Silence. He liked the silence. He had always had been a quiet person.
(He often wondered if he had different parentage if he would be more outspoken. He doubted it though.)
When he didn't have to talk, then he could just listen. He could listen to Beth singin' to Asskicker or he could listen to Maggie tearing old cloth for fresh bandages.
In the silence, when people left him alone he could focus on something other than the searing pain that wracked through his body.
He took a deep breath, letting it wash over him as he tried to ignore the ache in his ribs.
He was thankful (even though no one would hear it from him) for the crapton of drugs they'd pumped into him.
It made it almost bearable to be alive.
He took another slow breath as he listened to his surroundings.
In a cell over, Merle and Abe were playing Chess. (Where the hell they'd gotten a Chess board, he still wasn't sure.) Rick was snoring- loudly.
Michonne sharpening that blade of hers and Carol was next to him.
Carol was breathing next to him, slow and even.
Not the harsh choked sobs she'd spread over him in Woodbury.
She wasn't crying this time. He hated it when she cried, especially if it was over him.
He wasn't anything worth cryin' over. That was for damned sure.
Carol was next to him, sitting in a chair, her head near his lap. He didn't mind her being there. Not one bit.
(Unlike Merle. As far as he could tell, it was three days after Woodbury when he'd woken up enough to tell him to fuck off. Between he and Carol, he couldn't stand the cryin' and gnashin' and damnadable angst that oozed off the two of them.)
The bed was surprisingly comfortable under him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
They'd dismantled a bunk bed, stacked the two pieces to make a taller, single bed for him as he lay, leg strapped down with cloth and twobyfours, ass propped up on pillows so he couldn't move. (Not that he'd even bother to try.)
"You's wake?" A strange and new voice asked him as there was a tugging on his arm hair.
He cracked an eye open as he felt Carol sit up.
There was a little boy looking at him with huge, dark eyes.
Beside him, he could feel Carol getting up to take the boy away. He gripped her hand, telling her to stay.
"Am now." Grunted Daryl.
"Oh." muttered the little boy. "Missus Carol say you're hurt. You still broke?" His face was so innocently concerned as the question was asked that Daryl felt his eyebrows raise in amusement.
"Yep. Still broke." He told him.
"Oh." Was the boy's reply. "I'm sorry you's broken."
"Ain't your fault." mumbled Daryl as he let his eyes shut again.
This whole talking thing was an exhausting business.
''Yes it is." The boy protested.
Carol had stood up.
"Sit down, Carol. He ain't bothering me none." Daryl told her as he tilted his head towards her. He gave her a soft smile. She nodded and sat back down, wringing her hands together in her lap.
"What gave you an idea like that?'' Daryl asked the boy, his head tilting to the other side.
"Mr. Merle." Was the whimpered reply.
Daryl let out a huff of air. Of course it was Merle. Daryl had half a mind to scream his brother's name and tell him off for scaring the kid. (only half, mind you. The ribs he suspected were broken were the deciding factor against it.)
"What's your name, boy?" Daryl asked as he looked at the tearful boys face. Damn he hated seeing kids cry. He was never a weepy kid himself, so how the hell was he supposed to deal with 'em now?
Hell, he near had a heart attack when he had to take care of Sophia's skinned knees- no. Not going there.
"Micah." The little boy sniffled.
"Micah. I like that name. Comes from the Bible, don't it?" He asked, his eyes drifting shut again.
"Yussir. My Momma says he was a prophet." Micah nodded his head fervently.
"Hmm... well, Micah. Don't pay attention to what Merle has to say. He's an asshat.''
"Daryl." Chided Carol quietly.
"Okay." Nodded the little boy next to him. "What's an asshat?"
Daryl snorted. "Someone who doesn't pay attention to what he should."
"oohhh…." Nodded the little boy. Daryl opened his eyes again, looking the kid over.
His woolly hair needed a cutting, his face was torn up and one eye was black.
He felt guilt sit hot and heavy like stone in his gut.
Thing was gonna cry again too. Shit.
"I bet, if you ask Ms. Carol real nicely she'll pick you up so you can come take a nap with me, how'szat?" Daryl asked, not knowing what else to do.
Sleep. Kid needed sleep. He could handle that, right? Sleepin' kid?
Hell, it was his fault his face was torn to shit.
"Can I?" Was the squeaky plea.
"Of course, Darling." Carol responded, walking around and lifting the boy.
Daryl lifted his arm as far as he could so the boy could lay in the crook of his neck.
He shut one eye, while the other remained open, looking down at the boy as he was settled against his bare chest and his good arm.
"You sure you're okay?" Carol whispered as she tucked the blanket around the two.
"Yeah we're alright, ain't we bub?" Micah nodded into the large man's chest, a thumb propping in his mouth while the other hand traced along the silken ridges of scar tissue.
"His head okay?" Asked Daryl, looking up at the blue eyed woman as she stood teary eyed next to them.
"We think it'll be okay. Honestly, we're more worried about his hearing, with all the gunfire." She settled herself back in her chair, her head leaning against the wall. "We're still not quite sure what he was doing out there." His woman stated, kissing the boys head, then his lips.
"Love you." She told him.
"Hmm..." was Daryl's response as he wound his fingers in hers and let silence and sleep over take him once again.
I'll make ya'll a deal, Daddy!Daryl for a review?
huh? huh? huh? *waggles eyebrows*