A/N: Concussions suck.

Carol floated through a swirling maelstrom of confusing images and thoughts. A thing would come into her mind, but she couldn't hold on to it long enough to make sense of it. There was light and dark and movement, but none of it was clear. The pain in her head wouldn't allow it to be. A voice came, the rolling sounds of consonants and vowels making a strange music, but the syllables didn't make words she could understand.

The blur coalesced into a clearer series of images that repeated relentlessly. Bad men loomed impossibly tall and strong in her mind, walkers clawed and pounded at her thoughts. Blood flowed from gaping wounds and she stared into the empty eyes of a child.

But sometimes the dream was better. Daryl was there, carrying her away from the hard, cold place. She felt his hands on her, soothing and warm. His voice helped her keep out the bad dreams. She wanted him to tell her what had happened that she was trapped in this dream, but the answers slipped away. She wanted so much from him, but she couldn't hold on to it all. His face came into focus in her mind, eyes burning from behind his too-long hair. She had hurt him. She clearly remembered the shock and pain on his face, and grief flowed through her knowing she had caused it. It wasn't true. She did need him. She loved him. But then blackness slipped in, and she didn't remember any dreams, good or bad.

With a start, she woke and tried to sit up. Pain sliced through her head, and she groaned. Concussions had their own kind of crawling pain that was unmistakable. She'd had more than a few in her life, mostly gifted to her by Ed. The light from the windows was far too bright and made her eyes ache. She sat up slowly, trying to figure out where she was and what had happened.

She recognized the room, the bed. This was the house – the one where Daryl had found her. The one where they'd spent the night together. No wonder she'd been dreaming of him.

Fragments of memory were coming back. There were men who'd come. She'd tried to run but had to fight instead. She went cold as she remembered that she'd killed them both, a man and a boy. She didn't want to remember that.

It suddenly registered that she had been sleeping tucked cozily into bed, and she was totally naked. She definitely did NOT remember that. Could she have put herself to bed? No, she was clean, too – she knew she'd been covered with blood after shooting that man. And on the nightstand, there was a folded T-shirt with some skimpy underwear. She grabbed the clothes and gingerly made her way into them, discovering that she had many other sore parts in addition to her head.

She pressed her fingers to her forehead and tried to make her brain work. She'd dreamed of Daryl and Cherokee roses. No, the roses were real. She looked at her hands and wrists, confirming the scratches she'd given herself on the thorns were there. The roses were real, so maybe Daryl had been real, too.

She closed her eyes against the light and tried to remember what had happened, but all she could come up with were some vague impressions of him touching her hair and something about cats. The last bit puzzled her. It made no sense.

Sighing in frustration, she laid back down under the comforter and rested her throbbing head on the pillow. If Daryl had come back, he must still be nearby – he wouldn't leave her, she was sure. Not when she was hurt. She would wait. She snorted to herself. Doing anything else was pretty much impossible with the state she was in.

Daryl had come back. She wondered at that for a while as sleep crept up on her again.

When she woke, the edge of the mattress was dipping under Daryl's weight as he sat.

"'Bout time you woke up. Been worried. You with me now?"

She nodded carefully. "Still hard to think."

"How you feelin'?" He touched his fingers to her bruised cheek. "Swelling's gone down a bit, but I bet you got a helluva headache."

"Yeah. I woke up a while ago, but you weren't here."

"Been clearing out the bodies. Watch your step over there." He angled his head to a gory spot in front of the bathroom.

"Daryl, what happened? I remember some of it, but nothing after I came upstairs."

He reached for the ibuprofen on the nightstand and shook a few out, offering them to her along with a bottle of water. She took them gratefully.

"I was hopin' you could tell me. I heard gunfire, came back here, and the door was open. There were two bodies bein' worked over by walkers, and you were up here in the bathroom all covered in blood. There was a walker right outside the door. Scared the shit out of me. For a second, I thought you were dead." His voice was soft, but his eyes betrayed the turbulence inside him.

He cleared his throat before continuing. "You were in and out for a while there. Got you cleaned up and let you sleep."

"There were walkers?"

"Yeah." He hesitated, as though unsure if he should ask the question. "Those bodies. Who were they?"

Tears sprang to her eyes. "They came in while I was up here looking for you. One of them saw me come in the house, and they tried to catch me, take me with them. But I killed them." The tears were rolling freely now. She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of the oversized shirt.

"You killed two men?" She couldn't tell if he sounded more surprised or proud.

"No, I killed a man and a boy." She sobbed harder, sucking in air. "He was just a boy, barely older than Carl! Daryl, I killed a child!"

He reached for her, gathering her up in his arms, being mindful of her sore body. She clung to him with her good arm, and he let her cry herself out. When she settled down to just sniffles, he helped her lie back on the pillows. Her tears left her head throbbing even more.

He leaned forward to look intently into her eyes. "They were tryin' to hurt you. All you did was defend yourself. He mighta been a boy in years, but someone like that wasn't a child. You can't let it tear you up."

She sniffed and nodded slightly. She knew all this. She'd seen what Carl had become capable of at his young age. This was a terrible world to grow up in. Even with good people around you, it was too easy to do the wrong thing – make the wrong choices.

The thought made her uncomfortable, so she asked Daryl, "Is there food? I'm hungry."

"Don't know as I'd call it food, but I'm sure it's better than Spam." He dug through a pile of stuff at the end of the bed and produced a box of Pop Tarts that he must have found in her car. He opened a foil packet, offered her one of the pastries, and took the other for himself.

"Brown sugar cinnamon. My favorite," he said around a big mouthful.

She smiled at him. "Figures these things would survive an apocalypse. I bet you could still find them edible in another 20 years – or at least as edible as they ever were."

He passed her the water, and she washed her breakfast down. They shared another packet before deciding that was more than enough.

The activity had left her exhausted, so she leaned back and closed her aching eyes.

Daryl sat by her on the edge of the bed. "You rest. Sleep as much as you can. If you need anything, holler. I won't be far."

She opened her eyes to look up at him and brushed her fingers over his. "I'm glad you came back."

He turned his hand over to catch hers. "Me, too."

Fidgeting, he added, "We're gonna need to talk about some stuff soon, but I want you to get better first."

She nodded carefully, knowing it was likely to be a difficult conversation. "We can go to my place in a day or two. It's safer, and I have plenty of food and water."

The silence stretched a little too long.

"Can I ask you something?" she blurted out.

"'Course."

"Did something happen about cats? I keep remembering cats."

Daryl didn't answer. A smile bloomed on his face and his eyes gleamed. He squeezed her fingers then disappeared down the stairs, leaving her more puzzled than before.