Hi! I’ve been reading one of your Caryl fics, where you wrote that you’re removing one of your other fics from AO3 and 9L (I think it had ‘undertaker’ in the title or something similar). Pleaseeee don’t tell me it’s too late to read this? (It’s ok if it is obviously, it’s just that I love your writing and want to read everything you’ve written 😭)
hey! you sent this to me over a month ago, i apologize for not seeing it sooner. i don't check this blog that often. i did remove "romancing the undertaker," because i was experimenting with self-publishing and flipped it 50 shades style as practice, and legally i couldn't have both up at the same time. but! i can still give ppl the document, so if you (or anyone else) are interested in reading the og "romancing the undertaker" just lmk and i'll send you a copy. i recommend dming me instead of sending me an ask, because i am more likely to see it
also, thank you! i appreciate the kind words! sorry again for not seeing this for 84 years!
Hey Carylers, I posted this question in one of AO3 support groups but I thought I ask in the Caryl tag as well, since that's the ship I'm currently writing for. What's the vibe these days on replying to comments? I haven't written fic in years and my most prolific era was the LJ era so there are gaps in my knowledge re: AO3 culture and etiquette. Back in the day, it was considered rude to not reply to comments (even on ff.net where you had to send a PM). Readers would even get pissy with authors and stop commenting/supporting them if they didn't receive a thank you for their comment (cos writing hundreds of thousands of words wasn't enough apparently). On the other hand, I've seen writers get accused of "review padding" if they do respond to comments. People also seem to comment less and have less to say....? There aren't really conversations happening in comment sections. You might just get a heart (which is fine if English is not their first language etc) but do you heart back...? Cos if you only respond to more detailed comments or those that ask a question then isn't that kinda rude to other commenters...? Is it an author's preference type thing? Does it differ depending on fandom? Is this a Caryl fandom thing, cos I notice that some authors just don't respond at all... Or maybe I'm just late to the party (funeral?) and the fandom isn't super active anymore...?
Thoughts??
This was kicking around in my head and it’s but no means up to fic publishing quality, but this is how I could manage to get it put together until my muse wants to not hate everything I write. I will also note I do NOT have any practice writing in script-style and thus know it’s fully of inaccuracies to what is correct. This is purely just my own spec (plus some of @freefromthecocoon ).
Rescue My Heart (1 of ?)
Day. Inside Genet’s office at Maison Mère.
A lingering, dark shadow looms despite the clear daylight just outside. The building has been overturned, furniture and paper strewn throughout the halls. Random walker corpses in various states of “newness” navigate the speed bumps of body parts and blood - some of them obvious Pouvoir soldiers and party guests who never made it home.
Carol stands behind the heavy oak desk, a familiar crossbow slung over her shoulder as she stares intently at the open file folder in front. A flurry of emotions play behind her eyes as we pan around, stopping behind her, the papers below covered with handwritten lists in French - she scans annotations up and down the margins before she stops dead on the name near the end of the list.
DIXON.
Flashback. Carol’s CW apartment.
Carol throws supplies into the awaiting bag on the edge of the bed, her anxious energy clear in her frantic movements back and forth across the room. Frustration reaching its peak and bunched garments slam into the lopsided sack. Daryl’s voice rings distant, her eyes closing from the overwhelming unrest.
Daryl: “I’ll be there in about a week. I promise.”
Her eyes spring open again in the desolate office, fingers pressed lightly to words that are only ink but act like an anchor to her heart. The hopefulness which carried her across an ocean exudes from her lungs at the same time her breath stifles beneath unsettled hesitation; she pushes through, searching the papers once more for anything useful, coming upon maps marked with pen-traced routes and quickly shoves them inside the breast of her jacket. In the background her travelling companion, Ash, puts down a walker; the limp vessel crumpling in the middle of the doorway, a bare flit of acknowledgment coming from her briefly raised head as he enters.
Ash: We need to go. There’s a large group of rotters in the tunnels, and with a place this size there’s bound to be more.
Carol offers another small nod, dedicated to completing the mission she’s set forth in her mind. Almost vacant. The flurry of papers dance across the tabletop, two drawers underneath groaning as she yanks them open until the room falls silent when the bottom drops out of her heart.
It’s then we see the tape recorder nestled against a wooden corner. Propped up. Waiting to be found. Her world turns upside down while reality stays still; time continuing its constant progression as her movements stop & stall, a looping broken record of her hands - now clasped around cold plastic - while she can’t bring herself to press buttons. Afraid of what she might hear, what she might learn … things she has to know, needs to know but may kill her just the same. The depressive clunk of the toggle resounds, static following momentarily until a recited speech begins.
Daryl: My name is Daryl Dixon…
Carol audibly gasps, strangling the oncoming tears which line her eyes with a mixture of relief and sadness.
Flashback. Commonwealth, early evening.
Carol sits in the communication centre in front of the radio.
Carol: Yeah, you know, pretty quiet here.
Daryl: Quiet’s good. You okay?
Carol: Yeah, just takes some getting used to, that’s all.
She pauses, expression falling slightly as she toys with the twine bracelet on her wrist. The corners of her lips lifting though there’s a distinct despondency to her face. A shadowed figure then becomes visible at the edge of frame but just offscreen.
Daryl: You sure you’re okay?
She won’t burden him with her issues while he’s so far away, not after she told him he should go. She puts away her emotions as best she can, knowing how perceptive he is to any slight change.
Carol: You never have to worry about me, Daryl.
The floor creaks and she turns her attention, finding Dwight leaning against the wall just inside the room. She’s clearly unsettled yet not surprised, continuing with her conversation while trying to decipher how long the living memory has been listening in. She pauses again to collect her thoughts, all the while maintaining eye contact with Dwight.
Carol: Hey, Daryl.
Daryl: Yeah.
Carol: Dwight came back.
The crackle of the broken transmission intersperses with every half word she can make out Daryl saying. Her repeated attempts to regain their connection melt into the endless static and her shoulders slump as she finally gives in. Crestfallen. There’s a long , weighted silence.
Dwight: You really think me showing up again is that important to him?
Carol: It’s not about important. Daryl makes his own decisions, we don’t hide anything from each other.
He pushes off the wall to upright, shuffled movements trying to impart he’s not warranting any caution.
Dwight: Look, I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop but seemed to me his mind was focused on something else.
Her expression grows serious. She moves away from the desk to leave a few feet between them.
Carol: You don’t know anything about Daryl or me. I don’t know what you’ve been through since you left, you might have changed … we all have and I’m glad you found your wife. I am, but don’t for a second think you can come here and tell me things you haven’t the slightest idea about.
Dwight fights back a small chuckle.
Dwight: You might tell each other everything but you’re lying to yourself. Daryl gave me another shot back then, saw something I was trying to hide even from myself and I wouldn’t be where I am without that. Have what I’ve got. So I guess I’m trying to return the favour, because I’ve been “here”.
As Dwight exits Carol’s breaths are visible through the rise and fall of her chest. She’s shaken yet won’t let herself succumb to it, the various what ifs of the past and what could be play behind her eyes until the screen fades to black.
Ash: Carol? Hey-
The view of Maison Mere springs to life again. Carol gives herself a mental shake, finding Ash mere inches away and a bewildered concern across his features. The deathly growls having grown louder, signalling their impending arrival and Ash reaches a hand to her shoulder.
Ash: You okay?
Carol nods feverishly, tucking the recorder into jacket before they both carefully head for the halls. The camera focuses on Carol as she scans the corner for danger, the recited speech continuing while we watch them move down the dim corridor.
Daryl: If I don’t make it back, I want them to know I tried. Hell, I’m still trying.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
[Carol’s daughter is missing, so it’s a really weird time to (accidentally) bond with Daryl and (kind’ve) gain superpowers. A soulmate/soulmark AU set in S2.]
A new chapter for you after a mental health related hiatus.
Hello! Yesterday I finished one of my fictions about Caryl (set in the wonderful season 10, before the chapter of the "tragedy of Le*h").
Here I leave it in case you want to take a look:
Daryl y Carol han tratado, a lo largo de los años, de mentirse así mismos sobre los verdaderos sentimientos que sienten...
(It's in Spanish)
I also leave you with another, still in progress, but set outside the apocalypse; with the story of Carol and Daryl with thirty years. In this fic they meet in a group therapy. The next chapter I will try to upload in the coming weeks. Here I leave the link:
¿Existe la casualidad? Carol ha atravesado duros baches emocionales que le han atormentado y le han hecho no creer más...
(It's in Spanish too)
For these almost eleven years, I have been writing about them on wattpad (without losing the illusion that one day they will end up together).
So if you want to read about this wonderful couple, here I leave you my small contribution to the boat (contribution that is not very big, but full of affection).
@silversundown2 I would just like to let you know that The Brink um yeah it's honestly all I think about right now and the new chapter got me all kinds of smiley. I love it so much
Another little Caryl thing I had brewing in my head that I started writing down for @equuleus86 on her birthday (sorry it's not longer, love, but I'm the slowest writer in the world.) I felt I needed to write this conversation that we're all hoping they'll eventually have. You can pretty much imagine it taking place where/whenever you like, I haven't been specific. Hope y'all like!
***
“You fucked up.”
The rumble of his voice breaks the terrible silence palpable in the air, and Carol finds herself very aware of the distance between them in this room where they stand; every awful inch of space. He doesn’t sound accusatory or angry, just so damn tired.
I did this to him. The thought stabs her in the chest.
“I know.”
She forces the words out because Daryl deserves this acknowledgement. He deserves so much more than she can give him anymore. He deserves to take out his anger and grief on her because she is responsible, and she doesn’t know why he still refuses to say it. Why he hangs on to some misplaced sense of loyalty or obligation to her. She’s not worth it.
“You couldn’t just leave it alone.” She can hear the bitterness now, the sadness. “Why the hell’d you even promise me anything if you were just gonna...”
He trails off and she catches his face crumpling briefly with too much emotion before he ducks his head and hides, hair falling into his face. The movement is so characteristically him that it hits her like a gut punch, fingers itching to reach out, to soothe. He looks overcome and conflicted and lost and, God, does she empathise. All at once she wants to push him away and draw him close and never let go.
“I meant it,” Her voice breaks and she hates how raw and vulnerable she feels. How all her defences have always been useless in the face of this man. “I promised you and I meant it when I said it. I wanted to mean it.”
“Well, that don’t mean shit now, does it?”
It’s not even close to the worst thing he could say to her right now, but he growls it and she can’t help it, she winces, even though he’s entirely in the right. She knows Daryl sees it because he sees everything.
His face softens just the slightest fraction, blue eyes shining, pleading with her again, for what she isn’t sure either of them know anymore.
He takes a step towards her, “Carol -“
“No.” And she moves back. “No, you’re right, it doesn’t. They’re dead, regardless of my intentions.”
He draws a deep breath at that, but his gaze doesn’t break.
“I know what it’s like, you know,” His voice is back to that soft, quiet cadence that it always takes with her, and Carol can’t bear for him to be gentle with her right now. It hurts. “To want revenge so bad that nothing else matters. Glenn died because of me -“
Denial and years-old grief rise up in her throat, “That’s not -“
Daryl shakes his head, “Maggie’d say otherwise but it still feels like that’s on me. I didn’t swing the bat but... “ His eyes close, brows pinched in pain, and of course he still carries that with him. Of course he does, because Carol knows so would she. Just as she knows that he would carry her pain for her like she wishes she could for him.
Still... “It’s not the same.” She alone blew up that damn cave, ignoring this man - this good, brave, true man whom she loves - trying to be there for her. Trying desperately to talk her down.
Carol crosses her arms, holding on to them to stop herself from walking across into Daryl’s. She knows he wouldn’t deny her.
“We’ve all done things we wish we could take back. I know you wish you could -“
Carol crumbles.
“Stop trying to make what I did okay! Stop being understanding! Please, just stop!”
The last is a broken cry as she shrinks into herself, eyes squeezed shut and biting her lip against the sobs fighting to break free. The guilt feels as though it’s searing through her, eviscerating from within. All she can do is keep her arms wrapped around herself as though that might hold her together. She didn’t hear or see Daryl move, but she can feel him hovering close now.
“It’s not okay. We lost people. Friends. But - hey... look at me?” Carol feels his fingertips brush under her chin and opens her eyes, tears spilling over, to find Daryl’s face just inches away, his face an open book for her to read, no longer hiding... “I was where you are, I was ready to do anything to take out the Saviours. The only thing that mattered more was you.”
She feels a rush of deja vu as he cups her cheek, catching tears with his thumb, and she wants to reach for him so badly. She can feel her resolve weakening and her mind spins at his words.
“I - I don’t understand.”
“Stuff happened. Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that you matter to me. More than anything.”
“I shouldn’t -”
“Even if I can’t be that person for you. Even if I can’t be enough to stop you, to save you.”
His voice trembles, catching in his throat, and that hurts even more than the guilt tearing through her. Daryl Dixon should never, ever think that he is not enough.
“You are,” She sobs, “You are my person, Daryl, you’re -” everything, she should say but still can’t because he deserves so much better than her. Because she is afraid. “I’m not… I’m not worth it. I’m not good. I kill people. People die because of me!”
He can’t die because of her. She cannot stand the thought. Everything hurts; it’s too much.
Carol breaks out of his light grasp and turns, old habits and the instinct to flee almost driving her out the door until strong arms wrap around her from behind and Daryl pulls her back flush against his chest.
“Don’t -” He begs roughly next to her ear, “Please don’t run again.”
Dimly, through the rushing in her head, Carol thinks he sounds terrified; afraid, probably, that if she walks out the door he might not ever see her again.
She wishes she could say for sure that he’d be wrong.
“You should let me go.” She can’t stop the tears. She never could when it comes to him. Could never shut it all down and plaster on a mask because he will always see right through her. “Why can’t you just let me go?”
“You know I can’t.” As if to emphasise his words he squeezes her tighter. “You know why.”
Carol does. Deep down, she does, she just doesn’t want to face it.
“Daryl,” she begs, unsure of what she’s even begging for anymore.
“Fuck…” He draws a shuddering breath and she feels the pressure of his head on her shoulder, wonders if he’s hiding his face. “I love you,” He says finally, sounding wrecked and raw, and all the fight goes out of her.
Carol lets herself fall apart, knowing that somehow, no matter what, Daryl’s arms will hold her together.
