Violent Delights¹︎ | D.Dixon

2.11 ➸︎

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CHAPTER ELEVEN
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THE NIGHT OF DALE'S DEATH was a long one for Leona, filled with tears. She managed to keep her composure decently well around the others as they sobbed together, mourning Dale as his body laid in the pasture mere feet from the half-eaten cow carcass and a rotting walker. But the tang of blood was so thick in the air that she could barely breathe through it, and knowing that some of it belonged to Dale made her want to die alongside him.

Even with her body shaking like a twig, Leona comforted Andrea to whatever degree she could. She hugged the woman, feeling her sobs shake through her and her tears soaked the shoulder of Leona's jacket. Then a hand landed on the small of her waist, a familiar and comforting weight. Glancing over her shoulder, she found Daryl, his expression softer than she'd ever seen it. I'll wait for you, his eyes seemed to say. She believed him.

By the time they'd reached their small camp, tears had pooled in her eyes, pupils burning as she tried to blink them away.

She waited until both she and Daryl were in the tent and the flap was zipped shut before she let the first sob escape her lips.

His arms tugged her to him immediately, and he let her cry into his chest, the leather of his vest refusing to absorb her tears and instead let them trickle over the material until they reached the seam. She had to sniffle to keep the snot from running out of her nose and wrapped her arms around him, desperately clinging to anything stable. Leona needed something stable just then as Dale's haunting screams echoed in her ears.

Their group had lost so many people, but Dale's death was different. The explosion at the CDC had been quick, a reassurance to the group that Jacqui hadn't suffered. Sophia's disappearance allowed them all to come to terms with the fact that she could've been dead long before they found her in the barn. And Jim, while having been bitten, was able to come to terms with his own death, and make a choice of how he'd wanted to go.

But Dale's death didn't have any of the closure the others did. They couldn't fight for him. There was one walker that had torn him apart, leaving him to choke on his own blood in his last moments. And there was nothing they could do but watch as the light faded from his eyes. There was no 'coming to term's' with his death. No, it was sudden, harsh, and brutal. He hadn't been away from the group for more than five minutes before they'd heard his screams.

She couldn't remember how she came to sit on the ground, the holster with her machete no longer attached to her jeans but laid along the inside of the tent, instead. Daryl's crossbow was laid beside it, as was his vest. She hadn't noticed him take it off.

Deft fingers touched her shoulders beneath her jacket, slipping beneath the material and gently pulling it down her arms.

While her jacket had come off quickly, he took more time with her shirt, assuring his touch was gentle. When it was off and she unhooked her bra, his gaze never darted lower than her eyes until she slipped one of his clean t-shirts over her head.

Next, he had her stand, letting her lean against his broad shoulders as he unbuttoned her jeans, slipping them down her thighs until they pooled on the floor. Stepping out of them, she watched as Daryl tossed them into the corner with her shirt.

Leona flashed him a weak smile when he turned back to her. It was the only show of thanks she could muster.

It took half an hour for her to talk. She laid beside him on the ground of their tent, sandwiched between the sleeping bags and several thick blankets. Daryl was lying behind her, his breathing and the movement of his fingers as they stroked loose strands of her hair were her only signs that he was even alive.