I wasn't certain how long it was between Hershel's leg chopping and his first walk out on crutches, but in episode 3x04 (Killer Within), Oscar says they've been dealing with the bodies, blood, and brains in the other cell block for a week, so that's what I'm going with. That gives me a little time to work with before big bad shit goes down.

This chapter has a very different tone from the others. I needed it to fit in its place in the show's timeline, and the light mood of previous chapters didn't fit. So this one gets us over this rough patch before we get back to more lighthearted funzies.

Edit: I just re-uploaded this to fix some dumb typos.

Carol struggled a little with the bucket of water she was hauling, partly because it was heavy, but mostly because her hands were shaking. She finally made it back into C-block and heaved it up onto the little round seat attached to one of the tables in the common area just outside their block of cells. She went to her cell and grabbed a shirt from her pack to use as a rag, since all their actual rags and towels were now soaked in Hershel's blood. After tossing the shirt out onto her table, she peeked in to check on Hershel.

Maggie, Beth, and Glenn were huddled around his bed. Hershel had regained consciousness while she was out trying to teach herself how to perform a C-section. She sent her thanks to God for that before remembering she didn't do that anymore. Never mind. She was still grateful, and maybe Hershel would appreciate the gesture. Maybe they'd be able to pull him through this after all. If they were really, really lucky, she wouldn't have to deliver Lori's baby alone.

Returning to the common area, she perched on the tabletop, the water bucket on the seat below her, between her knees. She was absolutely covered in blood – mostly Hershel's, but also the thick black blood of her walker cadaver. She set her jaw grimly. Cutting into that body had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done, not because it was repulsive – it certainly was that – but because it represented her friend. Carol knew how incredibly dangerous this birth was going to be for Lori, and it terrified her to know that Lori's life or death, and that of the baby, might come down to her. She stared down into the water in front of her and wondered how the hell it came to this. The fate of three lives now rested in her own shaking, blood-soaked hands. Her gut twisted in dread. How could she possibly do this? She couldn't even keep her own daughter alive.

She grabbed the spare shirt, dunked it into the bucket, and wrung it out hard. She scrubbed her hands fiercely, trying to get them clean, but it was as though her skin were stained. The smooth fabric of the shirt just seemed to push the blood around instead of cleaning it off. She dunked and scrubbed, dunked and scrubbed, pausing only to angrily wipe away the tears that started streaming down her face. Over in the cells, she could hear the gentle cadence of the Greene family's voices. There was no way she could let them know how frightened she was and uncertain of her ability to keep Hershel alive, so she struggled to keep her tears silent.

Her water was now tainted a sickly pink and so were her hands and arms. She flung the shirt away in frustration and let the tears flow freely while she glared down at the red creases around her fingernails and on her knuckles. So much blood on her hands. She couldn't bear any more. If Hershel didn't make it, or if something went wrong and Lori or the baby died...

She felt sick.

She squeezed her eyes closed and tried to force the tears to stop. There was no point in crying about it. She would do what she had to do in the best way she knew how. It was all that could be asked of her. It was all she could ask of herself.

Suddenly she felt a presence at her side. Her eyes snapped open and focused on Daryl standing there, his brows scrunched together.

"You OK?" he asked softly.

She stared back down into the pink water and nodded. But after a pause, she shook her head.

He shifted the crossbow and quiver from his shoulders and set them on the table beside her. He stepped in front of her and pulled the red cloth from his back pocket. She watched his hands intently as they dipped the cloth into the water between them and gently squeezed it out. One of his hands reached toward her, palm up. She glanced uncertainly up into his face. His eyes flickered to hers, then back down to his open hand. She placed her shaking hand in his.

Carol focused on his hands – so very gentle in spite of their calloused roughness. He carefully cleaned away the remaining blood, the slow strokes of the cloth down her arm soothing her until she felt almost in a trance. Fascinated, she watched him rub down her fingers individually, wrapping each one in his own cloth-wrapped fingers and massaging circles down the length of them. He turned her hand over and smoothed the cloth down the inside of her wrist and over her palm, again and again. When her arm was finally free of blood, he released her hand and reached for the other one.

As he focused on her other arm, she shifted her attention to his face. There was a line between his brows as he concentrated, and his eyes were intense in their focus, as though this were the most important thing in the world. He chewed on his lower lip as he worked. He was beautiful.

After what seemed like both mere moments and forever, he gently returned her hand to her lap. He met her gaze then. Neither of them spoke, but she felt some unnameable emotion swelling in her chest, threatening to squeeze the breath from her. Tears welled up again, but they were different tears this time.

She drew in a shaky breath as he reached a hand to her face. He caught the tip of her chin with a crooked finger and his thumb. A corner of his mouth tweaked upward. He raised the cloth in his other hand.

"Close your eyes." Daryl's voice was velvety smooth, like it was the day he told her the story of the Cherokee roses.

She obeyed. He gently stroked the cloth over her cheeks, wiping away the blood she must have smudged on her face while brushing away her tears. With her eyes closed, she was acutely aware of the pressure of his fingers on her chin, and her skin tingled everywhere the cloth touched. She heard the cloth drop back into the bucket with a soft splash, but he didn't release her chin. He slid his fingers up along her jawbone and stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her lids fluttered open.

His eyes were focused on her mouth. She was afraid to move or breathe for fear of breaking whatever spell had fallen over them. His thumb came over to trace along her lower lip. She shuddered and her breath hitched. He blinked then and met her eyes, smiling softly. He actually smiled – not a twist of his lip or a smirk, but an actual, honest to God smile. Beautiful wasn't a good enough word for this.

Disappointment flared when he dropped his hand then and stepped back. He scooped up his crossbow and quiver, but held his arm out toward her, inviting her to come with him. She smiled shakily. She would follow him anywhere.

"C'mon," he murmured. "You should get some rest. They can keep an eye on the old man."

Carol pushed herself off the table. Her disappointment eased a bit when she felt his fingertips at the small of her back as she walked past the cell where Hershel rested, up the stairs, and around to the cell she shared with Lori. He followed her into the cell.

"Go on. Get up there."

She scrambled up to her bunk and curled up on her side, arm tucked under the flat pillow.

"Don't worry," he said, as he placed a hand on the edge of her mattress. "You got this."

Carol reached out to touch his fingertips with her own. "Thank you."

He ducked his head in a nod and slipped out the door, silent as a shadow. Her eyes stayed on the door until her lids finally grew heavy and she fell into sleep.