Daryl tried not to make a single sound as he crept down from his perch. He made his way past Merle's cell. His brother was breathing heavily, borderline snoring. He was asleep. Daryl tried to strain his vision to see if Carol was still in her cell. It was far too dark to tell.

The hallways were just black tunnels. His sense of direction was good enough, but he hoped Carol hadn't lost her way. He hadn't explored much further down and she was likely unarmed.

He found the entrance easy enough and was relieved when he noticed the glass window embedded in the wooden door held a soft, orangey glow. He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and, with a slight push, pushed it open. Carol looked up at him, a glass bottle lingering at her lips and a faint scent of alcohol in the air.

"Hello, dear," she smiled, taking a swig from the bottle. She resisted the urge to make a face at the overpowering, bitter flavor it harbored. "How was your day?"

"Jus' swell." he growled, receiving the bottle and savoring the strong taste. The whiskey burned a pleasant, hot trail down his throat and on his tongue. "Where the hell'd you get this?"

"I have my sources," she replied, albeit grimly. She hadn't expected Daryl to sound so pissed off, like asking him to spend some time with her was a chore. With Merle out and about, it was very unlikely they'd ever get moments alone again—at least not very many. She wanted to enjoy every minute she spent with him. She wouldn't be able to do that if he was going to act bitter. "What's wrong with you?'

"Hell, I dunno. Why don' you tell me?"

"I don't understand you, Daryl Dixon," she snipped, using his full name to underline her irritation in the way that a mother would. "You're sweet and loving to me one minute and the next you're a total asshole."

"Well, 'scuse me for havin' other shit goin' on! I know my own damned brother. He's only playin' nice now 'cause he's waitin' for his chance."

"To do what?!"

"I dunno! But it sure as hell ain't gonna be pleasant!"

Daryl took another swig from the bottle. He slumped against the wall, dropping the bottle, and then his head fell into his hands. He grasped at his hair, pulling it at the roots. The bottle lay idle at his foot, its contents pooling into a sticky, amber lake.

"Fuck, Carol, look at me! I'm acting like my goddamned father!" he cried, kicking the bottle away angrily.

"That's not true." Carol assured quietly, kneeling down beside him. The anger in her blue eyes had softened along with the curve of her eyebrows.

"You don' know shit about my daddy."

Carol nodded.

"You're right. I've never met your father. But I think I've seen him."

"So you's seein' ghosts now, huh? Well then, next time he shows up, you can deliver the message-"

Carol lunged forward so quickly Daryl scarcely had time to protest—or even finish his thought—before she had ripped the front of his shirt wide open, exposing his chest. The buttons on his shirt popped off and scattered across the room. She'd collect them and sew them back on for him later.

Daryl's flesh was covered in dozens of scars. Some were small and shallow, looking almost like scratches. Others were long and deep. One in particular reminded her of a winding river shown from a map. Daryl made to draw his shirt together but she laid her hand over his, stopping him promptly. He stared at her, mouth agape, not knowing what to say or do. She curled her fingers around his wrists and tenderly pulled them away.

Fuck.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. He had so many scars, and some were so prominent. No doubt the entire prison was wondering how he'd gotten them. No doubt they were all too afraid to ask; too afraid of invoking painful memories, or upsetting him. But Carol wasn't. She pressed a warm palm against his chest.

"He did these to you, didn't he?" she asked soothingly, lightly tracing a rough, whitish gash extending across his ribs. He fidgeted uncomfortably at her touch. She'd crossed a lot of border since his return from Woodbury. Shattered every wall he'd ever put up. But he wasn't ready for this.

"Half of 'em are jus' from bein' a stupid kid." He groaned, numbly letting her run her fingers down his chest.

"But some of them aren't. Some of them are from him."

Daryl jerked away from her.

"I don' remember."

"Daryl, I have scars too. You don't just forget. God knows I haven't."

Daryl said nothing for several moments while the gears in his mind whirred and clinked.

"…So this was your big plan, huh? Drag me out here an' get me t' talk 'bout my damned scars? Hate t' turn you down, but it ain't happenin'."

Carol's lips twitched into a subtle, warm smile. She smoothed her hand once more over his skin. Her palms felt so silky. A shiver bolted up his spine. It was a simple, chaste contact. But it was moments like those that he found himself aching for most. He cherished those little minutes together; the ones that were filled with nothing but unspoken words and silent understanding. He craved them more than anything. She had a mother's touch, he'd decided. Mothers meant comfort. Or so he'd always assumed.

"Trust me." she whispered. She splayed her fingers, each digit feeling a different scar. A sound escaped his lips, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and he wriggled away from her.

"Turn that damned light off," he ordered, stripping away his shirt and flinging it away. Carol wasn't sure what he had in mind, so she simply stared at him instead.

"If we're doin' this, we're doin' it my way, you hear? Now turn that fuckin' light off."

Carol obeyed, reaching over and twisting the knob on the lantern. The bright light dimmed and then disappeared entirely, plunging them into blackness. It came bit of a shock to her when Daryl harshly grabbed her wrist and pulled her down on him. Her first thought was that it was an invitation of sorts. But Daryl didn't have sex on his mind at all.

"If you wanna know about 'em, fine. But I don' want you lookin' at 'em while I'm talkin'. I ain't no exhibit. Okay?"

Carol nodded even though she knew he couldn't see. Daryl rarely asked things for himself. His terms were simple enough. She could agree to them.

"Okay."

"Alright. Now that we got that sorted out…"

Daryl still had her wrist in his grip. Her bones were so delicate. It was scary to know that he could crack those bones with a single firm squeeze and a swift twist. He was certainly strong enough.

He guided her hand across his chest. He knew every single scar and its companioning story by heart. Most of them had faded. The memories hadn't. They were burned into his mind: vivid and terrible.

"This one…" he trailed off once more, pausing to run her finger down the length of it. She could barely feel it, but knew it was there all the same. "I got it from fallin' outta a tree when I was seven. What a fuckin' stupid-ass thing t' do. I knew I couldn't climb that thing. Was way too tall. Lotsa scratchy branches. Wasn't no good at tree-climbin' anyway. But I did, jus' to be stubborn."

"Did you break anything?"

"Jus' my ego." he smirked. She resisted a laugh. It must've hurt something awful. What a dreadful thing for a seven-year-old to endure.

"This one's another good story," he said, a hint of tragic amusement in his voice. The scar he had directed her finger to was circular, scarcely noticeable to anyone but him. "An' another example of me bein' a dumbass. Was about seventeen. Got into a fight with some punks. They was bigger and stronger than me. Didn' matter. Fought 'em anyway. I was outnumbered, and a scrawny thing to boot. Two of 'em held me down while their lil' friend snuffed his goddamned cigarette out on my chest."

"That's horrible."

"Naw. I was actin' like a cocky lil' prick. Deserved it."

Nobody deserves that. Carol thought, but the words stayed confined to her mind for some odd reason.

"Then I got this one on my side from gettin' stabbed by one of my own arrows."

That scar was fresh and rigid under the pad of her finger. She remembered that evening well: the evening he'd instilled false hope into her—false hope that had carried her for miles.

But Carol wasn't interested in discussing his mistakes and mishaps, and Daryl was strategically evading what she did want to discuss.

"Daryl, just tell me about the lashings. Please."

She phrased her request so that he couldn't escape answering it.

Carol's abrupt, point-blank demand took Daryl by surprise. He hadn't expected her to ask so…bluntly. He took a deep breath. He dreaded the thought of having to relive those memories. And no matter what, he didn't want her feeling sorry for him, like he was some kind of pathetic dog locked up in the pound.

"You first," he grunted.

Carol sighed. He was shunning the topic once more. But if sharing her own horror story of abuse was what it would take to make Daryl comfortable enough to loosen up, she'd hesitantly oblige.

"The first time Ed ever…did anything to me was on the night of our honeymoon. It wasn't much of a vacation. Neither of us had much spare money. But I managed to scramble up enough savings to get us into a nice little cottage in the backwoods of Wisconsin. It was very…isolated, to say the least." She paused. Her eyes were becoming increasingly glassy with tears. "It was our first time together. We'd never done anything more than a kiss. I thought that he was just being rough. I asked him to slow down, but he…he wouldn't. Then he started grabbing my hair and pulling it. I begged him to stop, I did, but he wouldn't listen. Eventually I was crying. The next morning, the marks on my back were still red…my arms were bruised…it was…it was awful."

She took a moment to recollect herself. She blinked back all her tears, and gathered her strength once more.

"Your turn."

This time, Daryl was ready.

"I was jus' a little thing. Maybe eight or nine. My daddy came home late, drunk outta his mind an' reekin' like the bar. Dunno how it happened exactly. Was in my bed, hidin' under my covers. My door jus'…burst open…and my daddy stormed in, this wild look in his eyes, and started whippin' me with his belt. No rhyme or reason. Merle…he tried to protect me. Lashed 'im in the face, my daddy did. By the time he was all done, I was screamin' an' bloody, like the day I was born. Then he jus' went to bed."

Carol cradled his face in her hands. His stubble was rough and ragged.

"Oh my god, Daryl,"

Suddenly, he pulled away and fumbled around for his shirt. Carol sat up, wondering what she'd said that had set him off.

"You're leaving?"

"Gotta get back. Don' want nobody wakin' up an' lookin' for us."

"Nobody ever has before." She replied briskly.

"I'm tired as hell."

She huffed. He didn't sound tired at all. He sounded pissed off.

"Daryl?"

He turned to face her one final time.

"Sometimes I dream about him. Ed. But maybe, after tonight, I won't anymore." She smiled, though it was dim and weak and didn't quite stretch to her eyes. By that time her vision had fully adjusted and she noticed his dark silhouette nod.

"An' if you do…you know where t' find me."

And that thought alone reassured her enough to carry her through a peaceful, serene slumber.

.:|:.

When Carol awoke, light glinted off the bars of her cell. The sun had risen high, past the bushy treetops and into the cloudless, languid blue. She rolled over with a soft yawn, stretching her arms and arching her back. Sleeping on the hard prison mattress always made her muscles quite tense and achy in the morning. That's when she noticed Merle's creased face leering at her from his neighboring cell. The shock of seeing him there sent her hands snatching at her blankets so she could pull them up and cover herself. She was, after all, wearing nothing but a loose-fitting pair of pants and a moth-ravaged purple tank top. No bra underneath or anything. One rarely should have to worry about their attire being proper when all they're doing is sleeping—unless, of course, one sleeps next to Merle Dixon.

"Rise and shine, Peaches. You been snorin' away for hours now! Was startin' t' think you was dead." Merle chuckled, wrapping a piece of twine his finger and the unwrapping it again. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed with a troubling gleam in his eye.

"What time is it?" she asked as she slid out of her wool blankets, sifting through her clothing pile for something more decent to slip on.

"Well, Goldie's fixin' lunch."

Carol had already pulled on her green shrug and flung the door of her cell wide open when she realized she felt awful. Her forehead was hot and there was a sour taste on the back of her tongue. She was parched, yet her stomach heaved at the thought of food.

"Where's Glenn?"

She wished there were someone else around to ask besides Merle.

"I'm right here. What's wrong?"

Glenn and Maggie had just returned from their customary trip into the shadowy, uncharted regions of the prison. Carol whirled around to face him just as the couple split away from each other. Maggie ran to their cell to put their blades up. Glenn advanced towards Carol.

"I don't feel so hot. Do we have any Tylenol?"

Glenn's eyebrows knit together in concern.

"I'm not sure," he replied, shaking his head. "I can check. If not, Rick, Carl and Daryl are cleaning out the infirmary right now. You go take a shower. I'll handle everything else."

Carol thanked him. She would have thrown her arms around him in an embrace if not for the fact that she didn't want to spread her virus to anyone else. She couldn't risk letting whatever she'd come down tear through the rest of the group like wildfire. God forbid Judith caught it.

She headed for the bathroom. It wasn't the prison's designated showering system. That was essentially a large, empty room full of spouts and drains. There was no privacy, and it unnerved her like hell. Nobody used it. Instead, they opted to utilize the staff bathroom.

It was a significantly smaller room. The door, marked with an "employees only" sign, had previously been locked and the keys hung on rings the guards wore on their belts. There were two toilet stalls, two showers stalls, and two sinks.

Carol stripped away her clothing. Her skin was slick with sweat. She turned the showerhead nozzle to "hot" so that the water ran cold. She had been so eager to jump in and wash away the nauseating feeling of illness that she forgot to lock the bathroom door behind her.

She bathed like normal. Eventually she adjusted the temperature of the water to be a bit warmer. Fond memories of the events that had taken place in that very stall replayed in her mind as she lathered her hair with shampoo and rinsed away the oil, dirt and dead skin cells. When she was done, she patted herself dry and wrapped the towel around her body while she brushed her teeth with the same toothpaste she'd been using for the last year. Teeth-brushing was a task rarely accomplished and toothpaste was always plentiful.

Just as she leaned over the sink to spit, the bathroom door opened with an eerie creak behind her. The mirrors were fogged up with steam. She turned eagerly in the vacant hope that it would be Daryl with her Tylenol. It wasn't. It was Merle.

She nearly spat the minty foam out all over the floor. She made sure her towel was tight around her frame as her eyes flickered around for an escape route.

Shit.

"Well, I'll be damned, Peaches. You's got a nicer body than I thought."

"What do you need, Merle?" she snapped, trying to appear strong and unfazed. On the inside, she was panicking.

"You don' need to get all up in arms, Dollface. I ain't hurtin' you."

"That wasn't my question."

Merle chuckled.

"I been thinkin' 'bout you an' my brother. An' I've decided that if you twos are delusional enough to think you're in love, ain't nothin' I can do 'bout that." He took a broad stride towards her. She took a broad one back.

"But…" he took yet another step closer. "Maybe you ain't makin' the right decision."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

If Carol had brought a gun along, she would have had it cocked in front of her and ready to fire.

"Alls I'm sayin' is that there ain't jus' one Dixon available here no more. Maybe you oughta try us both out 'fore you make a decision."

He closed in on her, like a predator cornering its prey, and soon her back was pressed securely against the wall.

"Come on, Peaches," he drawled, his voice like venom. "What harm can it do?"

He lunged. Carol shrieked. Her hand dove out, but what use could it be against him? He was five times stronger than her, and he blocked her desperate cries with his filthy mouth against hers in a violent, jaw-breaking kiss. So she did the only thing she could do: she returned it. She kissed him back. Then she bit his goddamned tongue, and the sound of that bastard yelping like a dog was music to her ears.