#because the amount of careless ricks is horrifying

[nekobami]

[tw: ALIEN MOLD SOFT-GORE] One of the saddest things about Rickless animals is that... Most don't have nobody to take care of them.

"He promised me a Rick and Morty forever too."

"One hundred YEARS."

[bloodlnthemoonlight]

Fic: Carry You Home

So this fic was borne from the suggestion further down about Daryl carrying Carol back home from the infirmary at the end of 10x03, and is mostly just a introspection piece on his thoughts at that moment in the ep. This is for you guys, the Caryl fam, hope you enjoy.

                                                             ***

The first thing he thinks - as the tight knot of worry and anxiety in his chest starts to unravel into relief - is that she’s finally asleep. 

He looks down at her, hovering at her bedside, and studies the face he knows better than his own, retraces her delicate features with his eyes, fingers itching to touch, to smooth that frown line that’s still there between her brows even in sleep, but not daring to disturb her. Allowing himself the luxury of touching her would be entirely selfish of him right now. Daryl wants to seek out the steady thrum of her pulse beneath the soft skin of her wrist, but reassures himself instead in the continued rise and fall of her chest, her quiet, even breathing. That’s something that’s never changed about her, back to when they were first tentatively drawn together: she’s still so quiet in almost everything she does. 

Carol is so still in sleep that more than once over the years, during the many times they’ve all slept together as a group, he has woken, or returned from watch, and found himself gazing at her intently to catch those subtle, vital signs of life. After Sophia, she’s only ever cried silent tears; tears that he’s sure she thinks she’s hidden well, but doesn’t seem to realise she could never hide from him. 

Hers were the softest footsteps to echo down the prison halls, the quietest laugh only after his own... 

God, he misses her laugh. 

And even when she becomes a force of nature, she’s all stealth and deadly grace, and, as in all things she does, she takes his breath away in her beauty. 

This is why the sound of her screaming his name is still tearing through him. 

Carol terrifies him lately. More than he can remember her ever doing before. The past three days have exhausted them all, but her refusal to sleep, the pills she’s popping to stay awake like fucking candy... she’s making mistakes, getting careless, reckless. Imagining conversations they’ve never had and wandering off alone in the middle of the goddamn night in a way that scares the shit out of him and makes him want to not let her out of his sight ever. But Daryl knows she’d feel smothered and resent him for it, and he’s been trying his hardest not to push her, to give her the most space he can stand. 

He’d asked to her stay with him, but she’s still elsewhere really, trapped in the hell of her own mind and he has no idea how to reach her. 

She’d wandered off whilst he’d succumbed to sleep and could’ve been torn to pieces screaming his name. The thought hits him and his stomach drops, veins flooding with ice and heart thundering. He sucks several shuddering breaths but it still feels there’s no air and -

“Hey, easy.” 

He’d forgotten Michonne was there; she must’ve been watching him watching Carol and maybe he’d feel embarrassed about it if he weren’t currently having a delayed panic attack over nearly losing her tonight. 

“She’s here, she’s fine.” Michonne’s voice, familiar and steady, grounds him, and as one of the few people still alive who know him best, she doesn’t try to reach out and comfort him through touch and Daryl appreciates her so much in this moment. 

He clamps down on the old instinct to run and hide his vulnerability, or to lash out defensively, because Michonne understands. Michonne has felt this feeling and so much worse. And he remembers when she too was once loathe to let anyone see the slightest hint of weakness. 

“We got her,” Michonne continues, quietly, calmly, “You and me. If she’s falling apart at the moment, then we’ll hold her together.” 

Daryl meets her eyes, sees the care and conviction there, and trusts that they will figure something out together. Carol, Michonne, Judith and he, they’re all that’s left of the tight knit family they once had, and even though they’ve built this community back up, even though he has other people he likes and trusts... well, the people in this room, Lil Asskicker and RJ (all they have left of Rick), they’re the ones he really can’t bear to lose. 

Holding eye contact, Michonne takes a deep breath and Daryl mirrors the action, no longer feeling like his lungs are paralysed. He swallows down the lump in his throat to whisper, “Right,” hoarsely, nodding and turning back to Carol, who remains sleeping and oblivious to his minor breakdown, thank fuck. 

Siddiq reenters the room then, and Daryl is thankful for his timing not having been any sooner. He still looks a little rattled, still carrying that haunted look that never really goes away nowadays, but he offers a fleeting, reassuring smile nonetheless. 

“She’s out of it, I gave her something to help with the pain and it knocked her out like a light.” 

Daryl is suddenly torn between being thankful that Carol will at least get a decent amount of rest, and annoyed that it came at the expense of pumping more drugs into her. He wonders if she had gotten those pills from Siddiq but decides that now isn’t the time for a confrontation over that. 

“That mean we can move her and she’ll stay asleep? Take her home?” He asks instead, thinking Carol would prefer the privacy and comfort of her own bed, and Siddiq shrugs.

“Might be better to keep her here, but if you really want -“

Daryl does. He wants her close and safe and home. “Won’t do her no harm, right? You said she’s fine.” 

“She will be.” 

“Then we’ll say goodnight,” Michonne says, diplomatically, glancing at Daryl and motioning towards Carol with her head. “Thank you.” 

Daryl leans over her and slips his arms under her back and legs, lifting her easily and cradling her close. She seems far too slight in his arms and he thinks someone should cook for her more often, makes a note to do so. It might not be nearly as good as the magic Carol can create in the kitchen, but he’s been fending for himself for most of his life and can at least produce something warm and edible for her. 

“Thanks, doc,” He mumbles on their way out the door, and as they emerge into the night air, Carol stirs just a little in his arms, turning her head further into his chest before she takes a deep breath and relaxes more than he’s seen her do in what seems like forever. 

Daryl looks down at her, curled into him, and feels as though his heart must be bleeding all over the damn place for anyone to see and there’s no way he’d be able to control it right now. He’s lucky it’s dark, but there are few enough clouds that the moon shines through, illuminating her face, catching silver in her hair. She looks pale as death, peaceful in a way that only gives further weight to the image, and it’s like a knife twisting in his chest, his mind throwing his worst fears at him in horrifying clarity. He remembers the dead weight of Beth as he carried her from that hospital and the thought of doing the same with Carol... 

Fuck, he can’t. He can’t think about that or he won’t be able to take another step. He won’t be able to breathe through the pain. So Daryl grips her a little more tightly instead, feels her, warm and oh so alive. Soft still, even though she presents such a hard front to the world.  

He grips her as though she might be torn away from him at any moment, by monsters both within and without. And if he takes a moment to nuzzle a little into the crown of her head before he sets her down in her own bed and takes his leave... if he holds on just a tiny bit longer, breathing her in and pressing a secret kiss at her hairline, well, he can only be so selfless, and his heart aches so desperately for hers. 

There is so much he wishes he could say to her, so much that he’s unable, or afraid, to put into words; he’s not ready to say them and he knows she’s not ready to hear them, either. So all he can do is murmur three words - not those ones, though they live in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him everyday they go unsaid - into the quiet darkness: 

“Stay with me.”