He woke with the sun after a long night of tossing and turning, plagued with a strange, sickening dread he couldn't explain.

The storm had raged on outside, high winds shaking his trailer, until just before dawn when the clouds had abruptly cleared. He thought he'd heard a tree come down sometime in the night which meant a whole hell of a lot of work for him when the yard dried up.

He knew he might as well get up, get ready, and get his ass to work but he couldn't bring himself to get out of bed. He'd barely gotten any sleep and his head was still aching. Only, now the throbbing behind his eyes seemed to be in time with the beating of his heart.

Across the room, his new sheets sat on his dresser still wrapped in their plastic packaging. He hadn't been able to bring himself to change them, to throw away the sheets she'd slept between. The sheets they'd been tangled up in when he thought she might really, finally be his.

Or maybe he'd thought he was hers. He wasn't sure. All he knew was that thinking like that made him a sappy, sentimental asshole. Merle would have kicked his ass six ways to Sunday if he'd been around and hell, maybe that was what he needed.

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply, but it didn't smell like her anymore.

In the living room, the phone rang.

He groaned, dragging his other pillow over his head to drown out the sound.

It didn't work. He heard it ring again and cursed under his breath, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to stand up.

The ringing continued, sounding ever more insistent if that was possible, as he pulled on his jeans and shuffled across his bedroom.

By the time he stumbled into the living room, tangled up in his t-shirt, the thing was practically vibrating off the table and demanding that he answer it.

Heart and head pounding, he finally picked it up with a gruff, "Yeah?"

"D-Daryl?"

The voice was on the other end was hoarse, raspy and trembling. He didn't even recognize it until she burst into tears, her sobbing sounding weak and tinny down the line. That strange, sickly feeling turned into pure, cold fear.

He didn't waste time asking questions.

The phone fell from his hands, dangling by the cord, as he shot out his front door and stumbled down the front steps in a mad dash to his pickup.

Debris from the previous night's storm littered the highway. He swerved to avoid a few downed limbs, crushing errant pinecones under his tires as he sped through the misty pink and grey morning. He probably broke the land speed record and a whole book full of traffic laws on the way to her house but he just couldn't get there fast enough. Even if the cops had tried to stop him, they would have never been able to catch him.

He rolled to a stop in her driveway, just behind her Cherokee. A million terrible scenarios were running through his head. Her husband could be waiting for him, it could be some kind of trap. He could have killed her right after she made the call. She could be laying on the floor right now, dead eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling.

He threw the door open, stumbling over his own feet in his hurry to get out and get to her. But as he rounded the front of the pickup and headed for the house, a squirming, niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach told him to stop, to go back.

The seat frame scratched at his wrist as he felt around underneath it but finally his fingers hit cold, hard metal and he dragged Merle's old Colt out from under the seat. Another look at the dark, foreboding house had him tucking it in his waistband as he approached the front door.

He didn't get a chance to knock, she must have been looking out for him because the door opened just a crack, barely enough for an eye to peek out of the shadows.

"Carol?"

He swallowed hard, pushing the door open further as he took a hesitant step forward.

She turned away from him immediately, away from the weak, early morning sunshine pouring in on her. He had to duck around in front of her, holding her by the shoulders to still her, before he could get a good look at the damage.

And it was bad. Real bad.

His stomach turned at the sight of her split lip, swollen nose, and bruised eyes. Purple hand prints stained the pale skin of her neck and upper arms. He could only imagine what was hidden by her clothing.

"Fuck," he hissed between clenched teeth, his temper soaring straight through the roof and into outer space as she cowered before him, "Fuck, where is that son of a bitch? I'll kill him."

She shrank away, wrapping her arms tight around herself, and he wanted to kick himself. Instead, he put his fist through the wall. The crunch of bone against plaster was deafening in the quiet room as he opened a gaping hole that did nothing to soothe him. His knuckles throbbed with a dull ache.

He heard a soft, muffled mewling sound and turned to find her covering her face with her hands. The rage boiling inside of him seemed to cool, dissipating in the face of her tears. His shoulders sagged.

She looked so small. It was like that night on his couch all over again; she needed him and he always fucked up and scared her.

He reached for her hesitantly, his fingers brushing against her shoulder. She didn't flinch, didn't move away. In fact, she moved into him, clinging to his chest as he slid his arms around her waist. She melted into him, fingers grasping at his shirt as if she was trying to get closer. As if she couldn't get close enough.

He felt his heart aching, twisting painfully inside him as she sobbed against his neck, her tears burning hot on his skin. He held her close, one hand resting gently on the back of her neck. He didn't know what to say. It would probably be better if he didn't say anything at all. So he buried his face in her soft, short hair, nuzzling his nose and chin against the top of her head.

"He found out about us," she rasped out, sounding almost hysterical as she rambled on, "I-I was so scared when I woke up and he was gone. He took all the keys with him. He must have gone to work but I thought he'd gone to kill you and I just couldn't stand the thought of it because I realized how much I love you and I couldn't even face the idea of losing-"

She froze, seeming to realize what she'd said at the same moment it sank in for him. The breath rushed out of his lungs in a short, surprised huff and she squirmed around in his arms, lifting her head to meet his eyes. And then her trembling hands were on either side of his face, soft and cool against his overheated skin.

"You-you don't have to love me back or anything, I just-"

"I do," he interrupted her, realizing as the words left his lips that they were true.

He'd never loved anyone before, outside of that obligatory loyalty he felt for his family, but he knew what he felt for her had to be love. It had consumed him completely, leaving no room for any other possibility.

He didn't even realize that he was searching her face for some kind of sign, for something he couldn't name, until he found it in the small, warm smile she gave him. It was a shaky, pained little grin that pulled at the split in her lip but it was all he needed. He wanted to kiss her but he knew it would start that little cut bleeding again so he settled for pressing his lips against her forehead.

"Come on," he murmured, feeling her lashes brush against his chin as her eyes fluttered close, "Let's get out of here."

He felt her pat his cheek, felt her thumb brushing against the whiskers he hadn't bothered to shave in days. And then the warmth of her body against his was gone.

"I can't," she sniffled, wiping the tears from her eyes as she slipped out of his arms, "Not yet."

She was standing straighter now, looking taller. Less vulnerable. Stronger.

He stared at her for a long, silent moment, unable to process her words.

"What?"

"Not yet," she repeated, turning away from him and heading down the hallway.

He was frozen to the spot for a moment, dumbstruck. But the sight of her walking away pushed him into action and he found himself marching after her.

"That's twice now you've called me crying 'cause he beat the shit out of you," he ranted and raved, following her down the hallway, "and now you're saying you-you love me but you mean to tell me that you still ain't-"

He stopped short, the angry words dying on his lips as he stepped into the bedroom she shared with her husband. There, on the bed, was an open suitcase.

"Oh," he said stupidly, looking up in time to see her trying to hide her amused expression.

Relief flooded through him. Relief and a light, bubbly, giddy feeling that rose up through his chest and made him want to laugh and sweep her up into his arms.

"I just need to pack a few things," she told him, throwing open drawers left and right, "I don't know if I'll ever be able to come back for my stuff."

She tossed a shirt into the suitcase and his eyes followed it, catching on something strange on the bed. He took a step closer, dragging back the blankets to get a better look.

"And I need you to help me find my necklace," she continued, rummaging through her underwear drawer, "It must have gotten lost last night."

He barely heard her, distracted by the dark splatter of blood on the rumpled white bed sheets.

"It was my grandmother's…the gold cross one, you know? Daryl?"

He looked up to find her standing there, watching him, with a t-shirt and a pair of shorts in her hands. Her eyes followed his gaze to the blood on the sheets, the cracked plastic alarm clock, and he saw her wince.

He had to force the words out, "He did that to you?"

He watched her expression change, saw her chin lift as she tossed the clothes into her suitcase.

"No, I did that."

"What?"

"I did that to him," she stated flatly, turning back to the open drawer.

He felt a rush of pride at her words, at the coldness in her tone that told him she'd had enough.

"That's my girl," he muttered under his breath, dropping to his knees on the floor to look for that damn necklace.

She shot him a little smile over her shoulder that he acknowledged with a dip of his head, unable to tear his eyes away from her until she turned back to her dresser. Still feeling giddy, he ducked his head under the bed, lifting the skirting to peer into the dusty darkness.

They worked in silence, except for the opening and closing of drawers and his grunts of annoyance when the necklace wasn't forthcoming.

Just as he heard her click the suitcase shut, his fingers closed around shimmering gold, hidden in the shadows between the bed and the nightstand.

She beamed at him when he stood, the necklace dangling from his fingers, and turned her back to him, bending her head forward in invitation. Eyeing the elegant length and curve of her neck uncertainly, he cleared his throat and draped the cross over her front, his awkward fingers fumbling with the tiny clasp.

He breathed a sigh of relief when it caught and she murmured a soft "thank you". His fingers lingered there, brushing over the cool metal of the chain to touch her warm, soft skin.

She let out a breathy little sigh that had him sliding his arms around her waist to pull her back against his chest. Her ribs were so fine and delicate, like a little bird's bones under his hands. He could feel her heartbeat, strong and steady, beneath them.

He pressed his lips against her shoulder, just where her cotton shirt met her bare skin, and hesitantly kissed his way up the line of her neck, lips light as a feather as they brushed over the angry bruises. She exhaled and leaned her head back on his shoulder, her hands running along his arms to wrap themselves around his wrists, holding them there against her chest.

He was intoxicated by her warmth, by the smell of her skin. He'd been afraid he'd never touch her or taste her again and now he didn't care that this wasn't the time; that they should be getting the hell out of there. She was his, she loved him, and the world was suddenly less cold, less frightening because of it.

She turned her head to capture his lips but the moment was shattered by the slamming of a car door somewhere just outside.

Their eyes met, wide with fear, as they both froze.

He was hit with a gut-wrenching sense of déjà vu. They'd been here before, right here in this very room, but the stakes were so much higher now. They were different people stuck in the same situation.

She scrambled away from him as they heard the front door open, then slam shut hard enough to rattle the walls. There was a pause, a moment of silence in which he thought he could hear his own heart beating, and then footsteps.

Heavy footsteps. They echoed through the house like gunshots and it was as though he was nine years old all over again, hiding in his bed, trembling under his sheets and waiting for his father to stumble drunkenly down the hall to his bedroom.

A bolt of fear shot through him and, on its heels, a towering wave of rage so intense it was frightening. He trembled as it crashed down over him, pounding through his chest and thundering in his ears.

He felt Carol at his elbow, her face a mask of panic as she whispered, "Come on, hurry! We can hide in the bathroom. I think we can get out the window-"

He thought about it for a moment, remembered huddling with her in a tub full of cold water back when it all started. He wasn't doing that again.

"I ain't hiding this time," he grunted, shrugging her pleading hands off his shoulders.

She was still begging him but he couldn't hear her, couldn't hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stepped out into the hallway.

And there he was. The man who'd always been there, in the shadows at the back of his mind, as a faceless phantom screaming outside a bathroom door. He never thought he'd see him like this; out in the open, face to face, in the daylight.

The man stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of Daryl, the blood seeming to drain from his face. He looked stunned. Daryl could practically see the gears turning. He recognized the look of understanding as it dawned across Ed's ugly, contorted face. The blood rushed back in, tinting the man's cheeks a purple-tinged red. Bulging eyes narrowed, meaty lips curled into a sneer.

And then they were both moving, steps quickening as they drew closer together. Daryl could see the dried blood caked around a cut on the man's temple, the broken veins in his bloodshot eyes.

The meaty lips parted to speak but Daryl's fist absorbed the words, crashing into the man's teeth with enough force to split his knuckles.

The man reeled backwards, clawing at his face as blood filled his mouth and spilled out between gaping lips. He was still spitting blood and teeth when Daryl clocked him again, a cheap shot while his head was turned. He didn't give him a chance to so much as raise his fist.

Ed sank to the floor like a bag of rocks and Daryl went down on top of him, straddling his chest as Merle's gun appeared in his hand as if by magic.

He was blinded by rage, a red mist creeping in behind his eyes, as he brought the base of the pistol down on the man's face over and over again. The man writhed under him, struggling at first, before falling still. Daryl barely registered the sickening crunch of the man's nose breaking under the unforgiving metal. Blood splattered everywhere; on him, on the floor, on the walls. But he didn't stop.

There was a screaming in his ears, a tugging at his arm that he ignored until the rage subsided enough for him to realize it was Carol. Carol screaming, Carol trying to pull him away.

The mist faded enough for him to see the bloody, mangled mess he'd made of Ed's face, to hear the heavy rasping of his own breathing. The man was limp beneath him, gurgling blood as his body tried to suck in air.

But it wasn't enough. He thought of Carol's tears and bruises, of his own scars, and found himself standing over the man with his finger on the trigger. He itched to pull it. It would be so easy to put a bullet in the man's head, to see his brains splatter on the hallway floor. To end this once and for all.

He wasn't like his brother. For all the fights he'd been in, he'd never killed a man. But now he understood how people did it. Why they did it. He wanted to kill Ed, wanted to watch the life drain out of him.

"Daryl, please don't. Please. You're better than this, I know you are. Let's just go!"

She was still there beside him, tugging on his elbow and pleading with him. He tore his eyes away from Ed and saw tears rolling down her bruised face, her suitcase clenched tight in her free hand.

And that was what did it. She was packed and ready to go; ready to get out of there and be with him. They could be free.

With one last long look at Ed, he forced himself to put the gun away, paying no mind to the blood smeared all over it. She grabbed his hand immediately, threading her fingers through his and tugging him towards the door.

He wanted to kick the man in the ribs or stomp his face in or spit on his body. But Carol was there beside him, bringing him back, bringing him down. His legs felt a little unsteady but as soon as he was out of the house, breathing in the cool morning air with the warm sunlight on his face and her hand in his, his head cleared.

He opened the door for her, holding her suitcase as she scrambled up into the cab of his pickup, immediately scooting over to the middle seat. He slammed the door behind her, shooting one last look at her house as he rounded the front of the truck. He half-expected Ed to come running out the door and put a bullet in his back but it didn't happen. That asshole was down for the count.

She curled up against his side, suitcase resting against her legs on the floorboard, as he backed down the drive. He could feel that she was still trembling but then, so was he. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, tucking her in close to his body, and she relaxed against him. Her hand splayed across his chest, over his heart, and he squeezed her shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road as he pressed a kiss against the top of her head.

They didn't speak. There was nothing to say, it had all been said and seen and done. She had all she needed in her little suitcase and he had all he needed, there in the seat beside him.

She lifted her head to smile at him as they blew by the county limit sign, headed out of town at eighty miles per hour.

They had everything they needed. They'd figure the rest out later.