Summary: Ever since the world fell, you've learned to survive alone, untill one day you stumble on two strangers who saw your struggle and welcomed you into their home. For once, you learn to stay and wait.
Pairing: Carol Peletier x Fem!POC!Reader
TW/Tags: age gap; canon-typical violence; solitude; wlw;
Word count: 8.7k
A/N: this fic is about stolen teenage years and it shows in what i think is real truthfull and honest how someone learns atypical love in the end of the world
“Caralho!” You cursed when the first dead appeared out of nowhere. Your backpack fell from your shoulder, as empty as it was before you entered the house, and you pushed the dead as hard as you could against the other ones coming out the kitchen door. As they fell, you used one of the pots to break the glass window and climb through it.
The years since the world fell made you better at climbing, and that was your first instinct as soon as you got outside. Once safely out of the dead’s reach, on the roof, you took a deep breath. Only then you felt the sting on your calf. You pulled up the leg of your pants to see blood smeared all over your calf, the cut small but bleeding like hell. Your first instinct was to reach for your backpack, only to remember it was now lying on the kitchen floor.
“Merda! Merda, merda!” You yelled again and again, echoing yourself. There was no one to hear you in that neighborhood, or at least you hoped so. You were always careful to scavenge at night, but it had been two days since your last meal. You were starting to get desperate.
You tried to rip out a piece of your shirt, tugging at it harder and harder, but your fingers felt weak and useless. The fabric simply wouldn’t tear. “Que droga…!” From below, the dead clawed and groaned, uselessly trying to reach you from the siding of the house. At least eight of them. Maybe a dozen. Your vision blurred around the edges as hunger and fear tangled in your skull.
Then you heard a low rumble in the distance, and you froze while you watched a car coming up the street. You tried to shrink and hide, but there was nothing to hide behind, and a bunch of dead looking up a roof was already something one would find suspicious, to say the least. And when you moved, one of the roof tiles fell, shattering on the floor.
The car stopped not far from the house, a grey-haired woman and a man with a biker vest came out of it. The man had a crossbow, the woman had a knife, but none of them headed for the dead, they both looked at you instead.
“Where are the others?” The man yelled. You flinched, swallowing hard, but didn't move. The dead heard him and headed straight for them, and they exchanged a look before the woman took a knife from her belt and went for the dead.
You closed your eyes, you didn’t want to see it. You've seen it before, the way they ripped people apart, the way they chewed them alive.
“Dis yours?” You opened your eyes to see him holding your backpack, the woman standing by his side, intact, only a drop of dark blood on her cheek and you knew it was not her blood.
Your breath was fast and shallow. You weren’t sure which scared you more - his weapon, or the idea of coming down at all, you couldn’t even recall how long it had been since you’ve interacted with another person. But the arrow aimed between your ribs made the decision for you. You raised your trembling hands and slowly went to the edge of the roof. He kept the bow aimed on you the whole time. The woman stood besides him, observant.
When your boots hit the dirt, they were both immediately on you. “Where are the others? How many?” He demanded. “Who ’r ya with?”
You shook your head.
They exchanged a look. One of those silent conversations people who trust each other have.
“Arms up” he said.
You obeyed.
The woman stepped closer, her hands patted down your arms, your sides. She felt your pockets, your belt loops. When her palm brushed your sides, your ribs, she paused. You saw the change in her eyes, but she swallowed whatever reaction she had and kept going.
From your back pocket, she pulled out your tiny folding knife. The only weapon you had, which you used for opening cans and cleaning under your nails rather than fighting. She said nothing, only slipped it into her own pocket. Her touch moved to your ankles, socks, inspecting your wound.
“She’s hurt.” the woman said quietly. “Is it deep?” You shook your head again.
The man grunted, then crouched down and unzipped your backpack, dumping your stuff onto the ground. An old MP3 player, a can of beans, half a bottle of water, a spare pair of socks, a long sleeved shirt.
“That's all you got?” he asked. You nodded. “How the hell ya charge this thing?” He held up the MP3 player.
“I don’t… I just carry it.”
His jaw ticked. Another quick glance at the woman. You knew they were trying to read you, figure out if you were lying, if you were bait, if you were dangerous.
You were none of those things.
The woman nodded at him, then stepped into your line of sight again, softer than the man but no less sharp.
“When was the last time you ate?” she asked.
You looked at the can of food on the floor, the one you were saving when things got too bad to handle. “Two days.”
You remembered the car ride to their home, Alexandria. They asked you many questions. Where you were coming from, where you were headed. How many dead had you killed. They called them walkers. How many people had you killed. They didn’t believe any of the answers.
You walked into Alexandria with ropes tying your hands behind your back, like a criminal. When you walked past the gates, you understood why. They had everything: gardens, water, solar panels, children, babies, elderly. Like the world hasn’t ended for them.
You were not sure how many days you had spent in a basement, which was their jail. But you had water, three meals, and sometimes the woman would come back to check on you.
Her name was Carol. Just Carol.
There were other names. The man was Daryl. There was also Rick, the leader. Maggie, Michone, Carl, Glenn, Noah, Enid… But Carol’s name rolled off your tongue easily.
One day, Rick took you out of the cells. Said you were there for safety. He had a council, and they said you could live in one of the empty houses. You were no harm.
You remembered your first shower.
You took the soap bar into your hands, brought it to your nose and inhaled its smell deeply. You closed your eyes and did it again, tears rolling down your cheeks. The bathroom was pristine, the towel clean, fresh clothes… To think not long ago you were stuck in a roof, in the middle of nowhere, thinking those would be your last moments.
It had been years since you’ve last taken actual care of your hair, instead of detangling and putting it in an afro puff. But that day, you took your time. Afterwards, you felt clean, human. Less ashamed, even if you knew none of it was your fault.
You had no idea what to expect from people before Alexandria. Whenever you saw signs of people anywhere, you’d go the opposite direction. You had little, but you were not willing to risk what little you had.
Now you felt almost welcome. Almost as if you were part of it.
You needed to do something. At first, you helped at the gardens, but there wasn’t much to do, so you came back every two days. You also helped Olivia with the inventory. But the one thing you did most was to follow Daryl and Carol around. It was the only thing that didn’t make you feel completely isolated, even if other people were welcoming.
You sat on the sidewalk one afternoon as Daryl fixed one of the cars. You knew nothing about cars, never learned to drive either, but kept him silent company. You wanted to ask him how did Carol kill all those dead the other day, but you didn’t.
“You like cars?” She asked, walking closer with a basket on her hips. You shook your head. “You want to help me cook dinner?”
You got up in a minute, following her inside her house. It was the first time you went there. Carol looked peaceful as she washed the tomatoes, peeled the onions… you sat on a stool on the kitchen island, helping her silently.
“You’ve met Rosita.” She said. You were not sure if it was a question or a statement, so you just nodded. “She’s going to teach you how you kill walkers. Tomorrow morning.”
“Okay.” Carol looked at you for a moment. Really looked. You could see it in her eyes, she was worried about you. You were not sure if she was worried about you being alone or about you being useless.
Rosita was too much for you. She was fast, precise, and serious. Lethal. She handed you a blunt machette and showed you how to aim for the brain. You felt clumsy and slow compared to her, your movements tentative. For the first day, you mostly just sliced air.
Her friend was there too, Eugene. And he came back for the second day with a book. You had no idea why he’d give you a book, and it made even less sense when you saw the cover, which was a bunch of plants. “Guia rápido de identificação e consumo seguro de plantas variadas”. You had no idea how he guessed where you were from, though your accent and appearance were a big hint.
“I figured you would enjoy reading something in your native language.”
And you did.
By the end of the day, your arms ached, but you’d successfully taken down a practice dummy made of old hay bales and a pumpkin. It wasn't the same as a real walker, but it felt like a start.
You settled into a rhythm. Gardens, inventory, training with Rosita or whoever was willing to when she was busy. Alexandria was calm, but it was full of fierce survivors. You learned that Daryl was fiercely loyal and soft beneath the rough exterior, and that Carol’s peaceful domesticity was a highly effective mask for a terrifying competence.
One evening, after helping Carol fold laundry, she looked at you with gentle eyes. “You’re adjusting."
“Alexandria feels safe.”
“Does it feel like home yet?” You shook your head and she offered you her fruit basket. You took a pomegranate and smelled it. “And where’s home?” Carol was a good liar, you could see it, besides stories you’ve heard, but she could not hide her curiosity.
“Far.” You held back a smile.
That night was harder than any other. You felt homesick, wondering if Alexandria could ever feel like home. You reached for the book Eugene had gifted you, flipping through the pages, holding the pomegranate close to your nose. You ate it the morning after, before going outside to help tend the garden.
“Girl” You heard Daryl’s voice behind you. You turned to look at him walking towards you, crossbow on his back, looking ready. He pointed his head at the gates. “Com’ here.”
It was the first time you joined Daryl and Carol on a run, looking for anything useful: food, batteries, medicine, herbs… They said you were fast, smart, good at walking in and out of places without being noticed, and good at climbing if needed.
You were still bad at killing, though. Not for lack of technique, you had learned enough of that, but the sight of the dead groaning at your face… you still froze at that.
Carol put a hand on your shoulder, asked if you wanted her to take care of the single walker hanging from a tree near where Daryl had parked the car. Before you could answer, Daryl shot it. As he went to retrieve the arrow, you saw Carol glaring at him.
None of them were really talkative, but neither was you. You were silent, observant, sometimes letting a comment or a joke slip out. It wasn't home, but it was comfortable with them. Easy, soft silence.
“What year is it?” You asked, looking for something useful at the gas station. Carol shook her head.
“Eugene says… about 2015… maybe ‘16.” Daryl answered. “Got a schedule?”
You managed a snort, but something inside you trembled. “I'm older than I thought.” You muttered. Carol gave you a look that you knew was something between pity and pure sadness. Daryl looked at her apprehensive, worried. Carol took a deep breath and touched your shoulder.
“You're fine, sweetheart.”
That word lingered, and you couldn’t tell why. You thought about it for longer than you should have, and even muttered it to yourself once. Carol just seemed to always find her way into your head. Her cooking, her smell, the way she looked around and looked at you, her words, always careful around you. As if you didn’t live in your head enough before that.
Sasha complained, once. She was going to teach you how to shoot. You were on your way out of Alexandria, not too far, just far enough that you wouldn’t attract the dead, and she was speaking to you. You were not the type to let your head wander, but you saw Carol walking by. She smiled at you. You waved.
You started recognizing the plants from Eugene’s guide. It was helpful when one of the children got sick with fever that wouldn’t cease. You went out on your own for the first time after that, and took the book. You didn’t mind being alone. Carol seemed to mind.
“I know you’re used to it, but that’s not how we do things here. Something could’ve gone wrong.” You nodded and apologized at your well deserved scolding, then handed her the herbs you found, explaining what they were for.
You followed Carol and Daryl around like a lost puppy. It was a familiar routine now - hunting, scoping out abandoned buildings, moving silently, and keeping watch. Daryl always gave you a tip or another about how to track and hunt properly. You were getting better at spotting trouble, and good at keeping silent and staying observant when Daryl and Carol were discussing their strategy, but sometimes… sometimes you’d get captivated by the sunlight shining on Carol’s hair, making the gray strands shine silver.
She was pointing at something on the map, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked capable, calm, and utterly in control. The domesticity was gone now, replaced by sharp competence. The way she could balance domestic life and lethal precision never failed to amaze you, and you wondered how she had come to be the person she was now. It was always a struggle for you to drag your gaze away from her.
But Daryl was right there, blocking the sunlight. He wasn't looking at the map or the perimeter. He was looking at you. And you were looking at her. Even when she folded the map and started walking, you were still looking.
Daryl’s eyes, usually narrowed in suspicion or scanning the horizon, were steady and knowing. He didn't have to look back to know who you'd been staring at. He didn’t move. He didn’t grunt, he didn’t ask a question, and he didn’t make a joke. He just stood there for another beat, then shifted his weight and nodded toward the car.
"We’re moving" he said, his voice flat. You wondered if his tone meant a warning, a threat, or nothing at all.
You fell into step behind him, feeling as if you were stepping on a minefield, your heart still hammering a quick rhythm against your ribs. You knew Carol’s eyes were quick, and that she was always aware of her surroundings. You wondered if she was aware of your eyes on her too.
You sat on the backseat of the car, the backseat of their relationship, wounded by things that existed only in your head. She called you sweetheart, but called him by his name, and you were not sure you were ready to find out if meant something.
Daryl sat by your side on your frontsteps. He was cleaning his crossbow, but it felt like his attention was on you. “Yer alright, kid?” You nodded.
“Maggie is moving to Hilltop… some people are going with her.” He hummed, eyeing you suspiciously.
“Yer’ better off here.” You couldn’t bring yourself to hold his gaze, staring at your boots instead. “People like ya her’”
“Oh… okay.” You nodded. Daryl looked back to his crossbow. You wanted to ask how did he know that, that people liked you, but you didn’t.
Daryl told you to take it easy before he left. You stayed sat on those steps for long after the sun had set. You didn’t want to go inside and sleep, you wanted to go to Carol’s house. You wanted to hug her, wanted her to smile at you in that kind way, to call you her sweetheart.
You didn’t know how to ask her any of that. Instead, you just looked at her, desperate for her to notice your heart ripping apart for reasons you did not know, but also wished she’d just… look at you, and move on.
“I don’t know how to.” You said, staring at the steering wheel. “I’d take the bus everywhere back home.”
“And where’s that?” Carol asked from the backseat. Daryl waited for the answer, hand on the hand brake, eyes on you.
“Saquarema.” They waited for you to continue. “In Rio. Rio de Janeiro.”
“You’ve come a long way.” You knew what they were asking. The reason why you came.
You had just finished high school and gotten into college. A year into college and you got a scholarship for an exchange program, and then you woke up to people yelling at campus. You never got exactly what the instructions said, everyone shouted, power was off.
You felt comfortable now that you knew you were not on their backseat. But then, you didn’t know where you were either. You just wanted to be with them, bouncing between Carol and Daryl the whole time, asking a hundred questions, making little comments, humming under your breath. Daryl liked playing tough, but he paid attention to every word you said. Carol was surprisingly entertained.
“Hold up” Carol murmured suddenly, squinting through the trees. “Is that…?”
You followed her gaze, standing on tiptoe even though it didn’t help. But then you saw the mango three, loaded with perfectly round, pink and yellowish shapes hanging heavy on the branches. Her breath caught.
“Ya like ‘em?” Daryl asked. Carol nodded.
“I haven’t had one in years.” Daryl had already pulled his crossbow up and aimed at a ripe one among the leaves. “Hold on. Lemme try.” The mango didn’t even budge. “Dat one’s just…-” Daryl aimed again, jaw working. Fired.
Nothing. Not even a wobble.
“I’ll try” you said, leaving your backpack on the ground, approaching the tree.
“Nah. T’s a bit high.” Daryl tried to warn, but you were not worried at all.
“I’d do this all the time when I was little.” You had already started, a few feet high, using your knife too. “Carol, don't peek under my skirt!” You yelled. You heard her giggle.
“You’re wearing pants, sweetheart!” You looked down just to smile at her, and to see her silly giggling face. Daryl huffed. You got all of the mangoes you could reach, and Daryl catched them. Later, Carol made salad and added mango cubes to it.
You rehearsed the question in your head. You just couldn’t live with not knowing anymore. You looked at yourself in the mirror and asked it, again and again, but when the opportunity came, you faltered, stuttering, choking on yourself.
“When do you know… how. How do you know if it is right?” Daryl narrowed his eyes at you.
“What dat mean?”
“The time.” You avoided looking at him, something between feeling sheepish and uncomfortable, but Daryl didn’t look away from you. “For stuff, you know. My mom used to say if you wait too long, you miss the bus.”
Daryl sighed, scratching the scruff on his chin. He looked away from you, focusing his attention on the dirt near his boots, but his posture softened just slightly. He knew. He knew what you were asking about, even if he wouldn't name it.
"Yer mom was right" he grunted, the words low and slightly rough. "'bout the bus." You waited, your breath held, watching him. "Ya just… gotta do it. Ain’t no one gonna hold your hand and tell ya when."
You nodded. You felt like there was nothing else you could do. Daryl looked at you, a caring seriousness in his eyes. "Ya gotta know what yer wantin’ first, kid."
You didn’t push it. Daryl had given you an answer, though you were not sure what to do with it. You followed him deeper into the woods, hoping to find a deer, the conversation echoing in your head.
Gotta know what yer wantin’ first. You knew. You just didn’t know how to ask for it, or if you were the only one wanting it.
When you arrived back to Alexandria, Daryl put a hand on your shoulder and caught your eye before you could move. "Don’t go overthinkin’ it.” Again, you nodded, because you had no idea what else you could do.
But you did overthink it. You couldn't get out of your own head. You once stared at Daryl for a full minute, your mouth opening then closing, the words on the tip of your tongue… only to then wish him a good morning.
Did any of them see it? Could they feel your desperation?
Carol once found you in the gardens, your hands full of dirt, weeding the plants. She looked around, the garden mostly empty except for the few elderly people tending to it. She sat on the edge of the stone path, brushing a bit of dirt from her pants.
"The others your age, they’re not usually out here." Carol observed, her voice quiet. "Enid and Carl are helping with the kids… Tara and Rosita are scouting today."
You kept pulling weeds, not looking up. You knew she knew Carl and Enid were younger than you. They were teenagers. And Tara and Rosita were a bit older. You felt like you couldn’t connect with either of them. "I’m better here" you mumbled.
"Sweetheart, you have a whole life ahead of you" Carol said, her tone gentle but firm. You finally looked at her. Her expression was soft, but her eyes held that mix of pity and concern you had seen before. "You have a chance to live… but you’re here, gardening. That is for people my age."
A knot tightened in your stomach. "Do you think I’m wasting time?" you asked, the words barely a whisper.
Carol paused, but never looked away. "I think you might be."
Wasting time. The words echoed Daryl’s advice. If you wait too long, you miss the bus.
There. Missed it, and you felt like it was not the first time, like you have been there before, wasting time on her, waiting for something that would never come. You had been so focused on getting closer to her, on being with her, that you hadn’t considered she might be wanting you to point toward a completely different path, one without her.
You swallowed hard, your hands still covered in soil. You wondered if that all meant what you thought it meant. You wish you could just push the words what do you mean out of your mouth, but you swallowed them instead and nodded, looking down at the dirt, feeling completely lost.
The air shifted between you and Carol, heavy and unspoken after her words in the garden. You pulled away, and she kept her distance too, subtly. Her usual gentle touch on your arm or shoulder was gone, replaced by a quick nod. Her smile never lasted more than two seconds. No more dinners, no more helping with laundry, no more late night talk on the front steps.
Did she know how much you wanted to be around her? Was she seeing your desperate gaze when she asked how you were doing and you just answered you were fine? You still helped in the garden, still helped with inventory, still went out on runs, but you kept your eyes down and your comments brief.
Daryl noticed. Of course he did. He didn't ask what was going on, he did not intervene. That wasn't his way. But one evening, he found you sitting on the porch steps, watching the sky.
"Yer alright, kid?" he asked, his voice low.
You didn't look up, just nodded. "I'm just tired."
He grunted. “Get some sleep.” He didn't press. He understood misery when he saw it. But when Carol came to talk to you the day after, you wondered if Daryl had anything to do with it.
“Daryl found a spot.” You nodded, and she furrowed her brows when you answered with ‘okay’ instead of ‘I’ll go get ready’. “He'll take the car if you come.” Carol hated the bike.
You wanted to deny it. You had been having little sleep these days, and with the way things were between you… She should take someone else instead, but you hated the thought of Carol wanting someone else to tag along.
It was quick. Daryl went left, you and Carol went right. When you got stuck in a bathroom, trying to escape the dead, you avoided looking at her, staring at the floor instead. You were tired, hurt. If you looked at her, really looked, and saw pity on her eyes again, you knew you’d break down.
On the way back home, you fell asleep in the backseat. You woke up, Daryl was still driving. You kept your eyes closed, breath shallow, wanting to avoid having to talk.
"She's miserable" Daryl's voice was low. There was a pause, and then Carol sighed, a sound that held regret.
"Yeah… she’s been off."
“She's just... young. Got a whole different thing goin' on in her head." The silence stretched, the hum of the engine was the only noise. You didn't dare move, terrified they would realize you were awake. “She looks at you like yer’ the sun or sum’thin.”
“She’s a girl. She’ll grow out of it.”
“Nah… ya know t’s mor’ than dat. She’s in love with you, Carol." Daryl’s words hung in the air, heavy.
You knew Carol was glaring at him, even if with more apprehension than reprehension. "She’s attached. She was so alone and she just found a safe place, so she clinged onto the first person who showed her kindness. It’s not love. It’s just… attachment."
"She ain’t a kid lookin’ for a mommy, Carol. She’s lookin’ at you. Yer ain’t gon’ be able to pretend you don’t see it forever."
"I don’t have to." Carol hated being pressed. You knew the impatience in her voice. "She’ll move on. She’ll find someone her own age, someone who hasn’t got all this… baggage. She needs to live her life, not stand around waiting for mine to end."
Daryl didn’t press further, but you felt when the car went faster. For the rest of the night, you felt as if there was a brick on your stomach. Heavy, uncomfortable, painful. You needed to pull away, so you did, but it did not protect you the way it should.
You started helping Rosita and Tara more often, but it was painful. They were funny, but they loved each other. They hugged and kissed and held hands and it was stupid and funny and it made you laugh and want to run away all at once. It was the same with everyone else: Carl and Enid, Aaron and Erick, Beth and Noah.
It made you want to go back to when you’d sit with Carol, folding laundry or cooking dinner and teaching her words in portuguese.
Once you went to Oceanside with Aaron, to trade weapons and resources. It took two whole days, and when you came back, Carol knocked on your door. “Did your laundry.” You looked at the basket of clean, neatly folded clothes in her hands. She must have seen the look of pure, agonizing longing in your eyes, because her expression, usually so guarded, had shifted into a touch of guilt.
"Thanks" you managed, your voice a little rougher than you intended. You took the basket, careful not to brush her fingers. "I appreciate it."
"It’s fine, sweetheart." The word slipped out, familiar, but what used to sound like gentleness and care now felt like a punch to the gut. “How was Oceanside? Find anything good?"
"Yeah, it was… fine. We traded for a good few rounds of ammo. And they have a system for filtering water that Eugene’s going to look at." You kept your answers clipped. You wouldn't give her a reason to pity you.
"You’ve been spending a lot of time with Rosita and Tara. And Aaron. It’s good. Getting out there, connecting with new people."
Your throat tightened. "It’s what you told me to do." The words were out before you could stop them, but deep down you did not really care if it sounded bitter. You felt bitter.
A moment of silence stretched. Carol took a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the porch floor. "I… I know I’m not being easy on you, but it’s true, honey. You need to live your life. You shouldn't be focused on mine." She was gentle, but the boundaries were sharp and clear. She was doing what she thought was right for you, even if you were yelling what you really wanted to her face.
Instead of pulling away, you took her hand. She didn’t pull back, just watched. “Carol…”
“Don’t.” She warned.
You squeezed her hand, your thumb caressing the back of it, trying to hold onto her, trying to make her see the sincerity, the ache. "Please, Carol… let me say it." Your voice was pleading, desperate.
She knew it was coming. She looked away, to the floor, to your folded clothes, to your wallamp, anything but you. Then, she pulled her hand away. "Why?" you half whispered, half choked out. "Is it because I’m younger, or is it because I’m a girl? At least tell me if it is something I can fix! I’ll fix it! Just tell me… please."
Carol's eyes were shadowed with sadness, her lips parted as if she were wrestling with an impossibly difficult explanation. She opened her mouth, closed it again, opened it again. She wouldn't usually falter, but she did.
"Carol!" Rick called out, his voice carrying the authority of the leader. He was walking briskly toward his house, looking worried, Glenn and Noah behind him. "We need everyone capable in the armory, now! There’s a horde!” You froze, the unspoken confession dissolving into a surge of adrenaline, but Carol was always quicker to switch into survival mode.
"Stay inside!" Carol said quickly, her voice sharp with sudden command, eyes fixed on the retreating figures of Rick, Glenn, and Noah. “Lock the door.” You didn’t. When you did not obey as you usually would, Carol frowned at you, but you simply left the basket on the floor before closing the door and jogging after Rick.
The instinct that had saved you countless times - the need to move, to be useful, to survive - overlapped her command. Carol followed after you, and all the while Rick explained what was everyone to do, you saw her mouth sat in a thin, worried line, her eyes on you instead of him. She knew you were bad at fighting the dead, you knew that too, but this was bigger than your attachment.
The horde hit the walls with a terrible, massive, collective groan, followed by the sickening splinter of wood. Part of the wall fell. People scrambled, then gathered in a circle, guarding each other’s back. No guns firing, the noise would attract more death, but still, the temporary safe shelter of Alexandria was crumbling.
When the chaos finally subsided, and the last of the walkers were put down or scattered, the damage was even more evident, and the courtyard was littered with bodies, both human and unhuman.
You didn't stop moving. You joined the cleanup crew immediately, dragging the dead bodies to the burn pit. The smell was overwhelming. You worked until your muscles screamed, not slowing even when Michonne ordered you to take a break.
After the fires were set, you moved to the infirmary. You quietly assisted the wounded, fetching bandages, holding water for those in pain, and listening to the low, steady instructions of Dr. Carlson and Denise. When there was nothing left to do, you volunteered for the overnight watch, taking a post near the damaged section of the wall. Your eyes were gritty, your body aching, but your mind was blessedly empty of introspection. It was a shield.
"Sweetheart?" You turned. Carol was standing a few feet away, the worried look she had been giving you more and more often, lips pressed together. You hated yourself for it, for making her worry, for the way she looked so small and vulnerable. "Walk with me." She nodded towards the gates.
You hesitated. Every fiber of your being screaming no. You didn’t want another conversation, another gentle dismissal. But your feet were already moving, as if your body knew - even if your mind didn’t - that you’d never be strong enough to stop gravitating her, especially not when she looked like that.
You followed her out of Alexandria, walking in silence for a few minutes, away from the immediate perimeter, until any sounds but the wind and your steps were muffled. She stopped near a stand of trees.
"I didn’t mean to hurt you." Carol said, turning to face you. Her voice was low, careful, as if testing the waters. When you didn’t answer, she crumbled a bit. "Fuck, I did. Didn’t know you… I didn’t know it meant so much to you. That’s why I’ve been keeping my distance." She took a deep breath. "Look at me, honey."
You reluctantly met her gaze. The pity was still there, but it was mixed with a deep, weary sadness. Guilt. Seriousness.
"I told you to live your life. And I meant it, but not because I don’t… not because I don’t care about you." She rubbed her hands together, a nervous gesture you hadn't seen before. "It’s about me. Not you. You are… you’re good, too good. You deserve someone who can be good for you."
“Carol-”
"I have so much baggage, sweetheart, and you’re young, and…” She stopped when her voice sounded strangled. You didn’t push, just waited and listened.
There was more to her distance than you could have guessed. Carol was always so guarded, so ready and sharp… you could never tell it all came from such amount of pain and suffering. She kept walking as she told you about Ed, about how she’d have to go to the hospital lying about having fallen from a staircase to cover up his beatings, about how she thought she would never escape him.
Sophia would be a teenager now.
You watched Carol as she spoke, the setting sun casting long shadows that emphasized the weariness etched around her eyes. She told her story without a single tear, even if her voice trembled sometimes. Each word made it harder to imagine what it felt like to be on her skin, but it was the chilling, contained strength that broke you.
You cried for her. For her child, for the people she lost, for the life she could have had if it wasn’t for that man. You cried for the weight, for the pain she had endured, and for the miraculous, terrifying resilience that allowed her to stand here now, whole and fierce.
She paused, looking at you, expecting a reaction, the final push she needed to send you away. But you said nothing. You couldn’t voice any of your feelings, choked on her story. Couldn’t say you were sorry, Carol would hate to hear that. No compliments on her competences either, she didn’t need them. You could read the objectiveness, the warning in her eyes. You knew, in that moment, that the feelings you had for her weren’t going anywhere. They were cemented in the respect and awe you felt.
You didn't reach for her hand again, but held yours out, palm up in an open, trembling invitation. The day before, you wouldn't risk another rejection, but it all felt too small now. Carol looked at your hand, then at your face, her lips twitching into something that was almost a smile, but held too much exhaustion to truly be joyful. She shook her head.
"You’re so stubborn" she murmured, the phrase sounding less like a complaint and more like fond acceptance. Then she placed her hand on top of yours, and you intertwined your fingers.
You had baggage too. The world had ended, every last standing person had weight on their backs. When the world had already ended, the past would not be the thing to take her away from you. You walked back toward Alexandria in the twilight, hand in hand, the previous tension replaced by a profound yet fragile connection that didn’t feel quite like a beginning, but perhaps a real start.
You thought about timing, again. She looked pretty in the sunset, inviting, the way her blue eyes looked at you with light reprehension, the way you knew she was being brave enough to give in to whatever this was… But were you on the bus?
Carol looked down at your hands, and huffed a laugh at the way you caressed the back of her hand with your thumb without even realizing it. You felt a sparkle on your chest. You should kiss her. She was already so close… but the weight of her story was still heavy on your mind and shoulders.
Bad timing. Not now.
That night you stayed wide awake. Your body was still exhausted from the watches and fixing the wall, but your mind did not stop for a second. It made sense now, the way Carol pushed you away so that she wouldn’t feel anything. The way she balanced being caring and being guarded… You stared at the ceiling, the agonizing ache of loneliness was gone, but there were still so many feelings battling in your chest.
Daryl found you trying to fix the mess the horde of dead made in the gardens. Tools on the floor around you, your knees covered in dirt and your hands full of fertilizer. He didn't speak, just grabbed a discarded little shovel from the floor and started working on the section next to yours, eying you every now and then. Daryl wasn’t one for gardening, hunting was more his type, but you kept quiet, waiting for him to say something first.
After a long silence, Daryl grunted, the sound a question more than a statement. "You still thinkin’ ‘bout that bus?"
You paused, wiping sweat from your forehead. "I don’t know… maybe. I just… I don’t know where the stop is. Don’t know if I missed it already… or if it hasn’t passed yet." You tried to sound light but the fatigue in your voice betrayed you. "You know something I don’t?" You started. You wanted to tell him about holding Carol’s hand, but you felt like you shouldn’t, you felt like maybe holding her hand wouldn’t mean as much to her as it did to you.
Daryl resumed his work, which was mostly poking around in the dirt. He didn't answer, just offered a non-committal hum that could mean anything yes, no, or mind your own damn business. You watched him for a beat, frustration building, not letting you return to your own task.
"Bus likes your hair" Daryl said suddenly, without looking up.
You froze. "What?"
"The bus said yer’ adorable… she likes it when yer’ following her around."
“Oh” You could feel the heat rising in your neck and face. He had really just said that, in his low, matter of fact tone, like he was telling you not to water the tomato bush too much “You’re lying.” You accused him like a stunned child, but it was empty. You were a mess of tangled feelings and awkward confession-like rants, hiding behind the hard work you had been doing, but he saw it. He saw you.
You dropped your gaze back to the soil, with not a clue of what to do with that information. Daryl gave you a quick, knowing look. "You gon’ be fine, kid." he said, his voice softer than before, before turning and walking away.
Things were different, back to dinners and laundry and keeping her company when she was trimming Daryl’s hair. You worried about finding the right moment, worried about holding her hand again, about making sure she was comfortable in her head even when you were not in yours.
Carol spent a week at the Kingdom with some others, Rick and Tara and Daryl. The three leaders wanted to make a bridge, to make things better for trading and rescue if needed. You went to the library, helped Eugene fixing a few panels, learned to be useful any way you could.
“Ever got drunk?” Daryl asked, holding two bottles up. He got them at the Kingdom, one of King Ezekiel’s man used to make his own vodka before the world ended. You shook your head, following him to Carol’s house. People gathered there, the ones who were not tired after the trip back home, but when they left, Daryl brought out the bottles. He called it booze.
“My father would let me have a sip of his caipirinha when we went to the beach.” You pulled out the cork and smelled it. Bad.
“Whats dat?”
“Cachaça, limes, mint, sugar…”
‘Sounds good.”
“Make three of ‘em.” Daryl said as if ordering a drink at a bar. You stared for a minute, and he meant it. He even harvested the limes and mint himself at the gardens. You pretended it was not the first time you made a drink, and it did not turn out bad at all.
It was not meant to be this strong, but the drink was warming your chest and loosening your tongue. Daryl was chuckling more than usual, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Carol watched both of you with a slight, amused smile, drinking more slowly. You felt as if they could hold their posture while yours crumbled embarrassingly. You were still halfway through your first cup, and it was making you feel funny already. Talkative, accent slurring, switching some words, forgetting others.
"My father would make his without mint, sometimes without sugar, when he didn’t want to share. Mine tastes better, t’s more… gostosa."
"Gostosa…" Carol repeated, pronunciation hesitant. "Means tasty, right?" You nodded. Daryl hummed before agreeing, raising his glass to you.
"Yer’ quite the bartender."
Everyone was up for seconds, so you headed for the sink. You grabbed the knife, the limes, but discarded the cutting board, which got you a cut on your palm. Not long, not deep, but enough to burn. You hissed, pulling your hand back, a little blood pooling on your palm.
"Ai!" you muttered.
"You okay?" They asked from the other room.
"Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing." You grabbed the ribbon that held your hair back, a thin piece of worn fabric, and quickly wrapped it around the cut, then went back to the drinks, using the damn cutting board this time.
"Easy, or yer’ gonna be payin’ for this in the mornin’, kid." Daryl warned as you used a bit more vodka and a little less lime this time.
"Morning comes in the morning…" You knew it made little sense, but let them believe it was a saying from home instead of a lack of better judgement from your part. They let you have it.
"What else you got back home?" Daryl asked, tilting his head.
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the island. "There’s… a lot of caipirinha… with strawberries instead of limes. Passion fruit, pineapples, pomegranates too. There’s also quentão in the winter, hot wine with… caramel… cinnamon, ginger… sometimes orange peel, and… I don’t remember the rest."
Daryl made a face at the spiced wine. You didn’t like it either. He told you about the first time he got drunk, with his brother Merle.The exhaustion and fear of the last few days completely drowned out. Daryl then pushed himself off the stool. "Gotta take a piss" he announced, blunt as always, heading toward the bathroom. Carol made a face, but the moment the door clicked shut, she turned her full attention to you, her expression soft and calm.
"Let me see that hand, sweetheart." Her voice was quiet, gentle, made you want to lean into her and close your eyes, but you didn’t. You showed her your hand wrapped in your improvised bandage. She took out the damp fabric, cleaned you hand with some wet cloth.
You sat and waited. She could be pouring poison on your hand and you wouldn’t notice, your eyes were on her face. She was sober enough to notice but not comment on it. “I like your hair like that.” She said.
“I like your hair too” You answered immediately. She laughed, not in a way that felt like she didn’t believe you, but in a way that felt as if she was hunting you, and you were more than happy with being her prey.
“There. Done.” You didn’t even look down at it.
“No… keep holding my hand.” You whispered, a plea slurred slightly by the booze. Carol’s blue eyes searched yours, hand holding yours, and you wish you had some, any experience in your baggage so you’d know what to do.
You pulled her closer, bringing her hand to rest over your thigh, because it felt right. Nothing had ever felt as right as having her just a few inches away. It was clumsy, but the intent was clear. Your free hand rose, touching her cheek, your thumb resting just beneath her eye, then moving, caressing, just feeling her skin.
You were impossibly close, and it made the air feel thick and still, smelling of limes and mint and Carol. You could feel her breath on your cheek, both hands on your thighs, and you saw the exact moment her eyes fell to your mouth.
This was it. The bus. The stop.
Your lips brushed, your eyes closed. Her hands squeezed your thighs, yours cupping her face, and Daryl, and the door closing, and… Merda.
Carol only moved back a fraction, but you felt cold as if she was miles away. You didn’t move, didn’t pull back, you didn’t care if Daryl or anyone else saw it, but now there was an almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips, her eyes twinkling with a look that seemed to find your mesmerized face utterly adorable. You pulled back too, sitting straighter.
Daryl just gave you a grunt, scratching his head as he walked into you. He didn't say a word, none of you did. It didn’t make you hate him any less. You tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out, and you were not sure if it was due to the drinks or because you just wouldn’t care enough to speak right now.
No one was up for another round. When you woke up the morning after, the kiss was the first thing you thought of. Almost. It was almost a kiss, but it was enough to have you touching your lips with the tip of your fingers and wondering what if?
If you had kissed Carol, you’d know not to be scared of meeting her again. Perhaps you’d even greet her with another kiss. Hold her hand. Do something. But an almost? You didn’t know what to do with that.
But she did like your hair, so you decided to waer it loose. "Rough morning, sweetheart?" Carol looked annoyingly sober, effortlessly neat and stupidly pretty in the morning sunlight, sitting by your side on your front steps.
You groaned in response, rubbing your face. "It was stupid, wasn’t it?"
"It was fun." She offered you a smile. The silence that followed was easy, a familiar comfort. You watched a group of children playing tag near the gate, a scene so normal it felt surreal against the backdrop of their fortified walls.
You took a deep breath, the lingering smell of lime and mint finally gone, replaced by the fresh morning air. The memory of her breath on your cheek, the brush of her lips, her eyes on your lips… You couldn't live in the almost anymore. It was harder than having nothing at all.
"Carol…” You started, but the words died in your mouth. She turned her body slightly toward you, waiting. You swallowed hard. "Am I on the bus?" Carol didn’t pretend not to know what you were talking about. "Daryl told you about it, didn’t he?" you asked, recognizing the knowing look in her eyes.
She paused, then took your hand. Her hand was firm, warm, her fingers were delicate. For a moment, she just held you. “It’s cute, you know, to see it all again for the first time. You, I mean." You knew what she meant. You knew she knew she’s your first love. "The world ended. There is no hurry for anything."
"But you told me I was wasting time… and you were not wrong at all. We’re not getting any younger, Carol. And the world is not getting any better."
Carol looked away, staring at the floor for a moment. You feared if you looked away she’d disappear, so you didn’t. Your own words felt heavy to you, but not any less truthful, so you waited. You were good at waiting for her, and you knew if there was any hope, even if from far away, you’d keep waiting.
"What you were trying to say the other day…" she continued, her voice barely a murmur. "before the horde hit. You can say it now. Once."
You blinked, your breath caught, but you didn’t hesitate. All the fear and uncertainty of the past weeks collapsed into a surge of hope, of finally being sure. "I'm in love with you, Carol." The words rolled out of your tongue easily, but they made it feel like the world had stopped… again.
Carol didn't pull away, didn’t let go of your hand. She didn't look sad, or pitying, or guilty, she just looked at you. Holding your breath, without even realizing it, you looked at her. “Carol… I haven’t felt alive ever. Not before you. I don’t think you realize how much you…”
You trailed off as she leaned in.
Her lips met yours, and they wiped away every almost. You closed your eyes, savoring the feeling of her lips moving against yours, her tongue brushing yours, her hands cupping your face to bring you closer like she wanted to wear you on her skin. It was overwhelming, your face heated up, your neck, even your damn ears. Your body felt her everywhere, wanted her everywhere.
You’ve had a few kisses before, as a teenager. Curious, exploring. None of them were like this. Even her kisses were fierce, like she was trying to rip your lips away with hers, and you were just as eager. Then it was quiet, gentle pecks that traveled from your lips to your neck, where Carol inhaled your smell, then further down to your shoulder, where she rested her head.
It was no use trying to keep cool, you knew she could hear your heart thumping against your ribcage. You felt the fragile weight of her trust, the quiet acceptance of your love, and the profound exhaustion of someone who had fought hard to stay guarded. But her hand found her way back to yours.
You didn't speak, just brought your free hand up, stroking her gray hair, finally allowed to take care of her. “Your hair grew longer.” You whispered, quiet, afraid you’d break the moment. Carol looked up at you, and gave you a bashful smile.
“Fine… you can say it one more time.”
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