Trying

He had thought about it all night long.

Had thought about whether he wanted to do this. Whether he would be able to do it.

And he had weighed his doubts against what he stood to gain.

What they stood to gain.

And he couldn't let this pass. Finding this here, now, could not be a coincidence. He would never come across this again, and even if he were to come back here later, looking for it, it might no longer be there.

Until he'd seen that book, he had never even thought about the possibility that things might be different, even this late in the game. This late in his life.

That he might unlearn flinching away from the most minute of touches.

His dad, yelling at him as he slashed the belt across his back, splitting the skin.

That he might achieve some level of control over his emotions and not let them have their way with him, losing his shit at the drop of a hat.

Throwing a string of squirrels at Rick after he had told him about Merle and Atlanta. Going up against both him and Shane over it.

That he might learn to approach people and be comfortable in their company.

Moving his tent away from the group at the farm, and running out to hunt every chance he got, just to be away from them all.

That touch might not always be bad and hurtful, for the rest of his life, but bring solace and comfort.

Her lips brushing his temple, her breath ghosting over his skin.

That he might be able to make it work with her.

„Nine lives, remember?"

As a kid, he had attended school whenever he'd been able to between bruises to his face and broken bones, but he had never been a bookworm. Seeing it, he realized that this would be harder work than anything he had done in his life before - but the people who knew how to deal with this shit were all gone now, so he would have to help himself - or not be helped at all.

After more long moments spent staring at the book once the morning had come, on his way to do for her what she would have done herself if he had let her - but of course, he could never allow her to burn this mother and daughter and destroy herself even more - he had finally grabbed it and put it into his bag along with a pencil and a textmarker. He would give this his all - he was not going to read this for grades but for himself, for his life, for their life. To make himself heal so he could be whole for her. Not entirely without damage, but with the damage no longer controlling his life.

He would make this work.

.-.

When his bag fell to the floor and the book and the pens spilled out of it, he did not blush or flinch. He met her eyes defiantly, daring her to ask.

During all the time they had known each other, she had been watching him as he had been watching her. She had seen him flinch from touch and at loud noises. Seen him lose his shit over stupid non-issues. Seen him beat his knuckles bloody against trees and walls in uncontrollable anger. Seen him withdraw as soon as dealing with people and shit got too exhausting.

Merle might have run his stupid mouth during the short time he had lived at the prison with them.

She had seen him shirtless.

She knew all there was to know about him already. All that was missing was the horrible details. Her seeing this, here, now, did not make any difference. And it would not alter the way she saw him, thought of him … felt about him.

She looked down at the bag, startled by the sound of it hitting the ground, and saw the book. Saw its title. Looked up, expecting to see him blush, get riled up at her seeing it, get aggressive and snarl at her, the way the old Daryl would have. The Daryl at the farm who had yelled at her for telling him that she cared about him getting hurt, that she couldn't lose him. The Daryl who had not known any other reaction but lashing out in anger because it was the only way he had ever seen adults react to each other, to Merle, to him.

She had seen the marks on him, had overserved him as closely as he had observed her, and she knew that it had to have been bad. He had never spoken about it to her, and she doubted that anyone in their family knew about this.

And through the pain in his face and in his eyes she saw his steely resolve to get better, to do this for himself and for her, however hard and painful it might be, and his eyes begged her to try and do the same for herself - face the pain and then let go of it, let it do its worst one last time and then burn it away, cleansing herself of it and becoming as whole as she could be, the woman that she should have been all along.

As she watched, he bent down to sweep the book and the pencils back into the bag and pick it back up. He was set on this course. He would face his demons, whatever it took, to make himself heal.

The ember deep down inside under all the hurt and agony that was herself flickered to life.

If he could do this, maybe so could she.