the knowledge that she would sleep safely in her own bed here—the first bed, in a long time, where she'd felt some freedom to simply be without expectation—and from the feeling of the man sitting next to her.
For many years, Carol had trusted Daryl to be her friend, confidant, and companion. She had trusted him to tell her the truth, even when it hurt, and she didn't want to hear it. She had trusted him to be there, to ground her, and to pull her back from every edge she ever approached and, at least tentatively, peered over.
She sighed at the comfort that washed over her.
"Wanna talk about it?" She asked.
"What?"
"Whatever you were thinking?"
Carol held his eyes in the dim light of the lamp burning on the table. He stared at her. He always looked at her so deeply—like he could see straight down into her soul through her eyes. He chewed his lip. She waited, giving him time and space to say whatever was on his mind. She could practically see it churning there, but she couldn't quite pull it out of him on her own. After a moment, he shook his head very quickly.
"No," he said, relaxing. She hadn't realized he had tensed until she noticed his body letting go of everything.
"You can tell me," Carol said. "Whatever it is."
"Don't worry about it," Daryl said, dismissively.
"Come on," Carol said, sensing that there was truly something on his mind. She smiled at him, hoping that might reassure him. "What is it?"
He stared at her again—a long, long moment—and then he shook his head again.
"Don't matter," he said. "It's nothing."
"Looks like something," Carol said.
"OK," he said. "Then—maybe not right now."
He reached to the side table and pulled a cigarette from the small plastic bag he carried where he kept the cigarettes he rolled daily. Carol knew he liked to have something to do with his hands, especially when he had a lot on his mind, and he clearly needed it to replace the one he'd snubbed out just before Carol had sat next to him.
"OK, suit yourself," Carol said. She picked at the edge of the couch cushion and recognized, in herself, the same need to keep her hands busy, especially when there was so much inside of her that she felt unable to organize it all, but she also felt so exhausted that she didn't have the strength to even begin to try.
"How does it feel?" Daryl asked.
Carol brought her eyes back to his and hummed in question.
"What?" She asked.
"Sophia," Daryl said. "Havin' her back."
Carol's chest tightened. Her throat tightened, too. These were two sensations that she'd felt since she first closed her daughter in her arms again and felt the primal calling out of her soul in thanks for the blessing she had received. She smiled at Daryl. She felt the smile—the pure happiness—but the expression wasn't easy to produce because she also felt the tears that she'd been slowly leaking all day at intervals.
"I couldn't begin to put it into words," she admitted.
Daryl smiled. It was that tight-lipped smile again.
Daryl had tried so hard to find Sophia. He'd wanted to find her. He'd believed that they would. He'd believed that he would bring her back to Carol, and they would all go on together. His belief had kept Carol from crumbling, honestly. It had helped her hold it together long enough to actually deal with her feelings—at least as much as she'd ever truly dealt with them. He had given her strength when she'd needed it most.
And, when they had finally accepted that Sophia was gone and they'd never see her again, his anger had been refreshing to Carol. She had been angry. She'd been hurt. And so had he. He had been disappointed. He'd felt like he failed at something he'd tried to do. He was tender-hearted—something she loved about him—and he had hurt for the loss of her little girl. He had reacted to all of that with anger, and Carol had appreciated it. She'd appreciated his feelings. Somehow, they validated her own.
At least, she had thought back then, someone had cared for her daughter—no matter how briefly—besides herself. It was further proof, perhaps, that Sophia had really lived.
"It's wonderful," Carol said. "It's—it's incredible."
"It is incredible," Daryl agreed.
"It's—like a dream," Carol said. "I admit that—I'm almost afraid to go to sleep. I'm almost afraid that I'll wake up, and she won't be here, and this will all be a dream."
"Ain't no dream," Daryl said. "It's real. She's real. Just as real as you and me. And—you oughta sleep. You won't be no good to her if you make yourself sick not sleeping."
Carol smiled at the simple softness of those words and the obvious sincerity behind them.
"I am tired," Carol admitted.
"You look it," Daryl said. "No offense, I mean…but…"
Carol sighed and leaned against him. She settled back into the couch. There was a time, back when Sophia had first been lost, when he would have likely flinched away from something like this. Instead, now, he seemed to lean into her a bit. He was constant, comfortable—and Carol closed her eyes with a sigh.
"I can't thank you enough for finding her," Carol said.
"She found me, truth be told," Daryl said.
Carol laughed quietly to herself. No matter what, he would refuse praise.
"But you brought her back to me," Carol said.
"What the hell else would I do?" Daryl asked.
Carol laughed again and dared to rub her cheek against his shoulder, rooting into him a little. He didn't move, but he didn't pull away at all, either.
"Just take my thanks, Daryl," Carol said. "Please."
"Fine," he said. "You're welcome. It's just—weren't nothin' that nobody else wouldn't do."
"But they didn't do it," Carol said. "Nobody did. Just you."
He seemed to accept that. He didn't try to deny it again.
"You oughta—close your eyes," Daryl said. "Try to get some sleep."
"My eyes are already closed," Carol said, laughing quietly. "I just—can't seem to find the energy yet to…get up. Go somewhere. Make it to the bed."
Daryl laughed quietly in response. Carol's body shifted as his did. He wasn't leaving her. He wasn't pushing her away. She rocked with him as he got more comfortable and, in response, she felt more comfortable—as though they could share comfort.
"There ain't no rush," Daryl offered quietly. "Stay right there, as long as you want."
Carol smiled to herself, brushed her cheek against his shoulder once more, and accepted his suggestion quietly.