Dress You Up in my Love

"Gonna dress you up in my love... all over your body... from your head down to your toes..." -Madonna

"Now that's a shame." Carol said, as they moved through the cars on the overpass, working their way, scavenging as they went. This particular stretch of road hadn't been gleaned yet and they had found some quite useful things as they siphoned gas and then checked each car's interior, glove box, and trunk. Carl stood atop an overturned panel truck, using the scope of his rifle to scan the perimeter for any movement.

"What?" Maggie asked, looking over from the dark blue Toyota next to the overpass abutment where Carol stood. In front of her were the remains of a man and a motorcycle, which seemed to have hit the concrete pylon at an excessive rate of speed. The desiccated remains of the biker had almost been skeletonized by beaks, teeth and claws; the skull was cleft and shattered.

The big Harley had left a long skid trail along the pavement where it had spun in, cracking the rider's helmetless head against the cement like a rotten egg. As Carol examined the corpse more closely she realized that the crash probably hadn't killed the man-he'd already been dead when he hit the overpass support, from what looked like a shot gun blast to his chest. The large through and through hole had ruined the front and back of the heavy dark leather jacket where it covered the man's torso.

"Wow-not much left of him or the bike is there?" Maggie whistled, coming to stand behind Carol. She gave the older woman a sideways glance, seeing if the sight of the dead motorcyclist had upset her. Since Daryl had gotten back, since Merle's arrival, things had been a bit tense between Carol and the brothers.

Everyone knew that despite her seemingly sanguine acceptance of Daryl's reasons for leaving, Carol had been personally hurt and afraid for what his choice to leave with Merle could mean for him and the group. She'd told him she was glad he'd come home, warned him to be careful of Merle, and had even threatened Merle, which she didn't think the older brother had told the younger.

"Maybe just enough." Carol mused. She pulled out her small very sharp knife and waded in over the broken body of the biker and contemplated the garment he was wearing. Then she carefully stabbed the blade in and down starting at the shoulder and with one continuous cut, like peeling an apple in one long ribbon, went around the circumference of where the jacket's sleeves attached to the front and back panels and then, after unzipping the cuffs, peeled the leather cylinders off the bony arms. She winked over at Maggie who was regarding her curiously and then Carol rolled the leathers and stuffed them in her big carry all bag.

"We'll have to have Daryl look at it and see if any of the bike parts are salvageable." Rick said, coming up behind them, looking at the motorcycle assessingly. "Looks pretty mangled though." Carol stepped back over the grinning de-fleshed corpse and stood beside Rick, nodding. He looked down at her.

"You ever get scared riding with him-thinking about stuff like this?" he gestured at the wreck. Carol's cheek curved into a barely perceptible smile.

"I trust Daryl with my life." She said quietly, looking calmly up at Rick.

"Her heart's a different subject." Maggie murmured under her breath and Carol gave her a sharp look. They heard what sounded like a loud bird call-a thrush-Carl's signal that walkers had been spotted. Daryl and Merle had been teaching them all some of the calls they used in hunting and tracking that mimicked natural sounds, thinking that might be less likely to attract walkers.

"We should get back." Rick said curtly and as he waited for the women to go ahead of him, he spray painted a red arrow pointing to the place where the motorcycle rested on the bridge abutment, indicating they should return later.

Back at the prison, Carol dug through the big black garbage bags of fall and winter clothing that they'd collected over the last weeks of scavenging until she found the one she remembered grabbing thinking it would fit Daryl. When he hadn't returned from Woodbury she'd stuffed it in the bottom of the bag, shoving it down like she'd tried to do with her thoughts of him.

It was faded navy blue-gray corduroy, with shell or horn buttons. It was thin enough to be worn under his beloved angel wing leather vest, but heavy enough to give him some real warmth as he rode or hunted. While Daryl was gone Carol put it away—she didn't think of giving it to one of the other men, when it would have fit Rick, Glenn or even Axel. It was Daryl's jacket despite the fact that he might never return. It was a larger size, needed for his broad shoulders, and before she'd known he wasn't coming back, she had altered it by taking it in at the sides and waist, tailoring it to his slimmer hips.

Pulling out her sewing basket, she found her heaviest gauge needle and thickest thread. It took her most of two nights, working in her room after Beth had fallen asleep. She retained the coat's original sleeves and painstakingly sewed the leather ones over top of them. The needle had to be extremely sharp to go through the layers of thick unforgiving hide and cloth so she had to force it, the effort making her wipe her dripping brow.

Several times she accidentally jabbed herself hard and deep enough to draw blood, shedding a few drops onto the cloth; the stinging pain bringing tears to her eyes. Blood, sweat and tears, she thought wryly-how much of each had she shed over this man since she'd known him?

Finally on the third day she was finished. The emissary from the Governor had come to arrange a meeting between the two leaders the day before and so Rick stood next to the green car waiting for Hershel, while Merle argued with the former sheriff that he should be allowed to accompany them.

Daryl stood leaning on the brick wall of the prison building, near his motorcycle, his poncho in his hands, preparing to put it on, only half listening to what Merle was saying. As far as he was concerned there was no need for any more discussion. Rick had decided and for better or worse "what he says goes."

Carol walked over to him, the coat she'd altered for him held tightly in her arms. When Daryl saw her approach he pushed off from the wall, standing straight, ducking his head, but then unable to look away from her for long, his eyes rose to meet hers.

He was still so uncertain around her. She'd changed so much in the last year and a half that Merle had said he hardly recognized her. She was strong, so alive...her head held high, her big blue eyes warm, if a little guarded, as they met his. Daryl felt his heart jump in his chest as she smiled at him-her whole face lit up-her eyes crinkled, a dimple appeared in her cheek and her turned up nose turned a little pink along with her cheeks. Was that all for him? Shit, she was beautiful.

"Hey," She said, coming to stand before him. He tossed the poncho over his shoulder and stuffed his hands in his front pants pockets because he didn't know how else to control them. They wanted to reach out to her, take her hands, pull her close...hold her close.

"Hey." He said. He very rarely said her name. It was somehow sacred to him, like a prayer, it seemed to promise too much to have it on his lips, the taste a sweet he was forbidden, like candy when he'd been a little boy.

Carol held the coat out to him, trying to hide her bandaged fingers in the folds of the material. She needed to get some half gloves like his, so she could use weapons yet still have some warmth.

Puzzled, he stared down at the corduroy and leather jacket. It wasn't like any coat he'd ever seen.

"Thought you might need more'n your poncho now that the weathers turned," she told him, trying to keep her tone light and practical, but dying to know if he liked it. He took his hands out of his pockets and accepted the coat, holding it out in front of him so he could inspect it.

"Sleeves." He said and grinned, lifting the zippered cuffs of one and examining it. She smiled back and nodded. "Where'd you find this?-it's..." he felt the weight of it, knew it would go under his vest, the leather sleeves not only warm, but an extra layer of skin, in effect, protecting his arms in case of a crash, "It's damn near perfect." He pronounced, looking at her wonderingly. She grinned more broadly, happier than she had a right to be that he'd appreciated it for what it was.

"Try it on." She told him. Her one worry had been that with the way he had packed on muscle in the last few months, the sleeves would be too tight on him. It almost felt like a sin, covering up those arms.

Daryl pulled his poncho off his shoulder and handed it to her and then unsnapped his leather vest and she took that from him as well. She draped the poncho over the chopper's seat and then laid the vest over it so she could start loosening the laces along the sides to insure that it would fit over the jacket.

As he lifted the coat to put it on he caught a subtle smell of roses coming off of it. That was Carol's scent-from the bars of soap with dried rose petals she loved to use, that everyone knew to look out for when out gleaning. She'd been holding the coat close as she walked over, but this was more than that-the thing was imbedded with the delicate floral aroma. He glanced at her, her head down concentrating on working the leather ties of his vest, preparing it for him. He frowned as he realized several of her fingers were covered in Band-Aids and white bandage tape.

Looking more closely at the coat he saw that someone had sewn the leather sleeves on over top of the original corduroy ones, giving an extra layer of insulation. He also saw what looked like small brown circles dotting the cloth where it met leather. God damn it. She'd bloodied herself for him.

Daryl pulled the thing on then; preparing himself for the usual too tight fit over his shoulders or if it fit there, for it to be too loose in the torso and waist, but it fit him like a glove. He felt an inarguably sensual shock run through him at the thought that she knew him—knew his body so well—that she'd never measured him...never had to ask him to stand for a fitting. She'd just altered it to fit him like a bespoke suit. He rolled his shoulders experimentally, lifted his arms as if he was holding his crossbow and found that the coat had plenty of give so he had freedom of movement without it being baggy or sloppy.

Carol watched him as he moved in the coat, saw his nod of satisfaction. He checked out the zippered cuffs, de rigueur for motorcycle jackets, cutting down on wind resistance by pulling the sleeve tight on his forearm. She handed him the vest and he pulled it on over the coat and snapped it closed. She'd loosened it at the sides a little too much and he lifted his right arm to try to tighten the laces himself with his left, but she stepped closer and pushed aside his hand.

"Stop." she admonished him, and then he felt her hands move lightly on him as she drew the strings together and tied them off at the bottom on first one side and then the other. He could see her softly curling short silvered hair which grazed the underside of his arm as he held it up out of the way. He was fascinated by the cow lick swirling over the crown of her head. When he'd first met her, when her hair was so much shorter than now it hadn't been visible. He wondered what her hair had looked like when she was younger, did it curl out of control? Was it as soft as it looked?

"Done." she announced and stepped back from him, looking at the coat, its' fit, appraisingly. Frowning, she reached up and tugged hard at the seams at the points of his shoulders where she'd attached the sleeves, testing her work after his movements. Then still frowning, she reached up and around his shoulders, standing on her toes to reach his nape and pull the coat's collar out from under the vest, adjusting it and smoothing it down.

For the few seconds it took her to complete the small action, he held his breath, overwhelmed by her closeness. He'd never hugged her; had held her only twice: once, to stop her from the danger of the walker who had once been her child and then a second time to carry her out of the Tombs.

This was the closest he'd been to her since he'd returned with Merle tagging along like some cockle burr that he couldn't shed no matter how much he knew he should.

It would be so easy to lift his hands, now held stiffly at his sides, to find her small waist or the flare of her hip, pull her against him, draw up her chin and finally find out if her lips were as rose petal soft as they looked...damn, he was in deep trouble here...

"In or out?" Carol asked and he blinked at her and frowned. "Do you want the collar in or out?" she clarified, her expression one of studied patience.

"In, I guess." he muttered, meaning something totally different. She dutifully tucked it back under.

Everything looked good, Carol thought to herself. Satisfied, she lowered her arms quickly, forcing herself to take a step back and turn away, expecting no thanks from the taciturn man, but was pulled up short when he said her name quietly.

"Carol?" Daryl felt the 'k' sound of the c in his throat, the roll of the 'r' and the 'l' as it made his tongue tap the roof of his mouth. She turned back towards him, her head tilted to the side questioningly.

"You... did this...made this...fer me?" he asked haltingly. She nodded yes.

"Why?" he asked. She looked at him sadly, her soulful eyes filling with tears.

"Because I needed to," she told him, and it was his turn to frown. Swallowing hard she looked over at Merle, still arguing with Rick. Her eyes flicked back to Daryl. "Stay safe." she added softly, and continued her turn, walking back towards the prison entrance.

Daryl took a step towards her retreating back, but stopped when he saw her raise both hands to wipe the tears off of her face as she walked briskly forward and then clanged open the metal grate of the exterior cage door, passing through without a backwards glance.

"...Carol... thank you..." he said, much too softly and much too late for her to hear.