𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 ➪ «𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 𝑑𝑖𝑥𝑜𝑛»

ch. XLV pt. II

oOo

Diana stood again in front of Daryl's door. She raised her hand to knock but lowered it again. A process she'd gone over about five times by now.

When the fire and anger had died down, she'd felt especially awkward – although not regretful, so, progress – about the way things had gone down. And after her whole speech, she didn't know how the reprise would go; she was tongue-tied and drawing a blank.

Felix stood next to her, leaning tiredly against the wall. His eyes were half-lidded, and he sighed at her failure. She had asked him there for emotional support since Alice was still not talking to her. "Know what, bruh?" he said, then knocked on the door and turned the handle. "I think it's open." He mocked her with a lopsided grin.

Diana gasped at him but knew she couldn't just close the door back up and pretend nothing had happened. So, she glared at her brother, punched his arm, and pushed the door open timidly.

She slipped inside and closed it silently without turning to face Daryl. Merda... C'mon, Diana, you dumb hoe, turn your ass around and face the music!

She did just that and found Daryl sitting on the edge of the bed – mostly clean –, staring at her. He held the washcloth to his chest like he was trying to hide. It was a strangely womanly move, and it melted Diana's heart a little. To think that he was embarrassed to bare his chest in front of her.

Neither said a word, so Diana took the initiative by walking up to him. That blue that was her favorite color no longer held any contempt for her – fake or not. The way his eyes flickered to the floor and back to her spoke of his regret and shame. Had this been any normal fight, she would've been satisfied with that look; his eyes barely lied.

But this had been no regular quarrel, the son of a bitch had really hurt her feelings, and had tried to get rid of her, to push her away; she demanded to know why. If he was that remorseful, then why do it in the first place?

It mystified her. Had it really been because of that drunken night?

With gentle hands, Diana took the washcloth from his hand and saw him retreat in on himself, his eyes searching the room, almost as if wanting to escape. She saw the scars then. Old and faded; like from slash wounds. Her breath hitched, and pain stabbed her chest.

She had to bite her tongue to keep from asking about them; he would tell her if he wanted; if he trusted her. Meanwhile, she tried to keep from thinking about their origin.

The water in the basin was dirtied beyond belief, so she went and poured it into the bucket in the corner of the room, and replaced it with the room temperature water from the pitcher Patricia had left behind.

Back at the bedside, Diana rinsed and wrung the cloth, now less sullied, and gave Daryl a once over. He'd tried, but his restricted mobility had made it hard for him to reach certain areas of his torso, and the lack of a mirror caused some patches on his face to go forgotten.

With yet a word to be said between them, Diana touched the tips of her fingers underneath Daryl's stubbled chin and tipped his head up to her. The look in his eyes was so painfully tender that it hurt to breathe.

With soft pats, she pressed the wet cloth against his temple, along his jaw, down the side of his neck. His eyes fluttered closed, and Diana's gaze flickered down to his lips. The urge was so strong, so tempting. Instead, she cupped his jaw and cushioned her lips against his forehead. A half-forgiveness.

Daryl's hand encased her wrist while his eyes flew open in shock. He tried to search for something in her expression, but she battled to keep it blank. Her thumb caressed his cheek, and his fingers tightened around her wrist. Could he feel the rush of her pulse?