A simple supply hunt for a source of water in the middle of Atlanta turns sour quickly for Erin as she come fist to face with a fuming, handless Merle Dixon.
Alone in the middle of the apocalypse with only a racist guy who doesn't know the differen...
"You know I'll take my heart clean apart if it helps yours beat." - Two. Sleeping at Last
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Thoughts swirled inside Daryl's head as he tried to distract himself from the situation, though it was little use.
The heel of his boot tapped restlessly on the tiled kitchen floor, his knee juddering up and down with nerves. His eyes glanced at the closed door every few seconds. He was willing it to open. Willing Erin to step through it, all her injuries gone, the last hour having never happened.
Reality didn't oblige, not giving a fuck about what he wanted as usual.
Deep breaths dragged through his lungs as he tried to steady himself, relax some of the tension in his chest. His hands were clenched tightly, one on the edge of the table, the other on his knee. The knuckles were white. White speckled with bright red blood.
It was difficult to move his mind onto any other topic when his whole body served as a reminder. He was covered in Erin's blood - everything from his shirt, to his jeans, to his boots, to his skin, coated in one way or another.
Each speck was more of her blood than he'd ever wished to see, and each time he looked at himself he was reminded of how broken and bloodied she'd been. It was brutal. Shane was a brutal monster, and Erin was too emotionally beaten to fight back against the physical onslaught.
Daryl had seen it in her eyes before he'd left. He'd wanted to say something, anything, but he'd feared his words wouldn't help. He'd thought he'd stumble over them, say something he didn't mean or butcher something he did. Now, in hindsight, he couldn't help but wonder if just one word could have changed what happened.
He made a move to get up before thinking better of it and sitting down again, feeling torn. Part of him wanted to go to Shane, to fuck him up like he'd done to Erin and let the world know what happened when you hurt people he cared about. Another part of him argued that the best place for him to be was by Erin's side, protecting her in case Shane decided to come and finish what he started.
Neither side won, and thus he stayed put in the kitchen. He was itching to pummel Shane into the ground, to let him feel what Erin had felt, but he couldn't leave her in the care of strangers while he marched off on a vendetta against a man who had half the camp behind him.
The word strangers stuck out in his mind. In reality, he had only know her a day or so longer than Beth and Maggie had. The two weeks since she'd returned his brother to the group had moved so fast, and yet as slow as molasses at the same time.
Two weeks.
Pre-apocalypse Daryl would have either fucked her or forgotten her by this point, hence his unsavoury words about her to Merle. The terms and nonchalance had been so ingrained into him that he'd barely considered what he'd been saying, until he'd seen the hurt in her eyes. The fact he'd then continued made him feel sick to his stomach when he thought about it.
