This started out as a role play between myself (gunslingerdixon) and my Carol rp partner (nolongeraxburden), and it was mutually decided upon to share with the rest of as a fanfiction. So here it is! Enjoy!
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Also: we own nothing in regards to The Walking Dead. All rights belong to the copyright holder.
His glare hardened at her command, irritated wrinkle in his brow settled on her. "I ain't tryin' t'save yer life." He replied keeping his voice low. It was taking a lot of restraint on his end to keep from raising his voice and Carol trying to jerk the gas can away from him wasn't helping either. Daryl didn't let go and he pulled back on the can, pulling her hand off of it. "I ain't goin' nowhere." He growled eyes drawn down into slats.
He wasn't going to give up that easily nor be so easily swayed by having to go take care of the girls that had been charged in his stead since Carol was no longer at the prison. Daryl didn't take his eyes off her as he took a step back, working his jaw as he did. He was taking her in. She looked disheveled and her eyes seemed brighter than usual; he reasoned it had been from the crying. Her eyes got bright when she cried— he remembered that from when he'd gone to sit with her after Sophia and even then when he had brought her the Cherokee rose when she'd been overwhelmed with hope.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his form in front of the gas can so she couldn't get to it. He drew a brow up in surprise when his fingers hit a cold smooth object in his pocket. His fingers roved over the object feeling the divets and crevices of the jasper he had found for the marker of the old man. He remembered what he'd been told about what jasper did and he felt himself quell down from his burning anger.
Chewing the inside of his cheek, Daryl glanced back to Carol, his eyes searching hers for a moment. "Why'd ya do it?" He asked quietly, tipping his head down some drawing his attention away from her to the scuffing of his worn boots. He wanted to know why. He thought he knew but that had been his own assertions and not Carol's own words. He glanced back up at her, his eyes somewhat pleading for her to give him something. He'd felt like somehow he was subtly asking her, "Why couldn't you trust me?"
Carol's hands were trembling madly, and she shoved them into her pockets to try and make them stop. She couldn't take her eyes off of him. She could almost read him like a book. But only almost. When the question left his lips, she looked down. Shame burned on her cheeks. She'd been a naive fool to think that he wouldn't go there. She took a shaky breath, taking a step back only to have her rear end connect with the back of the station wagon.
It somewhat grounded her. She felt her knees quiver, almost like they were about to give out on her, but she pushed herself back up to her full height squaring her shoulders. "They were dying, Daryl. Drowning in their own blood, and I thought, no, I had hoped that it would end the sickness." Tears stung her eyes. Yet, she refused to let them fall. She blinked rapidly, making them go away.
"Somebody had to do something. Daryl, I couldn't risk you or Lizzie or Mika…Judith…getting sick. It had to be stopped. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was wrong, but it was a necessary risk. I don't like what I did. I don't think the blood will ever come off my hands, not ever…" She pulled them free from her pockets and held out her hands toward him, palms up…" No matter how many times she washed them, they would never be free of Karen's blood. Or David's. "See?" she whispered.
"Rick was right to punish me. He had every right…" Her voice broke then, choking back the emotion. "Let the punishment fit the crime…"
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