Chapter 11:
Daryl stood in the courtyard, leaning back against the rough stone wall with his arms crossed, eyes drifting over the space around him. It had been three days since they'd arrived at L'Orée du Mont. The old building had offered them more safety and comfort than any place they'd found in weeks. Its high walls and tucked-away location granted a rare reprieve, though he still found himself turning at every sound, being weary of every face… expecting at any moment that peace could be turned on its end.
It was unseasonably warm today, a cloudless sky and midday sun beaming bright. Daryl had rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, enjoying the now rare feeling of the sun burning his arms. The torturous Georgia sun was something he never thought that he took for granted. He always welcomed the hot, humid summers. Acclimated from years of roughing it in the woods, even before everything fell apart.
Carol was close by, inspecting a small patch of herbs she'd discovered near the wall, fingers deftly pulling at the leaves with a familiar ease. A few yards away, Laurent sat cross-legged in the grass, his nose buried in a worn book he'd scavenged from the old library inside.
Daryl let his gaze rest on the boy for a moment. Laurent was serious, focused, as if the words held something vital. Laurent glanced up, catching Daryl's eye, and managed a quick, shy smile before he dropped his head back down to his book.
Looking back at the building, Daryl caught movement in one of the upstairs windows. Isabelle stood there, half-hidden behind the frame, her gaze resting on each of them in turn, lingering a bit longer on him. When her eyes met his, they held for a beat. He gave her a half smile, and a small wave.
Carol, noticing his focus shift, straightened and followed his gaze up to the window. She offered a small smile when she saw Isabelle. "She's getting stronger," she murmured, slipping a sprig of mint she'd picked into her pocket.
Daryl nodded, glancing back up at Isabelle, who offered them a faint smile before stepping back from the window, retreating into the room beyond.
"Yeah," he said, leaning down and picking a sprig of grass from the ground, he tore pieces off it as he chewed his bottom lip. "We need to start talkin' about what's next. The longer we stay here, the worse our chances are of bein' found."
Carol nodded, her expression thoughtful as she tucked her hands into her pockets and surveyed the courtyard. "You're right," she said quietly. "And the worst our chances are that someone finds Ash. He wanted to come with me. But I told him to hang back and I would be back as soon as I could. He's smart, but he's alone. I don't want to be the reason that something happens to him." She squinted against the sun, looking around the courtyard.
"Does he have enough fuel to get us home?" Daryl's eyes studied her. The way she refused to look at him when she spoke of Ash made him feel like there was something else below the surface. Something that she wasn't telling him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
"He's supposed to be working on that while I'm gone. So I don't know… I hope so."
Daryl picked another blade of grass, rolling it between his fingers. "We'll give her another day or two, then we'll make our way to Paris. Fallou has people there. Maybe they can help us find fuel."
Carol nodded, her gaze drifting back to the ground, a thoughtful crease in her brow.
Daryl's eyes flicked back to the window where Isabelle had been standing moments before. He pushed himself off the wall, tossing the broken piece of grass to the side.
"I'm gonna go check on Isabelle. Make sure she's good." He ruffled the hair on top of Laurent's hair as he walked by, but he only raised his head for a second before getting lost back in the pages.
Daryl was unable to hear the soft slosh of the water until he had already walked into the room. The late afternoon light filtered through the cracked window, casting a warm glow over her shoulders and the gentle curve of her neck. She didn't hear him at first, seemingly lost in her own world as she leaned forward, rinsing her arm carefully where bruises and healing cuts were still visible.
He cleared his throat softly, averting his eyes out of respect but not quite able to leave, a bit unsure of how to announce himself. Isabelle jumped slightly, twisting to look over her shoulder, the sudden movement resulting in a sharp pain that made her suck in a sharp breath between her gritted teeth. Regret flashed across his face.
"Sorry," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the worn floorboards. "I shoulda knocked." He fought with himself internally, trying to decide what he should do next, and deciding that he still didn't know, he turned to walk back out the door.
"No, wait!" She called before he was able to exit. "It's ok…" Daryl stopped and turned towards her, and the amused smile that played at the corners of her mouth didn't go unnoticed, though he made it a point to keep his eyes locked to hers.
"Just wanted to check on you," he said, his voice low and rough, a touch of apology still in his eyes. "Make sure you were alright."
The hint of amusement in her expression turned to something softer. "I'm ok… just sore. I thought the hot water may help. I assumed you would be outside for a while, while it was still warm."
He gave a small nod, feeling strangely unsteady, as though he'd interrupted something sacred. He quietly eased the door shut, and took an unsure step into the room.
Seeing the fleeting fear of panic flash across Daryl's face as he walked into the room made her want to laugh, though as soon as her stomach started to contract, she thought better of it. She'd seen the same look on a deer once. Moments before she'd hit it with her car. One Christmas, many years ago while driving to her grandmother's house in the hillside. The sun had just settled for the night, and neither she nor the poor unsuspecting deer had expected the other to be there at that exact moment.
The parallel between the two made her smile, a soft, fleeting expression that eased some of the lingering pain. She adjusted herself in the tub, watching Daryl as he stood there, shifting awkwardly like he was trying to decide if he should stay or go. He studied her face.
"I saw a deer once give me that same look…" She said, settling her back against the tub. The water was high enough and murky enough that she was well concealed below the surface. "Unfortunately, I believe I was the last thing he ever saw."
Daryl gave a huff of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual awkwardness making a brief appearance.
The image of the fearless man that stood before her - Who'd killed more men and les affamés than could probably be counted. Who'd looked into the faces of his opponents and challenged their own fear - seemed to vanish in that moment, replaced by the quiet, uncertain man who now shifted his weight uncomfortably on the other side of the room like a kid caught doing something wrong.
She thought for a moment, about her past life and wondered, in a different world, if their path's would've ever crossed. Seeing him here, like this, she wondered that if they had, would she have just devoured him as she had the others. But she knew better. She'd seen how Daryl was, how he interacted with people around him. How he'd been towards even her in the beginning. His cold fortified demeanor, not allowing anyone to get close enough to be a threat. She tried to pinpoint the moment when she noticed that it was different, but she didn't know. At some point it just… was.
When he spoke to her, his words were softer. When he looked at her, he no longer looked through her. And, though his body language was still guarded, she no longer felt as though she was being guarded against him, but by him against everything else.
Daryl shifted again, his gaze dipping to the floor before lifting back up to meet hers, a faint hint of vulnerability passing over his features. It was rare to catch him like this, off-balance and uncertain, and she found herself studying him, as if seeing him through new eyes.
For so long, Daryl had seemed impenetrable, as though nothing could get close enough to touch him. Yet here he was, standing in this quiet room, without armor, without the edge she'd come to know as his defense. It was like watching a storm momentarily give way to sunlight, a glimpse of something gentler beneath the surface.
The thought struck her unexpectedly—that she might be one of the few people who'd been allowed past his walls. He talked so little about his past, other than the fact that he had had a brother, and that his grandfather had come here during the war and never made it home. Other than that, everything that molded him and made him who he was, still remained a mystery to her. And it beckoned to her, it pulled at parts of her that she was unable to explain. To know him. To understand him. To want him.
He seemed to take her silence as an invitation, moving to the wooden chair by the window and carrying it over. He set it near the tub, at a respectful distance, still careful not to break the boundary of the water's cover. Turning the chair backward, he straddled the seat and leaned forward, folding his arms across the backrest. He worked his bottom lip between his teeth, as he always did when his mind was working over something, processing, calculating.
The room felt even smaller now. She could see the faint traces of past struggles etched in the lines of his face, remnants of a life hard-lived, each scar and crease telling a story she hadn't yet heard. But it was the softness in his eyes that held her attention, a vulnerability he rarely allowed to slip through.
The realization that she had been staring at him since he'd walked in sparked up a sudden insecurity within her, and she dropped her gaze, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"You know, if someone had told me a year ago I'd be here, sharing a room with a man from the other side of the world, who barely speaks a word of French… I'd have laughed in their face."
Daryl's lips curved into a faint smirk, a warmth flashing in his eyes as he dropped his gaze to the floor. "Hey…" he said defensively, the humor thick in his voice. "I've picked up some since I been here. Easier to read it than to speak it." She smiled at him, raised an eyebrow, as if challenging him. He held up one finger, "Bonjour…" Two fingers "Merci…" Three fingers, "Oui…" he paused, thinking for a moment, then raised a fourth finger, "and… de…" He squinted, working the word over in his mouth, trying to recall how she had pronounced it. "Dépay-sant." His southern accent still woven through the words like vines.
The lopsided, amused grin he gave her made her eyes linger on his mouth for a beat longer than she intended, and she caught herself and looked away.
Her soft response, "Très bien, Monsieur Dixon," held a touch of playfulness, and the way she said it made his smirk deepen.
"Don't mean I'm ready for a conversation or nothin'," he muttered, a bit of his awkwardness creeping back in. He glanced back at her, catching the glint of amusement that lingered in her gaze, and felt the tension ease.
"Ah, no need," she teased, her eyes meeting his "Your expressions speak plenty."
"Maybe so," he replied quietly, his voice low and tinged with a vulnerability he seldom revealed. He looked up, meeting her gaze with an openness that felt as unfamiliar as it was freeing.
The water's warmth had faded, leaving Isabelle with a slight chill as she listened, absorbed in Daryl's low, steady voice. He shared their plan with her, the rough outline that would take them back to Paris.
Daryl leaned back in his chair, his gaze flicking to the window as he spoke. The afternoon sun beamed through, illuminating tiny dust motes that danced in the air, the faint scent of Jasmine still lingering.
"We're giving it another day or two," he continued, his voice calm. "Wanted to make sure you were alright first." He met her eyes, a flicker of concern visible.
Isabelle's hand moved unconsciously to her shoulder, her fingers brushing over the bruises that had darkened her skin, almost blending with the scar left by her previous run in with Les Guerriers.
"They're going to be looking for us." She murmured, her gaze distant, her mind racing through the risks. "They'll be expecting us to try and make a move toward Paris."
Daryl nodded, rubbing his stubble chin as if in thought. "Yeah…," he replied, "We'll just have to do it smart. Stay low and off the main roads. We ain't got much room for error, but we'll get there."
Isabelle nodded, and there was a light knock on the door. Claire's face peeked in, her expression cautious but warm.
"Je dérange?" ("Am I interrupting?") Claire asked softly, her gaze flicking to Daryl, who shifted slightly in his chair but looked to Isabelle, unsure of what was being asked.
Isabelle managed a smile, her hand absently tracing a ripple in the water. "Pas du tout. Entre." ("Not at all. Come in.")
Claire stepped inside, holding a neatly folded bundle of clothes in her arms. "Je t'ai apporté des vêtements propres," ("I brought you some fresh clothes.) she said, a soft smile touching her face. "Quelque chose de confortable pour toi." (Something comfortable for you.")
"Merci," Isabelle murmured, gratitude in her voice. Her gaze flickered to Daryl before returning to Claire. "Je finis bientôt… j'essaie juste de détendre les muscles raides." ("I'm almost done here… just trying to work the stiffness out.")
Claire nodded in understanding and set the clothes down on a small table near the tub. Her expression turned a bit gentler as she asked, "Tu aimerais que je t'aide à sortir et à t'habiller?" ("Would you like me to help you get out and get dressed?")
Isabelle hesitated, glancing briefly at Daryl, who was respectfully keeping his gaze averted. A small smile touched her lips as she looked back at Claire. "Oui, je crois que ça m'aiderait beaucoup, merci." ("Yes, I think that would help me a lot, thank you.")
Claire returned the smile and gave a small nod toward Daryl. "Tu peux attendre dehors?" ("Could you wait outside?") she asked him, a glint of humor in her eyes. He stared at her for a beat, then turned his eyes back to Isabelle, the look of confusion plain. "Monsieur Daryl, could you excuse us for a moment, please?" Clair said gently, a teasing warmth in her voice. Daryl stood, moving the chair back to its place by the window.
"We're still working on his French." Isabelle said lightly, winking over at Claire.
Claire chuckled softly, casting a glance at Isabelle. "Ah, je vois. Il aura besoin de quelques leçons." ("Ah, I see. He'll need a few lessons.") She winked back, a playful glint in her eyes.
Daryl, catching their exchange even without understanding the words, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, only giving a slight shake of his head.
Isabelle stifled a laugh, her eyes bright with amusement. "Merci, Monsieur Dixon," she said with an exaggerated formality, earning a faint smirk from him.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, finally stepping outside, closing the door softly behind him.