graceland. carl grimes

IV

iv.

americana sweetheart
"i've looked around enough to know"

♱

him

At dawn the next morning, Daryl's heavy boots descend the steps.

Lydia and I are already sitting up, awake, waiting for him.

He stops at the cell, holding a tin plate of carrots, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of us. Face already grit and sneering like he's ready to channel some of that pent up rage into another verbally violent interrogation.

But then his stare flicks from Lydia's hunched frame to the way my shoulder tilts unconsciously in front of hers, a barn-yard buck squaring off for a yearling doe. I can't help it. The protective instinct flares hot. I feel it in my jaw, in the ache behind my teeth.

"She didn't want to be alone down here." I say before he can get a word in. "And she needs a doctor."

Daryl's lips press into a thin line. "Is it still bleedin'?"

Lydia doesn't answer. She doesn't even lift her head. I glance at her, then back at Daryl, feeling the tension coil tighter.

"It's not bleeding right now," I say finally, answering for her. "But it's gonna get infected if it's not treated. She needs stitches. Bandages."

Daryl shifts on his feet, staring at Lydia for a long beat before finally sighing. "Alright." He mutters, exhaling sharply. "I'll get Enid."

With that, he turns on his heel, disappearing up the stairs without another word.

Fuck.

Enid.

Daryl returns not long after, Enid trailing reluctantly behind him. She barely spares me a glance, her eyes downcast, shoulders tight with discomfort.

I can tell right away she doesn't want to be here, can feel her judgment.

She doesn't say anything to me. Instead, she drops her medical kit on the table with a dull thud, louder than the cellar's quiet should allow.

"You need to take off your sweater." Enid says, her voice curt. "It's filthy. And it's in the way."

Lydia doesn't move, hair spilling over her face, a curtain of dirt and knots that hides her from the room. She stays curled in on herself, huddled in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest.

The sweater is the last barrier between her and the world she's been cast into.

"I said take it off." Enid repeats. She's no longer asking; she's demanding.

Lydia finally looks up, eyes wet and wide, searching for me. The tears in her gaze make my heart clench. I realize she's waiting. Waiting for me to say something, to do something.

"It's okay." I take a breath, kneeling down beside her. "Enid just wants to help you. You should let her."

Lydia's eyes flicker between Enid and me, as if she's weighing my words carefully. But before she can decide, Enid snaps, her voice colder than I've ever heard it.

"I don't want to help." She bites out. "Not after what happened to Jesus. I'm only here because I have to be."

The venom in her voice catches me off guard.

Enid sounds almost... cruel.

And it's aimed at someone who's already bleeding. I feel my jaw tighten and, before I can stop myself, I'm defending Lydia.