AN: Here we are, another chapter here.
I hope you enjoy! Please don't forget to let me know what you think!
111
Daryl became aware of how shabby his kitchen looked when he tried to imagine what it might look like through her eyes. She had seen this house in its splendor—when it was brand new. She had smelled the scent of new wood and a fresh build. Now, everywhere she looked, there was dust, decay, and the slapped-together evidence of someone trying to update the house as cheaply as possible—not to make it a home so much as to sell it so that it wouldn't be their problem anymore.
She didn't say anything, but her eyes scanned every inch of the room, and Daryl's whole body burned warm with apology.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"Why?" She asked, almost looking surprised to hear him speak and snatch her from her thoughts. He gestured around the dim kitchen.
"It was like this," he said. "I ain't had much time to—to make it better."
He walked over and opened the inside shutters that Lenora had closed earlier. The windows beyond them were dirty, still, but at least they let in a little light. The kitchen was on the back of the house, so Daryl felt it unlikely that anyone would be snooping and looking through his windows. He hadn't decided yet, if they'd know what they were seeing if they did. It was likely, he decided, that anyone peering through his dirty windows would simply judge him for the condition of his home and judge the woman in his sweatpants for agreeing to be there with such an obvious loser. They would, more than likely, not immediately jump to the conclusion that Daryl and his witchy-ass friend had raised her from the dead.
"I don't really understand why or how, but…it's changed. A lot," Carol said. There was a heavy amount of hesitancy in her voice—and Daryl pitied her, at least a little. She was, at the moment, what he would call the epitome of a good fucking sport about things. He had no idea what she could remember, but it was obvious that she could remember enough to know that things were completely different than the last time she'd seen them—the day she'd been murdered with an axe.
"Wanna sit?" Daryl asked. She did. Daryl put the cigarettes and lighter where she could reach them and offered her an ashtray. If she smoked the whole damn pack, he didn't care. He had another pack, and he'd give her those, too, if she needed them. She might need something to calm her nerves.
He put on a fresh pot of coffee, since this seemed like it required more than the reheated dregs of the last pot.
He also burrowed around and found some of the half-drank bottles of alcohol he'd cleaned out of a pantry. A little whiskey for fortitude could be called for, he thought, so he put it on the table with a couple of glasses that he took the time to wash while the coffee was brewing.
Carol sat quietly, and Daryl offered her a cigarette and showed her how to use the lighter—just in case she might not know how. He lit the first cigarette for her, though, and then left her toying with the lighter until he brought the coffee and joined her. He offered her more sweetener packets and the whole carton of creamer from the fridge before he sat down—everything gathered in the middle of the table. He lit a cigarette for himself.
"Did you decide where the beginning might be?" Carol asked.
"Depends on you, is what I decided," Daryl said. He sighed. "Listen—I'd like to go about this shit gentle so it ain't shockin' or whatever, but there just ain't no way that I can tell you what the hell I gotta say and it don't stand at least some chance of knockin' your ass right outta that chair and onto the floor."
She laughed. Thank goodness, she laughed. The sound of her laughter made Daryl's body tingle. He laughed with her because, honestly, the tension up to now required it.
"Just tell me," Carol said. "And—I'll hold onto the chair."
Daryl nodded his understanding and agreement.
"Nexum de comes animae," he said.
"I'm sorry," Carol said. "I only speak English. At least—I think I do."
Daryl laughed quietly at her humor. Over a hundred fucking years dead, murdered at that, snatched back to life, and she had a sense of humor. He hoped she kept it.
"It's Latin," Daryl said. "At least I think it is. And I'm probably gonna screw this up, but here's the basic idea. It means a soulmate connection."
"A soulmate connection?" Carol asked.
"The…an…I don't remember which," Daryl said. "I don't speak Latin, and it don't matter. The point is—there's this thing called a nexum de comes animae, and it means that like these two souls belong together. No matter what. On some magical, cosmic, universe-crossing level or whatever. They'll do whatever they have to in order to be together. They gotta be together. They can like—get to each other no matter what. Nothin' keeps 'em apart because the universe ain't lined up until they're together."
Carol was watching him. He searched her face for anything—disapproval, disbelief, concern over his sanity—she showed him nothing except intense concentration. She was listening intently. She was focused on what he had to say.
Daryl licked his lips, tasted his coffee, and nudged the pack of cigarettes in Carol's direction. She didn't take them, but he did. He lit another, feeling a little like Lenora, but also feeling like he needed it.
"Somethin' has pulled me toward Abnerton forever," Daryl said. "There ain't much to see here, really, but I passed through here once and felt something. Couldn't explain it. Just kept it in my mind, I guess. Bought the house and…here I am. Now, I guess I'm believin' it was the nexum de comes animae that got me here."
"The soulmate connection thing brought you here?"
Daryl nodded.
"Ended up finding Lenora. Wanted answers to—things that were happening. Do you remember anything?" Daryl asked.
"About…?" Carol asked, drawing it out.
"This shit ain't never gonna be easy to say," Daryl said.
"Then, just say it," Carol said. "And, then, we'll deal with it."
"Would you believe me if I told you that—this is like your future?" Daryl asked. "I mean—like the old you would have…this woulda been the future?"
"The old me…" Carol mused.
"I think you're a new you," Daryl said. "But I'm sure not certain about that shit…tell you the truth."
"A new me," Carol mused.
Daryl opened the whiskey and poured about a shot's worth into the bottom of one of the glasses. For good measure, he poured a shot for himself in the other glass. He offered it to Carol.
"Drink this," he said. "For fortification."
He drank his, and she followed suit, wincing because it wasn't high quality stuff and it burned all the way down. He imagined she might not be accustomed to it, even in her old life.
"You—fuckin' hell…OK…here goes…you died."
"I died."
"More'n just died," Daryl said. "You were murdered. Like—bad murdered. With an axe. From what I understand, it was…"
"In my bedroom," Carol said.
Daryl felt like all the blood in his body ran out—or at least ran to some central location. He shivered.
"Yeah," he said.
"He killed me," Carol said.
Daryl's stomach clenched.
"Do you remember that?" Daryl asked.
Carol reached for the bottle of whiskey, and Daryl poured her another drink while she lit a cigarette. She laughed quietly.
"I don't know. I knew he would," she said. "You know? You just know, at times, that you're going to die some way—some particular way. You know. I knew his anger would kill me."
"You remember him killin' you?" Daryl asked.
"Yes," Carol said. "And—no. I don't know…I don't…understand."
She took the drink and swallowed it down. She winced less this time than she had before. She searched Daryl's face. There was a desperateness to her expression.
"He killed me," she said. "But—he couldn't have."
"He did," Daryl said.
"But…"
"This is where shit gets real fuckin' sticky," Daryl said. "And I'm not sure my answers to all them questions I can see in your eyes are gonna help you understand. Because—I don't entirely understand myself."
"How?" Carol asked. It was one word, but it communicated everything.
"Do you remember being dead?" Daryl asked. He didn't know what he expected. He didn't know if he expected some long speech on the afterlife. If that's what he expected, that wasn't what he got, though.
"No," Carol said. "I don't know. I'm sorry…I…don't understand…"
"You died," Daryl said. "Over a hundred somethin' years ago. Here. Well…in your bedroom."
"He killed me," Carol said. "His anger finally killed me."
"I bought the house," Daryl said. "You were—showin' up."
"Showing up?"
"Like a ghost," Daryl said. "Cryin'—mostly."
"A ghost…"
"You gonna pass out?" Daryl asked. "If you're gonna faint, let me know. I don't want you to fall. Get hurt."
"I'm…not passing out," Carol said.
"Say if you are," Daryl said. "Just say and I'll…help."
"I'm a ghost?" Carol asked.
"Not now you aren't," Daryl said. "At least—I don't think you are. I haven't touched you. Really. I mean—I don't think."
Carol reached her hand out. She covered Daryl's hand with her own. Her fingers curled around his hand. They were cool to the touch, but only cool like the room—like the air around them. They warmed as they touched his hand and drew warmth from him. Daryl didn't mean to, but instinct took over and he brushed her fingers with his thumb.
Something inside of him stirred and, in response, his dick stirred too.
He was in a world of fucking shit if just the touch of her fingers on his hand could get his dick to behave as it was currently behaving. He was grateful for the table that blocked her view. He cleared his throat.
"Am I a ghost?" Carol asked.
"You feel real to me," Daryl said. Her cheeks colored red. She pulled her hand back. Daryl cleared his throat again. "Sorry."
"No," Carol said. "No—you feel real to me, too. But—I'm dead? I'm so confused…"
"You an' me both," Daryl said, nervous laughter escaping him. She echoed his nervous laughter. She went a little pale again, but she seemed to be holding it together. Daryl had to give her credit for her strength in all this. He couldn't be certain that he wouldn't be running around the room like some kind of old ass Daffy duck cartoon if someone had told him he'd been murdered with an axe. "Listen—I saw you and—I guess I felt like I wanted to meet you. I wanted to know you."
"A ghost?"
"Maybe I'm insane," Daryl said with a shrug. Carol laughed and his heart fluttered in his chest in response.
"You didn't kill me. He killed me…with an axe?"
Daryl nodded.
"Yeah, that's what they said happened," Daryl said.
"So—you wanted to meet me, but…how is this…what is this…?"
"Lenora said it was the nexum de comes animae," Daryl said. "That—we had it. That's why you were…appearin' like you were. So—we tried this—hell…spell, I guess. And…well…here you are."
"I'm not dead." It came out partially as a question and, really, Daryl couldn't blame her for the confusion.
"It would appear that you aren't dead anymore," Daryl said.
"I was a ghost," Carol said. "But—I'm not a ghost?"
"You seem real," Daryl said. "You feel real?"
"I don't know anymore," Carol said.
"Can you feel anything?" Daryl asked.
Carol lit the lighter and ran her hand too close to the flame. Daryl's hand instinctively shot out to catch her hand around the wrist.
"No—what the hell? Don't burn yourself!"
He'd startled her. She'd startled him. They were both breathing a little heavier than before when their eyes met—Daryl's hand still curled tightly around Carol's wrist.
"Hot," Carol said.
Daryl's whole body felt that way. He didn't mean to say it. He didn't mean to say anything, but he caught himself humming agreement.
"Yeah," he said.
Carol's eyebrows furrowed at the moment that Daryl's cheeks grew warmer and he realized what he'd said. He didn't know if she would entirely understand the slip, but something had passed between them.
"The fire," she said. "It's…hot…I can feel that. I feel…things." She raised her eyebrows again and licked her lips. "I feel…a lot of things right now."
Daryl felt a lot of things, too. Things that he wasn't sure he was allowed to feel. He felt like he could almost read her mind. He felt like she might feel what he was feeling—but he didn't want to be presumptuous. He let go of her wrist reluctantly. He'd never felt like this before—not ever—and it was unnerving. Still, she must feel even more overwhelmed than he could possibly feel, and a new sensation entered the battery of feelings he was already experiencing all at once. He felt like he needed to protect her, even if that meant protecting her from this side of himself that he didn't really know well.
"You're real," Daryl said.
"But what am I?" Carol asked.
"I think—you're a whole new you," Daryl said. "Just like—here. Now."
"More than a hundred years in the future…" Daryl hummed and nodded to answer Carol's question. "But—how's that possible?"
"Only damn answer I got these days is…nexum de comes animae," Daryl said. "Lenora might be able to help us with more, but…that's all I got. Nexum de comes animae."
"The soulmate connection…" Carol said. Hardly a single thing she'd said had come out as a definitive statement, and Daryl could fully understand that. Daryl hummed. Carol lit another cigarette, and Daryl followed suit without hesitation. A vibration of sorts seemed to run through his body as their fingers touched at the changing of hands with the lighter.
"Yeah," Daryl said.
"If that's true, then…that means you're my…and I'm your…" Carol said.
"Soulmate," Daryl supplied. His own breath feeling no less dense than he was sure hers felt as their eyes locked and he finally put it into words and dared to contemplate the thought.