When she turns he tenses, straightening up and taking half a step from the wall, but he doesn't want to come closer if that's going to make it worse. Seeing her crying out on the street was bad enough, he can't take it being his fault, even in part. In fairness, he understands, he doesn't blame her. But he hates watching it. It's not about whether she's weak or strong or whether she's the woman he wants to be; he just hates seeing her hurt. Even if he'd turned away from her in the aftermath of her confession, even if he wanted nothing to do with her (and that's far from true; he just needs time, perspective), he wouldn't want her hurting.
"Don't say sorry," he murmurs, low and gravelly, as gentle as he can be. He can't tell her it's all right, there's too much here to pick through and some of it isn't so easy to forgive.
But she is. So sorry, for so many things. Including making him feel badly when he came her to try and help.
Carol swipes at her face, then exhales as she drops her hand to rest on her hip. She turns her head just enough so he can see her cheekbone, then nods in quick, tense movements. Daryl doesn't need to bear any bit of the burden of her pain, and he's the type of man that would.
She's not entirely sure what else to say. There's enough that maybe needs saying that choosing one, and choosing the right way, is overwhelming. So she's silent for a long moment but for deep, slow breathing, exaggerated to keep control.
"You're a good person." Finally, that was all she could come up with, the only thing she's thinking that Daryl would probably never think on his own.
That, he'd forgive her for. Crying, too. Karen and David, even if he didn't have a chance to know them, that will take more than he's got right now. It's not a no. But he can't untangle everything and without doing so it'd be a lie to just claim everything was gonna be all right.
He tilts his head a bit, not that she's likely to see.
"Good people still fuck up."
And doing a bad thing... It's not so simple, it's not necessarily unforgivable. He doesn't think it necessarily makes her a bad person. If she was, it wouldn't sting her so deep.
While he's right, Carol can't manage to agree. She's not sure what she did, horrible and repugnant she agrees, was fucking up. It didn't make much difference in the end but she's seen what can happen from inaction, from waiting. Rick was busy farming and the council was busy hand-wringing -- she blames none of them for it. That's what good people do when faced with impossible choices.
That's why Tyrese stayed back with Judith while Carol did what was necessary. Carol isn't sure whether she can still call herself a good person, but she was willing to give that up for the sake of people she cares endlessly for.
"That doesn't mean they can come back from it." Right reasons or wrong ones, what's done is done, and she has to take every breath of the rest of her life feeling it.
If there was any way to give her an absolute, he would. The problem is, there's no black or white left in the world; no easy authority. They've got their moral code but they wrestle with it. If he threw her out, then Rick believes she's too far gone; but as much as he respects the other man Daryl's aware that Rick is no more infallible than any of them. Good people fuck up. Daryl's had his share. What he and Merle had planned, that's just the one he's never spoken of. If he'd fought Rick harder about giving up Michonne, maybe Merle would still be alive. If he'd been quicker, better. The list goes on the deeper you look.
"Maybe," he says, carefully. Who gets to decide that, anyway? They don't have an easy answer, it's just something they sort out as they go along. They've got questions, they've got concerns, but there's something instinctive about it, too. The way they separate themselves from the people who can't be trusted. The way they mark family.
There's only one thing he can think of, and it's that some people-- their people-- they look back to begin with.
She nods, true enough. That's not a revelation for her which is why she's been boarded up emotionally, wondering if coming back is something she should try for, or even wants. It's hard to deny, with Daryl standing right there, that there's reasons to.
Carol rubs at the back of her neck, more out of a lack of other reaction than from physical discomfort.
"I want to try." Well, she wants to want to try. That's something, it has to be.
It's not easy, he thinks, but it's simple. Uncomplicated. The things you do because they're right, it doesn't matter if they're harder. They don't take the easy road. When they make a wrong turn, they make it right, or they at least learn what to do differently. For, a rational point of view he thinks he could agree with her; he can't sort out where the difference lies, why Rick turned her out. Until he lives it himself, he figures, he can't know. The way he trusts her, that goes a long way toward forgiveness.
From here it's a matter of what she does, how she deals with it.
Whether he means to or not, Daryl makes that sound like something important. Carol loves that about him but just now she can't help but question whether she has any more steps in her. Her feet are impossibly weighty.
"What's the second?" As much as Carol was a leader, in her way, in the prison, right now she's nothing but lost. At home maybe she'd know what to do, but the rules have changed. Some guidance wouldn't hurt. (A hand up would be better if that didn't feel like too much to ask.)
If his view of things is right, then it's the most important thing there is. Trite bullshit, yeah, but it's also a fact that no journey starts without a first step, so there it is. The only thing he has even a little control over is what she has to come back to.
"Hell if I know," he admits. There's a soft look in his eyes, something that might be a smile in better days. Back home maybe he'd have more of an idea, too, but here... well, it's so far removed from the world they've gotten used to that it makes this almost impossible to navigate.
"Keep walkin' I guess." Same as always. Keep getting up, keep living, keep working to stay safe. He'll give her a hand if he figures out how to, without having to ask.
She didn't figure on an easy answer, but there's always that irrational hope of one.
"I hope I can." She turns halfway back around, enough to glance up and meet his eyes before shifting her gaze to the floor. Carol wants to say more, she knows she can't ask forgiveness though, maybe she wants to say she hopes too that he will someday. It could be that goes without saying, she can't entirely be sure if that connection is as strong today as before he knew. She credits Daryl with a great deal but it has to be hard, hearing someone you thought you knew has done something like Carol has.
It was hard to hear, but he thinks it was harder on her to say it, honestly. He's too removed to feel it as keenly as he should, too distracted by her, since she's the one he knows. That's part of why he needs time to mull it over, to make it make sense.
"You'll be alright."
That's not forgiveness, exactly, but he's pretty sure it's not a lie. If nothing else he's got boundless faith that she'll make it through, one way or another; she's strong, always has been, stronger than she knows. And he wants to be there for her, too, part of what she comes back to; he's just not sure yet how to manage.
She'll survive. Being all right is a different kettle of fish. If he only new... well, he wouldn't be so sure. Maybe wouldn't even be here at all.
"Nine lives, remember?" she says softly, to fill the silence and derail her train of thought. The first time those words were exchanged between them she was reassuring him, now they must do just the opposite and she wishes she'd said almost anything else.
That was a careful word choice. Survival, that's almost easy in comparison, especially if you weren't living the way they do. There's folks who get by with a lot less trouble, he's sure of it, because they don't care about anything but their own strength. That could've been him easily, and Carol is part of why it wasn't. He's just looking to return the favor.
A smile at that is a little too much to ask of him. He leans forward to lay his hand softly on her shoulder, a clumsy attempt at reassurance.
Her shoulder is so tense it may as well be solid rock. His hand there is felt though, and appreciated maybe more than he'll know. Carol reaches up intending on a pat, but once their hands are touching she finds hers clinging to his.
Nothing would feel better right now than to turn around and bury her face in his shoulder. She would, if she was certain he'd respond the way she wanted, an embrace she direly needs. As things sit it might just be setting herself up for more things to be sorry about.
Truth is they've got enough history to buy her that much, easy. He doesn't pull his hand away, and maybe there's a light pressure there, like he'd like to pull her in for just that, but maybe she's too stiff to notice. He's thinking back on when they found (and lost for good) her little girl, how he'd had to hold onto her while she fell apart. She'd fought for a while trying to get to what used to be Sophia, like she wanted to lose herself along with the rest of her world, and he'd kept her with them.
He'll keep her with them now, if he can; it's different, but it's a duty he'll willingly shoulder. Whether it's the right choice for all of them... Well. It's the right choice to try, that's all he can be sure of.
Daryl's compassionate act was likely aimed at dissolving some tension; in Carol's mind she can only feel it rising. Telling him her secret wasn't her choice, his being here now wasn't her choice. Sooner or later she'll have to make a one: slip away, or let him in. Guard herself, or chance rejection. Move beyond his reach, or turn into it.
Back home there would be much to complicate it. Rick's decision to put her out and the rest of the group's feelings about allowing her back, the not insignificant fact that being alone is hardly ideal for survival. But in this place it's somehow all the more complicated because there's no life-or-death stake, at least not as immediately. Nothing except whether Carol is willing to take that step, to want it enough. Neither direction feels comfortable, but she must choose one. Move or turn?
He's a good man, he would probably accept her even if he wasn't certain; but if she shows him the door maybe he wouldn't be certain enough to knock. Maybe next time she wouldn't answer. She could go off, find a corner of this place and make it her own, shielded from judgment. Rick said she can survive on her own, and here she most assuredly could. Does she want to? Would being alone hurt more, would it change nothing? Her grip on his hand loosens.
This is impossible. Unfair. No way anyone could be prepared for their world and what it made people do. For a long second Carol just lets herself be unspeakably angry at the wretchedness of it all.
-- And then she shrugs off his touch, and turns to rest her forehead on his shoulder.
It isn't until that moment, when she finally takes that step to lean against him, that Daryl realizes he's terrified she won't. It's not about what she's done or what she might do to the group, the others. He just can't lose her like this. He's lost her already, and brought her back, and he's under no illusions about the likelihood of their survival, back home. Someday she's going to run out of luck, or he is, and that will be that. But here-- here if that's the choice she makes, if she walks away, if she leaves--
He wraps an arm around her shoulders, tight, halfway to cover the fact that he's suddenly wound like a spring, almost wired enough to tremble. When he forgives her-- and he will, tacitly, in time, as best as he can-- this will be so much of it, this moment, these choices. He's not letting her go. He's not.
Carol can feel him tense and somehow that makes hers ease, because for Daryl it's not just duty, he cares enough that he was scared. Even though she was too, still is, it's always easier to comfort someone else than allow herself to be comforted. If keeping her close in whatever sense will help him, she can do that, when maybe she couldn't if it were for her own reasons.
She returns the embrace with both arms, just as tightly.
"I'll be all right," she says, echoing his words. She can't say how, but she doesn't need to right now. Just the words are enough.
Maybe it's selfish of him to want her to stay, when she's not certain, when there's so much against it, but right now Daryl honestly does not give a flying fuck. If it helps, if it gives her a reason not to give up on herself, then he'll gladly be selfish for once. Done. There's more than one way to be an anchor. Back on the farm, she'd told him she wouldn't let him leave, and he'd stayed for her; maybe this isn't too much to ask. She's earned her place, too, as far as he cares. He needs her.
He doesn't trust himself to answer, so he nods, figuring she'll be able to feel the motion at least. How doesn't matter. They're going to make it work. That decision, it's enough. They will.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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"Don't say sorry," he murmurs, low and gravelly, as gentle as he can be. He can't tell her it's all right, there's too much here to pick through and some of it isn't so easy to forgive.
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Carol swipes at her face, then exhales as she drops her hand to rest on her hip. She turns her head just enough so he can see her cheekbone, then nods in quick, tense movements. Daryl doesn't need to bear any bit of the burden of her pain, and he's the type of man that would.
She's not entirely sure what else to say. There's enough that maybe needs saying that choosing one, and choosing the right way, is overwhelming. So she's silent for a long moment but for deep, slow breathing, exaggerated to keep control.
"You're a good person." Finally, that was all she could come up with, the only thing she's thinking that Daryl would probably never think on his own.
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He tilts his head a bit, not that she's likely to see.
"Good people still fuck up."
And doing a bad thing... It's not so simple, it's not necessarily unforgivable. He doesn't think it necessarily makes her a bad person. If she was, it wouldn't sting her so deep.
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That's why Tyrese stayed back with Judith while Carol did what was necessary. Carol isn't sure whether she can still call herself a good person, but she was willing to give that up for the sake of people she cares endlessly for.
"That doesn't mean they can come back from it." Right reasons or wrong ones, what's done is done, and she has to take every breath of the rest of her life feeling it.
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"Maybe," he says, carefully. Who gets to decide that, anyway? They don't have an easy answer, it's just something they sort out as they go along. They've got questions, they've got concerns, but there's something instinctive about it, too. The way they separate themselves from the people who can't be trusted. The way they mark family.
There's only one thing he can think of, and it's that some people-- their people-- they look back to begin with.
"No one comes back if they don't try."
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Carol rubs at the back of her neck, more out of a lack of other reaction than from physical discomfort.
"I want to try." Well, she wants to want to try. That's something, it has to be.
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From here it's a matter of what she does, how she deals with it.
He shrugs.
"First step, right there."
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"What's the second?" As much as Carol was a leader, in her way, in the prison, right now she's nothing but lost. At home maybe she'd know what to do, but the rules have changed. Some guidance wouldn't hurt. (A hand up would be better if that didn't feel like too much to ask.)
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"Hell if I know," he admits. There's a soft look in his eyes, something that might be a smile in better days. Back home maybe he'd have more of an idea, too, but here... well, it's so far removed from the world they've gotten used to that it makes this almost impossible to navigate.
"Keep walkin' I guess." Same as always. Keep getting up, keep living, keep working to stay safe. He'll give her a hand if he figures out how to, without having to ask.
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"I hope I can." She turns halfway back around, enough to glance up and meet his eyes before shifting her gaze to the floor. Carol wants to say more, she knows she can't ask forgiveness though, maybe she wants to say she hopes too that he will someday. It could be that goes without saying, she can't entirely be sure if that connection is as strong today as before he knew. She credits Daryl with a great deal but it has to be hard, hearing someone you thought you knew has done something like Carol has.
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"You'll be alright."
That's not forgiveness, exactly, but he's pretty sure it's not a lie. If nothing else he's got boundless faith that she'll make it through, one way or another; she's strong, always has been, stronger than she knows. And he wants to be there for her, too, part of what she comes back to; he's just not sure yet how to manage.
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"Nine lives, remember?" she says softly, to fill the silence and derail her train of thought. The first time those words were exchanged between them she was reassuring him, now they must do just the opposite and she wishes she'd said almost anything else.
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A smile at that is a little too much to ask of him. He leans forward to lay his hand softly on her shoulder, a clumsy attempt at reassurance.
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Nothing would feel better right now than to turn around and bury her face in his shoulder. She would, if she was certain he'd respond the way she wanted, an embrace she direly needs. As things sit it might just be setting herself up for more things to be sorry about.
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He'll keep her with them now, if he can; it's different, but it's a duty he'll willingly shoulder. Whether it's the right choice for all of them... Well. It's the right choice to try, that's all he can be sure of.
It's who they are. It's what they do.
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Back home there would be much to complicate it. Rick's decision to put her out and the rest of the group's feelings about allowing her back, the not insignificant fact that being alone is hardly ideal for survival. But in this place it's somehow all the more complicated because there's no life-or-death stake, at least not as immediately. Nothing except whether Carol is willing to take that step, to want it enough. Neither direction feels comfortable, but she must choose one. Move or turn?
He's a good man, he would probably accept her even if he wasn't certain; but if she shows him the door maybe he wouldn't be certain enough to knock. Maybe next time she wouldn't answer. She could go off, find a corner of this place and make it her own, shielded from judgment. Rick said she can survive on her own, and here she most assuredly could. Does she want to? Would being alone hurt more, would it change nothing? Her grip on his hand loosens.
This is impossible. Unfair. No way anyone could be prepared for their world and what it made people do. For a long second Carol just lets herself be unspeakably angry at the wretchedness of it all.
-- And then she shrugs off his touch, and turns to rest her forehead on his shoulder.
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He wraps an arm around her shoulders, tight, halfway to cover the fact that he's suddenly wound like a spring, almost wired enough to tremble. When he forgives her-- and he will, tacitly, in time, as best as he can-- this will be so much of it, this moment, these choices. He's not letting her go. He's not.
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She returns the embrace with both arms, just as tightly.
"I'll be all right," she says, echoing his words. She can't say how, but she doesn't need to right now. Just the words are enough.
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He doesn't trust himself to answer, so he nods, figuring she'll be able to feel the motion at least. How doesn't matter. They're going to make it work. That decision, it's enough. They will.