"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

forty seven, roadkill

"YOURE CONCUSSED, IM SURE," she said, raking the cabinets for any medicine or food as Daryl tosses his bag over the counter. She steps back and sighs at the view ahead: four cans of beans and a tiny first aid kit.

"This will do." She huffs.

"It'll have to." Daryl replies gruffly, retreating through to the bedroom to take a look.

She pulls out everything stacked up on the shelves and lays it all out on the counter, before looking over to Carl. Blood trickled from his forehead down to his chin, from being hit in the head so hard, and he still had no shirt: they hadn't had time to grab it on their way out.

"There's nothing I can do besides clean you up. You can't fall asleep, either." He nods, and she gestures for him to sit at the rickety wooden table.

When he does, she closely follows, sitting herself on the edge of the table to get a better angle at his head.

"They hit you hard."

He scoffs, looking up into her eyes.
"I'm sure I'll be fine," he combats sarcastically.

"Don't be an asshole. You're bleeding. That's not nothing."

"I know, I'm sorry," he admits, lifting his chin up towards the hot cloth in her hand.

There's a stern silence between the two of them for awhile, and it's so loud that Daryl can hear it from the next room over. Carl's eye tries it's hardest not to meet hers, but they seem to incidentally clash at the most vulnerable times. He knew she was thinking about what he said, now that she had time to dwell on it. He wondered where she stood, but then came to the conclusion that he didn't really want to know.
Plus, it wasn't like they had to thank one another for saving each other, because that was just what they did now. They had an understanding on that. No thank yous.

"Was that the first thing that came to mind?" She asked, her voice hushed to almost a whisper as if a harsher tone might've scared him off.

"It doesn't matter, it's done."

"It matters to you."

"I did it to save you, not because I was thinking about it. I was thinking about what might happen if I didn't say that. About what would happen to Judith if we died there. About what my dad would've done, if he were me."

"I'm sorry, I...didn't mean it like that. I'm grateful that you said it. It's just, with no hesitation, it seemed like....I don't know. Like you wanted it to be true." She said, cautious of her words. His eye sped up to meet her gaze, his brows knitting together as he thinks of something to say.

"I once did. But it's not possible. It wasn't back then, either. It probably won't ever be."

"We have Judith, and Henry. We have families to look after, we'll be okay."

"But do we? We're away from all that, or, we're away to be. Next week, we'll be too far out for them to visit, and too far out to rush over if something like what happened today happens again. What if we don't see them again? What if they...or we.." he trailed off, playing with his hands in his lap.

"Carl," she says, exhaling, "we can go back anytime. And when we find him, then maybe.....the lost time will be worth it."

As much as he agreed with her, he felt there was some meaning, intentionally shielded from her underneath his words. He did miss Judith, and Michonne, and his friends back home, but he felt more guilty that she was missing out on this. The image of her, asleep with the lights on flashed before his eyes as it often did. She deserved that.

"You're lucky Henry is old enough to remember you." He replies, getting up to grab a bottle of water from his pack. She watches intently as his back muscles tense when he moves, examining the scars that run along his back. He looks beautiful.