She rolled over in the bed and flipped on the light. He stood there, his hair still damp, his fresh clothes practically squeaking from their newness. She could see the fold lines where the shirt had been in the package and the jeans hung stiff and straight, the cuffs breaking only a little on his bare feet.
She sat up, the quilt falling from her shoulders. She wore a man's t-shirt to bed and nothing else. Her room had flower wallpaper and blue carpet and beveled windows and a wrought-iron bedframe and she should wear a nightgown to match it but it was enough of a switch to undress each night, slide into cool, smooth sheets, read with the lamp before drifting off. She played her new part easily. The return to the old life wasn't hard to enjoy at all.
Daryl was crying. Silent, but shaking.
"Come here," she said. And he did just that. No words, no waiting.
She lifted the quilt and sheets and he tunneled in beside her, making his body small like he was hiding. The return to the old life wasn't easy for everyone.
He got her pillowcase wet but she didn't care. She just held him and he curled into her. His arms wrapped around her waist and his breath was on her stomach. She waited until he stopped shaking. She smoothed his hair. She said small murmuring things: "shh..." and "it's all right..." and "go to sleep..." and "I've got you."
She listened for his breath to slow, his shaking to cease. He smelled like the soap in her shower, a bar of peach vanilla. His hair was still a bit greasy and she thought she would cut it. She wondered if he'd really left his clothes in the backyard hearth for her to burn.
All night, she held him. Sleep never came but when morning did, he stood up, cleared his throat and went out the door. Her muscles were stiff from attending toward him. But inside she was soft with relief.
He was gone all day with Aaron and returned just after they'd eaten dinner at Rick's. She had saved a plate for him on the counter, covered in foil. She nodded to him as he set his gear in the front hall, then turned left for the bathroom.
She stood in the kitchen listening to the sounds of the shower. Drummed her fingers on the kitchen worktop. She imagined rolling a pie crust on this granite. Imagined being here before the turn and how it was never going to be her life. Not now, not with Ed. She had such hemmed-in dreams then. Hemmed in life. Hemming Sophia to her skirts, keeping her safe from blows and nasty words. Failing. Funny how she had to lose Sophia to become the woman who could protect her.
The shower turned off. She heard the door squeak open. She thought he made a sigh, but maybe that wasn't it. She was almost shy for him if it was; the small pleasure at getting clean, at being civilized and domesticated, was probably something he'd want to hide.
She centered the plate on the counter, grabbed her knife and then slipped out the back door for air. Suddenly his small pleasure seemed too big for the house they were in, too big for both of them.
It was a pattern, then. Daryl out all day, Carol home, pretending. He'd shower, maybe they'd share a meal. Then her leaving him to the quiet. Leaving him to himself. It was escaping to walk the streets of the empty neighborhood and think about everything they had. Her mind had a scrambling way about it now. It counted and accosted everything: socks, dried beans, cans of corn, bullets, gasoline, knives, cough syrup, diapers, screwdrivers. It was her view that nothing was settled or safe. She could act like it was, but in her pocket was her knife and a piece of flint for sharpening and making fires.
She walked in the evening, saying hello to neighbors, her hands feeling the knife and flint in her pockets. She counted, minutes and steps and bullets and gallons of clean water. Thought of Daryl, calming and relaxing, coming in from the dark of himself, scrubbing the hurt of the world off him each night.
It wasn't clear if she should be pleased that he was acclimating or if she should be nervous.
One night he didn't come back at dinner. The plate under foil cooled on the counter. She went for her walk. She toured the same route through the silent streets. The moon was out, brightening the entire dim unreality of the safe zone. She could only hear the snaps of her flip-flops. Her toenails were painted red now and she wore a little denim skirt that Jessie had given her. Jessie had said it was too tight for her. Carol wore it, and flip-flops someone brought in from a run, and she felt her vulnerability in every step. Snap, snap, her hips twitching in the tight denim.
Where was he?
Snap, snap, flip, flop, twitch. Ed would never stand for such a skirt. Ed would never stand for her hair, curling down around her neck. For the little fake pearl earrings she found in the bathroom drawer and screwed in her old ear piercings. Appearances mattered. Two flip flops, two earrings, two burnt out street lamps by the last house on the block, two whistles from the front gate. The screeching of the wall door. The sound of his motorcycle. She stopped. Turned back toward their house. Toward home. Counting the steps, two at a time...
He wasn't there. Just her two boots in the front hall, her lone jacket on the hook. The house was so quiet. The plate on the counter, not touched. She had passed Rick's house and there was no activity, no light. Not that they couldn't be stealthy but she had learned those tricks too. She had taken off her flip-flops and hid beneath the windows, listening. Nothing but the sounds of night-time settling in. Michonne telling Carl something, Judith fussing.
She couldn't wait any longer. She washed up in the bathroom, brushing her teeth. He was sitting on the made bed, his crossbow between his feet. The moon stared down at him, all darkness on the white quilt.
He slid his crossbow under the bed and his empty palms cupped his knees. His eyes went over her body in a slow, indecent reckoning.
"Took you long enough," he said.
Nothing ever happened the way you think it will, she thought.
Nothing you imagine is quite right. It could be your imagination needs repair or that reality is too crafty. But whatever actually happens, it's never quite what you guessed. It was true for anything, good or bad.
Unsure if this was good or bad, she walked to him and his hands slipped around her hips again and his face nested in her belly just like the first night, but this time, he wasn't crying. This time his body was tense and tight and ready. His lips were skimming over the fabric of her shirt and his hands were fast and slow and sure and unsteady, all at once. Both.
Or maybe she was sure. Or maybe he was unsteady. Did it matter? She was kissing him and it was nice to know that kissing Daryl was one imagining that stacked up to reality. He smelled like gasoline and tasted like thirst and stubble and the road and his fingers were sweaty, climbing under her shirt. Sweaty, sticky, warm, rough, soft, hard. There were a million textures to Daryl, if you bothered to notice. Same was true of her. People only saw one side, though. They saw what made most sense. It was like they couldn't see all that was there to inventory, to add up.
That made them weak, she thought. Her hand went around his neck, branched out along his shoulders, gripped his biceps.
This is why we'll survive, she thought. And the future started unrolling like a rope from a window, uncoiling and leading the way. The understanding gripped her tight, then, and she knew it was fine that he showered and changed his clothes. She could see it all, now. It was him adapting. Becoming better. Stronger.
His hands pushed up, and her shirt went over her head. His face toward her breasts. Greedy for them. She pinched the bra in the center clasp and it fell away. He was shy around her nipples. Soft and gentle.
Her hands pushed down, and her skirt fell onto the floor, kicked away with the flip-flops.
"Come here already," he said, as if she weren't pressed up tight enough to him to feel the buttons of his shirt dent into her ribs. He slid back on the bed, pulling her onto his lap.
This part wasn't how she imagined, though. This part, his hunger for her, his hands everywhere, his mouth open and licking and sucking and making every bit of her tremble? This part was not what she expected. Yet it seemed completely natural. Right. Because she could match him for his hunger. Let out the impatient, straining part of her that ached from calculation and prediction. Unspool the greed inside her until it overflowed like water in a bucket.
She arched away from him to unbutton his shirt while his strong hands clamped to her thighs, keeping her steady. His mouth skimmed against her neck.
"Take this off," she said, and he shouldered off the shirt.
"Stand up," she said, and he stood and let her undo his belt and zipper.
In her imagination this hadn't happened: this telling him what to do. But it went smooth. Him moving, doing, undoing. Listening. Pulling her naked body over his own, the smooth cotton of her underwear rubbing against the stripe of hair at his navel. His hands under the elastic, pulling, pushing. His fingers sliding into where she was wet and open. Playing with her softly. She pressed her palms over the caps his shoulders and let him reach into her. His hard cock was beside her, hot against her hip. Waiting and quivering. She didn't understand why they had to wait any longer. The seconds always pressing against them, time itself at their heels. One, two, three, four... Relentless, intolerant, the forward surge of time.
She moved a hand from his shoulder and leaned back. Nudged his hand from where it was within her.
"What is it," he said.
"I want to," she said. The words dropping off because she couldn't say them.
He looked up at her in the dark and she could see his brows clutch in confusion.
"But I want to make it good for you," he said. His eyes closed in shame and hers widened in shock. She couldn't stop staring at him and she couldn't speak, either.
Instead, she pressed his hand back against herself, positioning his thumb right where she needed it. His thumb was bigger and clumsier than her own but she pressed back against him, and the rest of his hand, and thanked whatever god there was that they didn't need clocks in this life. It always unnerved her, how long she took to come, even on her own. Willing the feeling into her body, that tight burst that she'd only done in secret. His eyes were closed. She hoped they'd stay that way. He could keep this easy rhythm blindfolded, right?
She stopped thinking about it. Minutes, seconds ticking by. She closed her own eyes and reached out to rub his cock beside her hip. He made a long sigh, even longer than the one she first heard in the shower that one time, and she smiled, feeling her body closing in itself, heading toward inevitability, heading toward that singular place where only she had gone before, on her own.
When it came, she no longer cared how it looked or what he saw. Her secret in the dark could be his too. It still was just one secret, all by itself. Even if he knew it too.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. His hand soft and wet on her thigh. Watching her tremble and quake. Self-conscious shivers fluttering from her belly to her shoulders.
He shifted her back and fitted himself between her legs.
"I don't have anything," she said, feeling how hard he was against her softness. "We could...We could make a baby, Daryl. You sure you want that?" Her voice held warning. Sensibility. They had one baby already among them. The tally of Judith's needs flapped through her brain like a reel.
"Whatever happens, I will take care of you," he said. He hands gripped her hips and their eyes met. She didn't know if she wanted a baby, but she knew she wanted him more than she'd wanted anything in so long. Without a word, she slid herself over him and leaned back, slow and sure, riding him up and down, back and forth. His hands wrenching her hips in a tempo he liked until he came with a shudder that was both surprise and satisfaction.
Afterwards, she tugged on her white t-shirt, visited the bathroom and then came back with a glass of water. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, the quilt folded down, his elbows on his knees. He'd opened the window to the sound of night insects and the cool breeze.
He thanked her for the water, offered it back. She sipped some and then put it on the nightstand.
"You going to smoke?" she asked, nodding toward the window.
"Nah," he said. "Just felt kinda stuffy in here."
"You can if you want," she said. "I like the smell sometimes."
He shifted over and she slid into the bed beside him.
"No, I quit," he said. "Not just because they're getting hard to find, either. But I need all my wind these days, you know?"
He put his arm under her shoulder blades, rolled her to him.
"You need all your wind," she repeated.
"My breath," he said. "My lungs."
"Oh."
"Been smoking since I was twelve," he said.
"So why stop now?" she teased.
"Because," he said. "Because now is different. I got reasons, now."
She stiffened in his arms for a moment because she understood. She didn't know if she understood people well to begin with, or she just understood him, but what did it matter? It was clear to her, his intention. She closed her eyes and pressed her face against his chest. His chest hairs tickled her nose and the smell of his sweat and a hint of the grime from the road was all over his skin. She inhaled him and burrowed closer, her legs tangling in his, both of their feet sliding between the soft sheets. One thousand thread count, she had read on the package when she'd made this bed.
He sighed, again. Long and leisurely. His hand running through her hair, down her neck, down the canal of her spine until it stopped to squeeze her ass. She squeezed him back in the same place and he laughed into her ear.
"Let's go to sleep, huh?"
"Yeah," she said.
But while it was just a few minutes before he started breathing low and regular, she stayed awake in his arms. Felt the soft sheets against her skin. Wondered who counted those threads. How they kept one straight from the next, over and over and over. One, two, three, four...
The softness ticked in her mind, the numbers piling up, up, up, until they reached their bodies in this bed, with the moon on the white quilt that he pulled over both of them, huddling close together while the indifferent night counted all their breaths.