Carol hasn't given up on this place, even with the weather. She's the one that fixes problems like this, the eternal troubleshooter, the one who can whip up the best casserole you've ever had with near-expired cans in the back of the cabinet. They can get a greenhouse together, set aside space in the house, maybe even figure out how to get more income from the animals. But, she has to admit, things don't look to be headed in a great direction.
When Daryl mentions that his friend's lost someone was his wife, the first thing she thinks of is Rick's face when she asked, after Daryl brought her back to their cellblock, where Lori was. And then about Glenn when Maggie vanished from Teleios. It's one thing to lose someone, but another altogether to take a loss like that... a loss Carol can' truly relate to. She lose children, but losing Ed almost wasn't even noteworthy in the scheme of things. She cried and put that ax in his corpse, yet she never had the look in her eyes that Glenn or Rick had.
"Damn," is what she finally comes up with, her head full of memories that relate to anyone but herself and Daryl. It's not that she in any way questions their importance to each other, but she has such a disconnect between her relationship with Daryl and her experience of marriage that the connection doesn't happen. "That had to be hard to watch. I'm surprised you're not drunker." (She's half joking, but wouldn't have blamed him for getting hammered after sitting with that for the evening.)
There's no good answer to that, so he just grunts. She can take what she will from it; he's not sure what he means. (If he wasn't so focused on making sure Nate got somewhere safe, and that he got home himself, sober enough to make sure no one tailed him since paranoia is basically as natural as breathing... And, yeah, if he wasn't aware that she'd be wondering how bad a shape he'd be in, and hoping not to horrify her too much...)
All those things she's thinking of, he remembers, too. But he's thinking of them, too. Carol's not his wife; it's not that he thinks of them like that, exactly, or that he thinks she'd ever want to be. But at the same time, unspoken, it's not like they're that different. (Deep down, guiltily, he's not sure he'd correct anyone who mistook them for a married couple, if only because he'd have nothing to correct them with.) And though she's here-- he can imagine, better than he likes, what it would be to lose her for the last time. Every time feels like the last time until he finds her again, after all.
Without a real response, he just lets the silence stretch out between them.
None of this sits especially well, not that it should. And not that this is anything new, either. They lose, they struggle, and they keep going. Such has been their lives since they've known each other, and it won't change, no matter what happens to this place. At least they've learned how to find what happiness they can in the midst of it all.
Still, his reaction worries her, half because of the things drifting through her own head and half because she worries about him, generally... as if he needs her to, of course, but nonetheless.
"What can I do?" Maybe nothing, that's always a possibility. She's going to try anyway. Some part of her is that optimistic, even now.
Broadly, there's nothing to do. A hundred little things that will forestall the inevitable, if it's inevitable, but no way to fix the creeping problems he's seeing. Carol can do a hell of a lot but she can't get the weather working again.
"I'm all right," he murmurs, not stubborn but honest, trying to be reassuring. There's nothing he needs her to do, no more than this.
He needs her to stay, but he won't ask that. If she gets a say in the matter, he knows she will; if she doesn't-- well, it's why he can't ask her to promise anything.
She makes a warm but wry sound at his statement, because of course he is. They always are, until they're not, and then it's usually too late to actually delve into who's okay because they're running for their lives. So fine, he's okay, but that doesn't mean there's nothing she can do.
Shifting a bit, she settles herself at more of an eye-level so she can lean in and give him a kiss, faint booze-breath be damned. Not for too long, though, because next she wraps her arms around him and there's so much in the embrace that she can't possibly do two things at once; she rarely clings this much when they're not screwing around, but something in her just knows he needs it, even if she can't define exactly what's in his head.
"We'll figure this out," she says, her voice soft but utterly certain. "We didn't survive everything back home and cross God knows how many dimensions to end up at the mercy of some pitchfork mob or a little cold weather."
If she hadn't curled around him he'd be fine, too, but this is-- better. Worth it, and he relaxes a little. Just a bit, because there's still too much weighing on him to let it all loose, but it's something.
He can't really find the right thing to say to it so he just hums in response, some soft sketch of an assent. They'll be all right. Gotta be.
His slight relaxation is a victory, but a minute one. It's not that she assumed her reassurances would make everything suddenly easy and okay, but she can never help worrying; he's far too important to her.
"Do you want to tell me what's on your mind?" she asks, not yet letting go, "or should I shut up and we'll get some sleep?" Either answer really is fine, she just has a feeling if she didn't at least try she'd regret it later.
Things won't be easy, or okay. But he's all right; that's the honest truth. He never expected things to be stable. It was a nice fantasy, for a while, that they could settle in and not have to worry, but they've always been ready, too. This isn't quite the trouble he expected, but they'll weather it. They do.
"Thought I did," he murmurs, a little surprised, though maybe he shouldn't be. Lord knows all that was scattered and half-baked. He's just not sure how to say anything more than what hes said.
Chuckling, she concedes defeat. "Fair enough." He didn't say much, but evidently it was all he's interested in discussing. It's nothing new. In fact, her attempting to drag more out of him is the new part, and it's no surprise that he's not spilling his guts. (Honestly, she wouldn't know what to do with those guts if they did spill.)
"Wanna get some rest... or do you need to be tired out first?" She's joking, of course, given the mood -- but, as always, their jokes are never really "just" jokes.
Anything he's not saying, at this point, is simply something he can't; feelings that won't condense into words, worries too shapeless to voice. She's been good about being honest with him, which is the one thing he's always hounding her for, and he tries to be with her, too.
The tease gets a little huff of a laugh, but he's tired enough to leave the joke a joke, so he just stretches out alongside her, trying to settle comfortably.
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When Daryl mentions that his friend's lost someone was his wife, the first thing she thinks of is Rick's face when she asked, after Daryl brought her back to their cellblock, where Lori was. And then about Glenn when Maggie vanished from Teleios. It's one thing to lose someone, but another altogether to take a loss like that... a loss Carol can' truly relate to. She lose children, but losing Ed almost wasn't even noteworthy in the scheme of things. She cried and put that ax in his corpse, yet she never had the look in her eyes that Glenn or Rick had.
"Damn," is what she finally comes up with, her head full of memories that relate to anyone but herself and Daryl. It's not that she in any way questions their importance to each other, but she has such a disconnect between her relationship with Daryl and her experience of marriage that the connection doesn't happen. "That had to be hard to watch. I'm surprised you're not drunker." (She's half joking, but wouldn't have blamed him for getting hammered after sitting with that for the evening.)
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All those things she's thinking of, he remembers, too. But he's thinking of them, too. Carol's not his wife; it's not that he thinks of them like that, exactly, or that he thinks she'd ever want to be. But at the same time, unspoken, it's not like they're that different. (Deep down, guiltily, he's not sure he'd correct anyone who mistook them for a married couple, if only because he'd have nothing to correct them with.) And though she's here-- he can imagine, better than he likes, what it would be to lose her for the last time. Every time feels like the last time until he finds her again, after all.
Without a real response, he just lets the silence stretch out between them.
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Still, his reaction worries her, half because of the things drifting through her own head and half because she worries about him, generally... as if he needs her to, of course, but nonetheless.
"What can I do?" Maybe nothing, that's always a possibility. She's going to try anyway. Some part of her is that optimistic, even now.
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"I'm all right," he murmurs, not stubborn but honest, trying to be reassuring. There's nothing he needs her to do, no more than this.
He needs her to stay, but he won't ask that. If she gets a say in the matter, he knows she will; if she doesn't-- well, it's why he can't ask her to promise anything.
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Shifting a bit, she settles herself at more of an eye-level so she can lean in and give him a kiss, faint booze-breath be damned. Not for too long, though, because next she wraps her arms around him and there's so much in the embrace that she can't possibly do two things at once; she rarely clings this much when they're not screwing around, but something in her just knows he needs it, even if she can't define exactly what's in his head.
"We'll figure this out," she says, her voice soft but utterly certain. "We didn't survive everything back home and cross God knows how many dimensions to end up at the mercy of some pitchfork mob or a little cold weather."
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He can't really find the right thing to say to it so he just hums in response, some soft sketch of an assent. They'll be all right. Gotta be.
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"Do you want to tell me what's on your mind?" she asks, not yet letting go, "or should I shut up and we'll get some sleep?" Either answer really is fine, she just has a feeling if she didn't at least try she'd regret it later.
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"Thought I did," he murmurs, a little surprised, though maybe he shouldn't be. Lord knows all that was scattered and half-baked. He's just not sure how to say anything more than what hes said.
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"Wanna get some rest... or do you need to be tired out first?" She's joking, of course, given the mood -- but, as always, their jokes are never really "just" jokes.
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The tease gets a little huff of a laugh, but he's tired enough to leave the joke a joke, so he just stretches out alongside her, trying to settle comfortably.