Tears and Whiskey – Caryl Drabbles

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from The Walking Dead. They belong to the creators of the comics and the TV show.

Tears and Whiskey - Caryl Drabbles

Chapter 1 - Salt in the Wounds

Her name was Carol, and she had a husband she was afraid of and a kid that stuck to her side like glue. That was pretty much all he knew about her. But on this day, he'd wandered out of the quarry to take a piss, and he'd seen her with her back against a tree, crying into her hands. Her knuckles were scraped and bleeding, and he could see a bruise that looked oddly like fingers on her forearm.

Ed Peletier was an asshole. That was the first thing T-Dog had told him that first night at the quarry. His kid was afraid of him, and his wife tried not to be, but it was painfully clear in this moment that she was. She was trying not to cry too loudly, maybe out of fear that Ed would hear. Ed was passed out piss drunk in their tent, so he figured he wouldn't be stumbling across her anytime soon.

Daryl felt a little guilty standing there behind the tree, watching this woman sob into her sore hands. He didn't know her. He didn't owe her shit. But he'd seen her with the group. She was kind. She was nurturing. There was something about her that he could tell was hiding away, just waiting to be discovered. She intrigued him, even though he would never admit it.

He couldn't stand to see a lady cry. Last lady he'd seen crying and covered in bruises had been his mama after his daddy got done beating on her and came after him. Merle never got it as bad as Daryl, but he'd gotten his fair share of licks, too.

He stepped out of hiding, deliberately snapping a twig with his heavy boot to announce his presence. Carol looked up at him, her eyes red, her nose running, and she wiped at her eyes with the backs of her hands, getting the salt from the tears in her wounds. She winced.

"Sorry," she sniffled, standing up quickly.

"No need to apologize. You ain't done nothin' wrong," he said quietly, handing her a handkerchief out of his back pocket. "Ain't the cleanest, but it ain't bad."

"Thank you," she sniffled, taking the handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. "Daryl, right?"

"Right," he said with a little grunt.

"I'm Carol," she replied, standing up, wiping her hands on the back of her pants.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I know." She handed the handkerchief out to him, and he turned away.

"Keep it. You need it more'n I do." He walked away, because, after all, her problems weren't his business, and neither was she.