Chapter 18: Touch Me

Carol examined the half-crumbled brick walls of the roofless ruin, trying to find the best place for a campfire. She could hear Maggie and Glenn making out on the other side of the wall, which was unfortunately the best fire placement. Those two were the loudest kissers she'd ever heard. A lot of saliva was being exchanged. Measurable volumes of saliva. They must like each other a lot to put up with that.

"Hey." Daryl's rumbly greeting came from just over her shoulder.

A smile lit her face. "Hunting must be good today. It's still light out and you're back."

"Yup. Wanna help me skin some possums?" He held up three by their leathery tails.

"Do I ever!"

He looked suspicious.

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, toward the sound of muted moans and smooching.

Daryl grunted. "Again?"

"Always."

He walked over, kicked the wall, and hollered, "Walkers!"

Behind the wall, cursing and zipping ensued, as well as the racked slide of an automatic pistol. Carol stifled her laugh as she followed Daryl away into the forest.

"That was some very bad karma."

"Bad what?"

"Nothing. Just…you know what they say about the man who cries walker."

He snorted. "Nothin'. Just wait five minutes and one'll wander in. Goddamn miracle Glenn hasn't already gotten a chunk out of his ass, messin' round with Maggie all over the woods, not payin' attention." He snuck a sidelong look at Carol. "Shot one for 'em once."

She gave a little wave to Lori by the trucks, so they'd notice where she went and not worry. "What do you mean?"

"When they's fuckin'."

Carol exploded out in laughter, clapping her hands over her mouth before she drew in walkers. "What?! Were you watching?"

"No! I was just huntin', heard moaning and thought…well, I didn't think it was people, that's all. But after I saw 'em, a walker was comin' up so I shot it and then I took off. Had to go back and get my bolt after dark, which was a pain in the balls—ass, I mean."

"I'm not really sure pain in the ass counts as cleaning up your language," she said dryly. "But I appreciate the effort."

"Quit."

"Where the hell are the walkers?" Glenn complained from back in camp. "Dammit, Daryl!"

Daryl chuckled soundlessly. "Walk faster or he's gonna come out here and whine at us real good."

"Perish the thought. Glenn does a good whining when he puts his mind to it."

He harumphed his agreement. "Last week I had 'im going for a good forty minutes."

"About the worms again?"

"Nah. Told him there was a special kind of chigger that jumps into your short and curlies if you take out your pecker in the woods. Had him pissing in the middle of the road for a week. Then Maggie went and tol' him I was lying." Daryl scratched the back of his head. "He was pretty mad."

"Again, karma. Someday all your messing with Glenn is going to come back on you."

"I done already had chiggers in my short and curlies. He oughta be thanking me for the tip."

She burst out laughing at his blunt declaration. His face lightened and he slung an arm around her.

She stumbled a step and stole a glance at him. He kept his arm there but walked very carefully, all three possums dangling from his other hand. She wasn't entirely sure he was breathing. She reached up and squeezed his hand, smiling so he'd know it was okay.

It was a little awkward walking over the rough terrain of the forest with his arm over her shoulder, but he kept it there even when it slipped and rubbed oddly. She tried to remember what they'd been talking about and couldn't. Then she felt odd walking so passively at his side, so she put an arm around his waist, slipping it under his jacket. His waist was always slimmer than she expected, for such a solidly-built man.

He jerked, his abs contracting. She started to pull away and he clamped his arm harder around her shoulder, his fingers grinding against her joint for a second before he modulated his grip.

" 'S all right," he rumbled.

She settled her hand around him, letting it ride very lightly above the flex of his hip, her fingers safe behind the hilt of his knife. She almost laughed when she realized she was holding her breath now.

"What?" he asked.

She must have made a sound, or let slip some little change of expression. He didn't miss much, especially lately. She shook her head. They were like a couple of awkward, hormone-drunk teenagers, but if she said that, he'd blush and get all snappy and she didn't want to go there. This was nice.

But of course, because this world was incapable of letting happiness last for long, they reached the stream a few steps later.

"Here?" she asked reluctantly.

"Yup." He slung the game onto the ground and let her go. "You ever cleaned a possum afore?"

"No. You usually bring them back to camp cleaned out." She glanced around. "So the blood won't draw walkers, right?"

"Mm-hmm." He pulled off one of the pieces of string he kept wound around his belt, made a slit around the possum's back leg, and tied the string through it. She grabbed one of the other ones and did the same. Daryl didn't usually talk when he was teaching her something, unless he had something to add that she couldn't see by watching him.

She held her hand out for a piece of string and he untangled a second, a little bare slice of his stomach showing as he fumbled with his belt. Warmth spiraled through her belly and she looked away.

Daryl slung the strings over a branch and slit the throats of the possums, letting their blood drain out onto the leaves. She blinked and turned to stare at the stream, watching the clear water and trying to forget how the man's throat had looked when she rammed her knife up under his jaw. How the blood had gushed out all hot and red with life. So unlike the black, congealed walker blood.

"Sorry," Daryl said. "Didn't think."

She cleared her throat and reached for the third possum, slitting its hind leg. "It's nothing."

"Ain't nothin'."

She smiled faintly. "It's nothing all of us haven't had to learn to live with, how about that?" She used the back of her wrist to push little tickling strands of hair off her forehead and glanced up at him. "There's better and worse moments, but I'm okay."

"You keep sayin'." He stood there, hands hanging at his sides like he wasn't sure what to do with them.

"I keep saying because you keep hovering. String?"

He set to untangling a third piece of string off his belt.

"Can I ask you a question?" she said.

"Mm-hmm."

She smiled. She liked the little sounds he made, how he had thirty different ways to rumble, and how clearly they all made sense to her. The way she could tell the footsteps of a fox from a possum now, without even looking into the trees. It was a language she'd just sort of settled into in her new life.

Daryl's eyes warmed, looked hesitant but pleased. He passed her the string. "Smilin' a lot."

"Am I?"

He nodded. Kicked at the leaves. Pulled his crossbow off his back and checked the bolt, the string, slung it back over his shoulder. He coughed a little. "What's the question?"

A little pang darkened her mood, but it took more than a conversation to scare her, these days. She held her hand out. It was streaked with possum blood, but so was his. He looked at it, looked at her. Slowly, he put his hand in hers. Even then, he checked her expression as he did it, like he thought it must be a trick.

"That," she said. She held onto his hand for a long moment, then squeezed his blood-sticky fingers before she let them drop. "You hardly touched me, before those men tried to take me. I keep thinking about why that changed things, and I didn't like any of the answers I came up with."

He shifted. "Seemed like…seemed like it cheered you up, that's all. Don't mean nothin' by it. I'll stop, if ya want me to."

She squinted at him. She'd been thinking it was a testosterone thing, staking his territory. The way Ed had never put his arm around her unless he thought another man was looking her way. She exhaled a little unsteady laugh.

Daryl's face twisted, and he scowled at the possums. "Stupid. Sorry. I ain't good at cheering people up."

"No, that's not why I was laughing. Sometimes I still believe the worst in people." She smiled. "It's nice to be wrong."

He flicked a glance at her.

"It did cheer me up," she clarified. "I just wasn't sure why you hadn't done it before. Before those men, I mean."

His mouth twitched and he started to cut open a possum. She stepped up next to him and started on the second, making sure her knife was clean from her last walker kill.

"Don't cut deep," he said. "Just the skin. You nick the guts, gets all nasty in there. Spoils the meat."

She nodded and they slit open the animals. She grimaced a little as she reached in to pull out the guts, but the task seemed to relax Daryl, because his voice was easier when he said, "I ain't good at all that. Touchin's not what people do, where I'm from." He reached over, pointed with the tip of his knife to show her where to cut to detach the intestines. "Maybe it's 'cause the world ended, or just 'cause we got a lotta women, but our group's always been all touchy. I ain't never been a part of that, though. Don't know how it all works." He wiped his face with the sleeve of his jacket, frowned at the possum. "I mean, you cain't lay hands on any girl that ain't yours. But the guys round here, Shane and Rick, Dale and Glenn, they…they got all their own rules." He grunted, sounding frustrated. "Merle and me, we weren't never like that. Hugs and shit. He'd have knocked me on my ass for being a homo."

"Well, Merle's not here. And I don't think anybody has any doubts about your sexuality." She tried to slip her knife under the skin of the possum the way he did, but just ended up shredding it. She made a face, tried again. "I think you could be a part of it, if you wanted to. You always stand apart, like you'd take the hand off somebody that tried to get too close."

His cheek twitched and he pulled the rest of the skin off the possum with one long rip. "I know I's jumpy sometimes. Don't mean to be." He flicked the skin onto the ground, took a glance around for walkers. "Just…in my house, you knew when a punch was coming. But when my old man touched me and it wasn't with his fist, that was when I knew the real bad shit was coming down."

Carol's eyes flared and she was very, very careful not to look over. She had the idea his upbringing had been rough, but she hadn't known it went beyond hitting.

Daryl shook his head. "So sometimes, people go grabbing at me, feels bad. Real bad for a second."

"Daryl, why…" She dropped her hand to her side, her face falling. "I must have been making you miserable, the last few weeks. Holding onto you the way I've been. Why didn't you tell me? Why did you let me do that?"

He looked up, surprised. "Not you. Different, when it's you." He tried to smile. His cheek moved differently, so she could tell he was making the effort, his eyes flicking from the forest floor to her face and back again. " 'S nice."

She bit her lip, trying really hard not to tear up, not to make a big deal out of this. He was trusting her so much, talking to her this way. She nodded. "Okay." She reached for him and stopped before she got his jacket sleeve bloody. His face went stiff and blank when she stopped, and she held up her red-streaked hand. "Sorry. I'm all possum-y."

He chuffed out a laugh and she did, too, going back to her work. He moved around her to work on the third possum while she tried to catch up.

"Just so you know," she said. "I wouldn't have minded if you didn't wait until I got kidnapped before you held my hand."

"Didn't think you'd want a guy like me pawing at you." He slit the last possum open with one deft stroke, and dug his hand inside without a trace of hesitation. "Merle was always touching on women, just to see who'd let him and who'd slap his hands away." He shook his head, chewed his lip. Shook his head again. "Didn't sit right with me."

"You're not Merle."

He finished the third possum, glanced at her, then took over skinning hers. "I know."

"No," she said. "Sometimes I don't think you do. And more than that, nobody in the group thinks you are, either. It's why they wanted you to stay." She laughed. "I think Rick just about shed a tear when you pulled up on the motorcycle after the farm burned."

Daryl whacked the legs off all three possums, leaving one leg on each and tying them all to the same string for easy carrying. "Yeah, 'cause he cain't hunt worth a shit. He was seeing a whole life o' canned tomatoes passing before his eyes."

She laughed. "He relies on you, yes. For more than hunting. And I think, after Shane, it meant a lot to him to have another man he could trust to back him up." She walked down to the stream to wash up. "And I think, if you don't want to be on the sidelines of the group, you don't have to be."

She pushed her hands into the frigid water, the clear liquid rippling around her wrists and carrying away the tinge of red.

Daryl squatted next to her and rinsed quickly, stealing sideways glances.

She winked. "Or maybe I'm just saying that to get my hands on your possums." She turned, enjoying his quiet laugh as she went to pick up the possums.

They walked back to camp, quiet, like they were a lot of the time. The group came with so much chatter, she didn't mind a break sometimes, and she knew he didn't.

Rick was standing outside the busted down wall when they got back. "Nice haul, today," he said, looking at the possums.

Daryl nodded, and as he passed, he slapped Rick on the shoulder. Then rebounded with a weak pat. Then latched on with too strong of a squeeze. Carol cringed, watching.

Rick's mouth fell open and his brow furrowed. Daryl backed up, his shoulders tightening the way they did before he threw a punch.

Carol stepped between them with a bright smile. "You know, I've been meaning to ask, where'd you learn to work on motorcycles?"

Daryl glared. "Chop shop," he spat out, still eyeing Rick warily.

"Really?" She frowned. "Doesn't seem like that would teach you how to fix them. Did Merle run a chop shop?"

"My cousin had one. Learned to take everything apart. Figured out later, if you turn that 'round backwards, that's how everything goes together." He glanced at Carol. "Got shit to do."

He stalked off, but Rick caught him with a firm pat on his back as he went. "Thanks for dinner."

Daryl's steps hesitated for a second. He grunted, and then kept on going.

Carol allowed Rick a smile, because she might have punched him straight in the mouth if he'd have messed that up.

Then she looked after Daryl, her eyes following the wings on his vest. Her heart grew bigger and bigger inside her chest as she thought about the chop shop story. That's exactly what he'd been doing in the months since Merle left. Taking everything his childhood had ever taught him, and turning it inside out to find the right way to live.

And just like everything Daryl set his mind to, he was doing it roughly, but very, very well.

Author's Note: I had to watch four videos of possum skinning on YouTube for this chapter. You're welcome.

Up next, Daryl and Carol's first "date"