Archive of Our Own ^beta

He finds Sophia in a house on the far side of the river, the sun high in the sky and the air heavy with the smells of riverbank honeysuckle and Cherokee rose.

She's hiding in a pantry, trapped by a walker scratching relentlessly at the worn fibreboard, and it's a fucking miracle and a half that he even heard her answering cry of here over his shouting of her name and the walker's moaning.

Guess JC was taking requests after all, he thinks as he shoots the walker and drags it away from the pantry, calling for the girl to come on out and then yanking open the door himself when she takes too long about it.

"You hurt?" he asks, as she stares up at him from a small nest of blankets, a doll in one hand and a steak knife wavering in her other. "Bitten or scratched?" He can't see any wounds on her, but her clothing's dirty and mussed enough that maybe there's something hidden. "Well?"

"N-n-no," she says, pale and wide-eyed. "Just -- bruises. Scrapes." She clambers to her feet and shows him a grazed palm; twisting at the waist a second later to point to a matching scrape on her calf. "I slipped."

On the riverbank most likely, he thinks, seeing smudges of dried clay on her wrist and pants. He waits to see if she's going to say or show him something more and, when she doesn't, he turns heel and heads for the back door, a brusque, "c'mon," tossed over his shoulder as he goes.

She scrambles after him, latching onto his shadow before he's even cleared the back stoop, a quiet little yes sir whispered to his back.

Grunting, he points them towards the farm.

He puts down two more walkers before they get back, both of them sighted well before they can cross their path. Sophia whimpers some each time, especially when he yanks his arrows back, but there's no screaming or the like which he appreciates.

Wiping the bolt clean on the walker's shirt, he eyes her. "Y'alright?"

She nods silently.

He's seen Merle lie better than that with a bullet in his ass and gravel rash on his back. "Truth?"

There's a pause before she slowly shakes her head and admits, "thirsty," in a quiet voice.

He'd share his flask with her again but it ain't got any water left in it, so. "Yeah," he sighs. He looks back the way they've come but they're closer to the farm now than they are the river so there's no point in turning around. "Be back to your momma soon -- y'okay to hold out?"

"Yes sir."

He's expecting the thank you's he gets from Carol when he gets them back to the farm, and the handshake from Grimes, so it's the praise he receives from most everyone else that sits uneasily on his shoulders. The overlapping oh my god's and thank you's and well done's all feel faintly condescending, like he's done something incredibly clever instead of just following a trail of scuffed dirt, and he weathers the compliments with less and less patience until he can finally escape.

He heads down to the pond he saw on his path out this morning, incredibly tempted to jump in and rinse away all the sweat and grime and the stink of the last few days, but he's already heard about the walker the others found in the well and he's got no desire to have some dead, submerged thing start eating his toes. Finding some shade not far from the small dock, he takes out his knives and his whetstone instead, and the sandwich one of the Greene girls had handed him before he'd left, and resolves to wait out the afternoon and maybe the evening by himself.

If he's lucky, maybe someone else will do something that needs back-slapping and being called a hero for while he's gone.

It's close to sunset when he hears footsteps nearing and he reaches instinctively for his crossbow before realising it's Carol approaching and not anyone or anything else.

She smiles when she sees him, and he tries not to scowl back. "What's wrong?"

She rocks back a half-step at his look. "No, no," she says, shaking her head. "I came to find you."

He almost says what for? because surely if it were something bad she'd be screaming and running, not smiling and walking, but then he notices that her daughter's not clinging to her like she was when he left and that sparks a different kind of concern. "Sophia okay?"

Carol nods. "Asleep in the RV. Andrea's watching her."

Blondie's probably the better choice than the other one, though why Grimes or Walsh couldn't pull their fingers out and step up is beyond him. God knows the kid deserves at least a few hours of trained protection after running scared like she did the past couple of days.

"I wanted to thank you again," Carol continues. "What you did --" Her suddenly teary eyes makes the skin on the back of his neck prickle. "No one's ever done that for her -- or me -- before."

He ducks his head, grimacing, to hide a flush of heat in his face and neck. "Didn't do nothin' the others wouldn't have done eventually."

She shakes her head. "Don't say that."

"'S true."

"I don't think so." She gestures towards the woods behind him, to the farm behind her. "You did more for my little girl these last three days than the others did. Than her father did for her, either, her whole entire life."

Stop, he thinks. It wasn't like that. He just found her is all. A lost little girl playing hide and go seek. He didn't do nothing big like fixing the virus that ended the world, or stopping Grimes' kid from getting shot, and he certainly didn't find his fucking brother, the person he's actually supposed to be looking for.

Carol steps closer and closer, until she's right in front of him, a sudden determinedness to her that Daryl finds himself unable to turn away from. "You're a good man, Daryl Dixon," she says quietly, before leaning down to press her lips to his temple and kiss him. "Thank you."

She doesn't do anything more than that one brush of her skin against his, already pulling back and turning to leave before he's even had a chance to think on the way her touch had felt before he'd flinched away from it, and he's surprised to feel a thread of disappointment as he watches her start to walk away.

"Carol."

She stops and looks back to him.

He chews on his lower lip, wishing he knew what he wanted to say -- or maybe that he hadn't even opened his mouth in the first place -- before muttering, "glad she's okay."

She nods, smiling, and he realises with a sudden pang that he likes that expression on her more than any other.

Maybe even likes her more than any other too.

His heart beats unevenly in his chest at the thought, his lungs choking a little with his next inhale, and he tells himself to ignore both reactions. Getting to his feet, he swings his crossbow over his shoulder. "I'll walk you back."

The smile she gives him as he crosses to her is her brightest yet.

He makes himself look away.

As they near the homestead, his arm brushing against hers with every other step, he feels her hand slide into the loose curl of his fingers, holding on even when he flinches.

The back of his neck burns with heat and he steals a glance only to find her stealing one right back.

Stop, he thinks, but he doesn't say it and he doesn't pull free and another step or two later he starts holding on as well.

A hundred yards from the house, as they pass the back of the barn, he takes a chance and stops them in its shadow so that he can kiss her, a brief and fleeting press of lips before she flinches and he pulls back.

She's smiling at him again but, no trace of fear or anger or disgust anywhere near her expression, and he swallows hard. "Yeah?"

She nods quickly and tugs on his hand, pulling him closer, her face lifting up to his for another kiss, longer this time, deliberate and sure. "Yeah," she whispers.

His lips touching hers, he smiles.

The End