Disclaimer: I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is another of the half-finished fics I have found collecting dust in my word documents since the season four finale. This is a response fill for the USS Caryl's 2nd fanfiction/fanart Challenge on tumblr requested by a delightful-chimichanga.

Warnings: This story is meant to fit in some point during the winter when Team Prison were going from house to house before season three - so sometime in between the season two finale and the season three premier. This is meant to show how Carol and Daryl's relationship could have evolved over the course of the season 2-3 hiatus. *Contains: adult language, adult content, emotional baggage, dealing with the loss of a child, allusions to non-canon character suicide, light religious references and some vague season three spoilers.

Our Story is a Broken One (but we're holdin' our ground)

Chapter Four

She expelled a long, pent up breath as she got to her feet. Unable to help it when her molars ground together, trying to bury the rush of claustrophobia - the room suddenly feeling a bit too crowded as Daryl haunted the back corner. Distant, yet close all the same.

Dust motes filtered through the air, tangling with the curtains and skimming across her skin until she couldn't help but breathe it in. It was almost overwhelming – choking – muting the sound as footsteps clattered down the opposite hall.

She let her fingers trail through the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on one of the dressers, leaving twin lines in the clear mahogany polish as the flawless finish shone brightly in the high afternoon sun.

The back of her throat tickled.

Sophia had called it star stuff. Delighting in the way the motes would catch the light as she twirled around in her pjs, the sunlight reflecting through the bedroom blinds until it looked like the two of them were in a snow globe. She had no idea where Sophia had picked up the name, but she'd never once told her different. 'Star stuff' had always seemed like a better description for a day's worth of dusting in her mind anyway.

She supposed that was what children did, they reminded you of the little things, the good things, the things that stuck with you. The things that actually mattered.

She was barely aware of the movement when her fingers fanned out; caressing the odd mote and spark of light with a reverence she hadn't felt since the last time she'd seen Sophia smiling. Her gut twisted, choking on a bitter tangle of darkness as pain lanced through her insides – it was only an echo, but it still had the strength to wound.

Mouth dry, she forced a swallow. Perhaps that was the reason so few of them made it. There was precious little that was good these days. The pain in her gut hitched – enough to merit resting her hand against it – as she sucked in a breath and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Shudda' known better. Chuggin' a bottle of pills wasn't gunna do it," Daryl finally grunted, breaking the silence dismissively. His derision clear when he flicked the rim of one of the wine glasses, letting the sound ring out in the dusty air as something inside her pulled tight with discomfort.

That was when it happened.

"They didn't know," she snapped, angry for some reason she couldn't quite put a name to as she stared at the empty glasses on the side table. There was a thin powder coating sun-baked along the rim as thrown back sheets and a broken bottle – a Merlot - marked where they'd eventually gotten back up again.

It felt right to defend them – just. They hadn't known you didn't have to be bitten, that the virus didn't work the way they'd thought – the way they'd been told in the beginning. It'd been all over the news. Don't get bitten. Don't get scratched. If you do, you die. Those had been the rules.

"They just wanted to be together," she continued, flashing back to the soft smiles that haunted the photographs in the hall. Memories reflecting back from faded Polaroids and post-it love notes that'd been tacked to the message board by the phone.

The silence was difficult, stuttered – strained.

The sense of loss was so present here; it was tangible and close, suffocating her from the inside out as she drew in a shuddering breath and then another. Refusing to even so much as look in his direction for fear she'd lose her nerve, having to remind herself, not for the first time, that she had a right to voice her own opinion.

"There's nothing wrong with that," she murmured, hands clasped behind her as she leaned against the window frame, gazing determinedly out into the orchard below as her nails sunk deep into the meat of her palms - trapped between regret and vindication as he shifted behind her. She could practically taste his discomfort.

She wasn't sure what it meant when Daryl didn't say a word.

But when she turned back around, she realized why. Because instead of replying, he just fixed her with this look, a look that tried to tell the world that he wasn't wounded. That tried to express that her words hadn't stung, hadn't confused him in ways he didn't know how to express.

She reckoned many women, young and old alike, had been taken in by that subtle vulnerability. By a man who was all but sweating with chaffing restraint and restless confusion as he side-eyed her through his fringe, looking, for all intents and purposes, like a kicked puppy before he wrenched his eyes away. It made her feel about ten times worse than she actually did as his lips firmed into a hard line, practically radiating twin points of anger and confusion as he shouldered his crossbow and turned away.

She sighed as he stalked out. Head ducked into his chin, shoulders up, and expression guarded. With everything from the measure of his steps to the hunch of his back exuding an expression that screamed stand-offishness and near homicide all in one simmering temper.

He'd closed himself this time, she only had herself to blame.

She wasn't sure what made her say it. But some part of her had rebelled at his briskness, at his casual dismissal of what had clearly been a decision made by two people who'd loved each other very much. They'd chosen to die together, gently and on their own terms.

She felt like regardless of the fact that it had been futile, they needed to respect the meaning behind it. Only Daryl didn't. She wasn't sure what he saw when he'd taken it in, but it certainly wasn't respect. Derision maybe, or worse, amusement?

The thing was that she wasn't sure if he'd meant it or not. She wanted to say he didn't but deep down she knew better. Daryl was damaged and with that came certain quirks, certain opinions and reactions to certain situations. She knew that. More often than not, he was all harsh bluster and barely contained temper. But at the end of the day, it was okay, because that was uniquely him and she wouldn't have had him any other way.

His little idiosyncrasies and harsh opinions had never really bothered her, at least not until now. She'd always understood where they'd come from. But right now, in this place, surrounded by all this- she hadn't been able to help herself. She hadn't been able to stop herself from snarking right back, her voice uncharacteristically hard – and perhaps just as uncompromising as his own.

Perhaps he was rubbing off on her.

She shook her head. She'd regretted the words as soon as they'd left her lips. She didn't regret the meaning behind them. Only that she'd bothered to voice them at all. She rested her head in her hands, not relishing how the emotion weighed on her conscience.

Somehow, without even realizing it, she'd messed it all up.

She hadn't meant to drive him off.

They were all tired. Tired, exhausted, hungry, cold and fed up with running. So maybe it was really because she hadn't eaten more than one meal a day since longer than she could remember or maybe it was because the last week they'd only managed a handful of hours a night. Or maybe it was because after all those years of silence, all those years under Ed's thumb, all those moments where she'd been forced to hold her tongue, she was finally beginning to use her voice.

Only now she was still struggling with the whole filter part.

She sighed, sinking back into the chair beside the bed, letting her fingers trail down the rumpled fabric of a silk nightie thrown over the side. She rubbed her fingers down the dusty softness. Only half-listening to the distant sound of Glenn, Maggie, Beth, and Lori tromping through the attic above her head, shaking the occasional cloud of dust loose from the ceiling fan as they tossed the odd box or bag down from the crawl space.

It was a familiar thing, the search for something better to wear than clothing so dirt encrusted it was only a handful of days away from walking away on its own. Ripe was an understatement when it came to personal hygiene these days. Make no mistake.

But to be honest, she was only really listening for the tread of Daryl's boots stomping down the stairs towards the back door.

She didn't know what she was doing as far as the man was concerned. But at the same time, she couldn't find it in her to stop. Not even for both their sakes. They were both far too gone for that.

Later that night they sat down to dinner for the first time since the farm, using the large dining room table with all its finery. She had Carl mucking about, lighting candles on fancy stands, whereas Lori and Hershel had already set about unpacking the dusty silverware and best china of their own accord - determined to make the evening special.

Beth had called it a dinner party, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she'd darted back and forth from the kitchen, ferrying out dishes and setting the table. Rick sat at the head, Daryl on the opposite end, the one closest to the window, which he used by periodically tipping back his chair and peering out into the gloom.

It was only when everyone was seated and she emerged from the kitchen, the last dish – canned peas and garlic shoots - that she realized the table was full. There was a moment of awkward shuffling as the others tried to find space. But it was Daryl who finally broke it. One of his knees skidded across the edge of the table as he grunted and snagged the back of one of the spare chairs - scooting over to make room for two.

It was a tight fit and they bumped elbows more than anything.

But she couldn't deny that it felt a whole lot like a peace offering.

She smiled for what felt like the first time in months.

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – This story is now complete.