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Daryl Dixon (littledixon) wrote in makebelievelog,

Daryl waited patiently for her to get her shit together as he glanced around the room, trying to seem like he was getting impatient with her for taking her sweet time. He really wasn’t; he just didn’t want to lose her attention. He didn’t want her to have enough time to change her mind and leave him high and dry. Not that it sounded like something Carol would do, but she had enough good reasons locked away during their short but very intense history to do so, and he sure as hell wouldn’t blame her if she ever did decide to wipe her hands clean of him. Here, she had plenty of opportunity to move beyond his sorry ass and experience what the bastard Ed had never let her do. Here, she was far better than he would ever be.

He stepped to the side as she finally moved to exit the room, and he gave a jerk of a nod down the hallway before he moved to lead her out of the castle. A red washrag hang from his back pocket, a pointless redneck habit that came with being a damn grunt, always cleaning shit up or getting your hands dirty. But he was cleaner than he’d ever been back home, and he’d finally gotten a clean shave that managed to shape his facial hair to a degree that wasn’t totally disgusting. But all of that had been done by his own hands. He wasn’t looking to go to a barber shop, so his hair was starting to tickle along the back of his neck at an annoying length, but it was the last thing on his mind at the moment as he led the way to the castle gardens.

The grounds were once again overcast by the damn clouds. It rained way too damn much here, and he was just lucky the damn sky wasn’t pouring on their heads now. He didn’t say a word as he trekked across the lawn to the gardens and entered the flowery archway into the mazelike structure. He head ducked a bit further, almost embarrassed by the flowery location he’d taken her, but his destination was just ahead. “Here.” He put his hand gently on her elbow as he led her the rest of the way in front of a Cherokee rose bush, the little white and yellow flowers shining up at them, beautifully bloomed in the springtime air. These flowers, at least, loved the rain.

He let go of her arm as he used his other hand to gesture at the bush vaguely. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, his voice low and gruff beneath the wind tossing the bushes around. “What I said. It wasn’t right. Ya can say whatever the hell you want. You definitely know better than me.”