|Say Thanks With A Fist
Author: ShadowAssassin41 PM
Carol's admiring a beautiful night, nights that have become uncommon since the world ended. Stumbling upon her, thinking she was a Walker, the abused wife ends up having a light-hearted conversation with resident redneck, Daryl Dixon.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Friendship - Daryl D. & Carol - Chapters: 3 - Words: 8,236 - Reviews: 31 - Favs: 50 - Follows: 36 - Updated: 03-29-13 - Published: 10-27-11 - id: 7500880
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
So, it's been a LONG time since I've posted anything on . Recently, I've become obsessed with the Walking Dead, and became infatuated with a certain hunter with a crossbow... Thus, I decided to write something about Daryl having a conversation with someone he probably doesn't associate with often. My thoughts on what Daryl and Carol would talk about. Kind of inspired by the sneak peek clip for Season 2, Episode 3. Haven't seen it, then go check it out.
Disclaimer: The Walking Dead is owned by Robert Kirkman.
Say Thanks With A Fist
Ever since those two little, miniscule words left her mouth, she regretted it. Even that night, his large, boulder-like fist collided to the corner of her mouth, the thick, crimson liquid leaking from the cuts. That day, when those two little words came from her mouth, he had put up a show for her aging parents, given them a smile that she hadn't seen again since that day. It's been years since she'd seen that bright, beautiful smile on her husband's face. It was true, believe it or not, he did have a beautiful smile.
Carol Peletier walked along the rocky shore of the quarry, the dark waters as still as glass, the moon's reflection quite clear. It was a relatively peaceful night, considering that the world had ended and the dead walked among them. Beauty was scarce these days too; the moon had always seemed to disappear behind depressing clouds every night, making every survivor feel more hopeless. Every day now was a cherished moment to Carol, telling her that even though her life was in danger, she had fought through it, living another day. She aimed to get through this, hoping that the dead would drop dead for good, and civilization would begin to restore itself to its original state.
Carol wanted Sophia to graduate from college with a degree in something wonderful. She wanted her little girl to see the real world, bask in it, and enjoy life. The mother wanted her little child to find a nice man to marry and feel the happiness that having a first child brought you. There were so many things that Sophia needed to learn, needed to see, needed to breathe in.
Oh no, Sophia… Carol began to panic, hitting her head for being selfish, and leaving her little girl with that monster. She wanted so badly to get away from everything that she completely forgot the well-being of her little one. The guilt she would feel if Ed laid a finger on that child. Carol started to walk hurriedly back up the shore, but something stopped her. A figure making its way towards her, kind of limping, right foot looking like it was giving it problems.
Her heart started to pound against her chest, feeling like it was going to burst out of the ribcage. Carol's initial reaction was to run, thinking it was a Walker. That's what she needed: a Walker slaughtering her on such a gorgeous night, turning her into one of them. Please, no, leave her alone; she still had so many things to see, still had so many things to teach Sophia.
Carol took a few steps back, but her feet got tangled together, causing her to fall backwards. The figure was getting closer and closer and she was scrambled backwards now, the rocks on the shore bedding themselves into her palms. That's when the moon peeked around the clouds, shining its beams down on the figure. Unkempt sandy blonde hair, tall, muscular frame, a bit of a rugged look to him…
Carol remembered him, one of the two Dixon men that found their camp about a week before. Speeding around the curves of the dusty dirt road that led to their campsite in a busted, old pick-up truck, they had made quite a ruckus getting to their site. Or at least Merle did, the other Dixon brother. Merle was the loud-mouth of the two while Daryl kept to himself most of the time. But that didn't mean Daryl didn't have his moments. He'd shot off his mouth a couple times too, almost getting into a few fistfights with Shane Walsh, ex-sheriff. Overall, both Dixons were two racist rednecks with short tempers, even if the older showed it more than the younger. Carol always thought they were bad influences on the children, especially Merle, so she wasn't particularly fond of the boys.
The camp had to be grateful towards the Dixon brothers though. The two knew how to survive, going off for days to hunt down something they could eat that could last them a couple of weeks. Though the camp looked up to Daryl to do most of the work since Merle was as high as kite most of the time. Thank God there was at least one level-headed brother…
Carol stopped struggling to get away, straightening her posture, shifting her body towards the water, making it look like she had been like that the whole time. Her eyes rolled to the side, watching as Daryl began to slow down in his walk, raising something to about the height of his waist. It was his crossbow, cocked, and ready to shoot. He must've thought that she was a Walker. As he crept closer, Daryl began to lower his weapon, face twisted. Carol had far since turned her head in his direction, eyes wide with fear that he would shoot.
"What the hell ya doin' out here, 'specially with no one with ya?" Daryl spat, gravelly voice low. He didn't swing his crossbow over his shoulder, but eased it to his side, ready to spring it up in case a Walker came around them.
"Enjoying the scenery…" she said meekly. His stance and way of talking was similar to husband's. Sort of startled her, but she wasn't about to break eye contact with this man.
"Yeh'd risk havin' a Walker rip ya throat out jus' so ya can enjoy the scenery? Pretty damn stupid if ya ask me." The redneck watched the woman whip her gaze from him, staring out into the water. Daryl followed her gaze, eyes narrowed into mere slits, ears listening to any unusual sounds, anything out of the ordinary. "Listen, I reckon we get on back to the camp, jus' to safe-"
"I don't want to go just yet." She knew she was wrong for interrupting him, but this night, so peaceful and beautiful, was something she didn't want to miss. What she never saw another night like this? Carol would certainly regret it. She just wished Sophia was awake to see the stars straining to be seen through the dark gray clouds. Her eyes shifted slightly towards him again, looking him up and down. "What are you doing out here?"
Daryl switched his weight to the other foot, finally swinging his crossbow over his shoulder. "Came fer a swim, but I saw ya instead…though ya was a Walker…" Called it… "Why aren' ya in yer tent?" he asked.
His boots made the rocks crunch beneath them as he came towards her, plopping down on a spot beside her. The slight breeze in the air caught his scent, whisking it up Carol's nostrils. He smelled outdoorsy; pine maybe, with a mixture of sweat, the iron-like aroma of blood, and pure man. The woman was surprised that he didn't reek of bad body odor like her husband did on most occasions. She found herself liking the scent surprisingly and almost inched closer just to get another whiff of it. There was something oddly comforting about it…
His question: why wasn't she in her tent? "Just wanted to get away."
"Get away from tha' bastard of a man ya married. Heh, no surprise there."
"Please don't say that-"
"Like hell if I'm not. I've seen the bruises on yer arms." Daryl's tongue glided over his teeth, collecting saliva so he could spit it in the opposite direction. "Ev'ryone knows 'bout it, even Merle, but he jus' laughs. He can be a right cold asshole sometimes." He smirked, "Ever thought of hittin' him back?"
Carol gasped, but quickly settled back down. She did think about hitting back, but with one glance at her boney, frail hands, she immediately knew she'd never make an impact. Carol didn't really feel the urge to hit him when he laid his hands on her, but when he turned to her little girl with the intent to harm, she wished she could haul off and wail one on Ed. The older woman glanced at Daryl's hands; he'd probably done some damage to somebody's face before. They made her wring her smaller ones uncomfortably.
"Does he hit yer girl?"
Carol eyed him carefully, rubbing her hands against her tan shorts. Despite the chilly air, her palms got sweaty and her face became dewy all of a sudden. Ed's actions towards her daughter had always been an uncomfortable subject.
Daryl narrowed his eyes even more, fingers curling into fists for some reason. "Yer little girl's strong, even if she doesn' show it on the outside much." The redneck shifted uncomfortably; almost like being comforting was awkward for him. Probably was, considering he was always away and when he was with the group, he was in his tent. "Puttin' up with tha' shit fer most of her life? Yeah, she's def'nitely tough."
Carol smiled softly, "Thank you. I'm sure she would appreciate you saying that."
Daryl snorted, "Funny thing is, here I am, forty-somethin' years old, and I have more in common with a little girl more than anybody else." A short chuckle escaped him. He caught Carol's puzzled stare. "My pa wasn' exactly father of the year either. I was at the end of his fist a far few times. Like yer kid, I pushed through it."
The mother watched the hunter stand up, not even bothering dusting his pants off. He gave one final, lingering look at the shimmering waters, staring intensely at how the moon reflected off it before saying, "Too damn cold out here fer a swim. Don' wan' to freeze my ass off…" Daryl looked down at her. "Wan' me ta take ya to yer tent?" He shrugged his shoulder, causing his crossbow to move. "Case there's Walkers?"
"No, I think I can manage. Thank you though."
And as he walked away, Carol had to laugh.
She would have never thought foul-mouthed redneck Daryl would be just like her quiet, well-mannered Sophia. Carol continued to laugh, eyes closed with tears falling down her cheeks. And she couldn't tell whether they were tears from laughter or tears from the sorrow she tried to hide from the world.
A few days later, someone had volunteered her husband to help Daryl carry in a couple bags of deer meat he had finally managed to collect. Carol had tried to persuade the other survivors to allow her husband to rest, but they all shook their heads. Carol shrank back as Ed glared over in her direction, obviously upset about being forced to work, especially with a piece of white trash no less.
Carol watched from her ironing board as Daryl led the way into the woods, Ed grudgingly following. Lori, who was bringing another basket of clothes, noticed the other mother's worried glance.
"Is something wrong, Carol?" Lori asked.
The short-haired woman shook her head, quickly reverting back to her ironing mode. About ten minutes, she heard a rustling of branches, and saw Daryl emerge from the brush, two sacks slung over his shoulder. Another five and her husband came back as well, only his appearance was a bit off.
"Oh my God…" Carol gasped.
Ed's nose was set in an odd slant, blood pouring from his nostrils. Bottom lip was busted open and his right eye was turning a blackish-purple color, a severe-looking cut right next to the eye. It looked like something metal had slashed his skin, possibly a heavy metal crossbow that a certain someone possessed. Carol dropped her iron, running over to examine his injuries, but the man slapped her hands away, face contorted in twisted rage. He pushed past her, trudging towards their tent.
Carol shuffled back to her ironing board, trying to gulp down the lump in her throat. Lori had her lips stretched in a smirk, fist resting on her hip. "Well I'll be damned. Seems that Mr. Dixon did a number on your husband."
Carol turned her head slowly in the direction of Daryl's tent. He was hanging up meat on posts outside, hands all bloodied. She noticed how his knuckles were busted, crossbow covered in red at on the butt of the weapon. The redneck turned his head in her direction as well, sending her a smug smirk before turning his attention back to his work.
Lori was right, she'd be damned…
So, how was it?