[ lxvii. threat first, human being second ]

october 16th, 2012

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IN THE STILLNESS OF the night, Astrid found herself once again on her knees, wracked by an assault that threatened to tear her apart from within. It was a different kind of imprisonment this time, not the irritating grip of duct tape but the fiery burn of sickness, leaving her doubled over the porcelain of a toilet, each retch a violent upheaval of her insides.

Her chest tightened painfully with each heave, her head swimming with a feverish haze that blurred the edges of her vision. The tears that streamed down her cheeks mingled with the bile that stained her lips, creating a bitter concoction of misery. She was no longer certain what hour of the night it was. All she knew was that she was utterly alone—or so she believed.

The bathroom door creaked open behind her. Astrid did not turn, did not even flinch as a pair of large, warm hands landed upon her shoulders. Gently, tenderly, those hands swept back her sweat-soaked hair, revealing the clammy pallor of her neck and face.

As another wave of nausea crashed over her, Astrid shuddered violently, her whole body convulsing with the effort to expel the poison. Eventually, she forced her head away from the foulness of the toilet bowl. The flush, and hollow gurgle of swallowed swirling water that followed, echoed through the silent room.

Exhausted and spent, Astrid exhaled heavily. Her fingers trembled as they clung to the toilet's cold rim, the worn, gauze bandages wrapped around them offering little protection against the raw agony that radiated from her battered skin. Red, blue, and purple bruises colored her flesh, the throbbing pain pulsing through her shattered hands.

Both palms were split right down the palm. Her right hand, however, bore the worst of the damage, the bones fractured and splintered upon bone and cement. Denise had called it a "boxer's fracture," as if it were some mundane injury to be cataloged and filed away, but Astrid knew better. It was a reminder of the price she had paid for her freedom from a slaughterhouse—a twisted scar that she would carry with her for the rest of her life.

And yet, despite the searing pain, Astrid had initially harbored no regret for the actions that had brought her to this moment. Michelle had provoked her wrath. It had been so easy, so intoxicating, to tear the woman apart.

But now, as Astrid knelt in the aftermath of her vengeance, the memory of that violent act would not lessen its intensity. It was not just her physical pain that brought her to her knees now—it was the knowledge of what existed within her, the knowledge that she was capable of such cruelty, such brutality, when pushed to the edge. She had crossed a line in that slaughterhouse, a line that she feared she could never uncross.

Astrid let out a faint groan as she shifted away from the toilet and leaned back into her husband's legs. His hands, which had been tangled in her hair, now settled atop her head, offering a gentle massage to ease the ache in her temples. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to revel in the sensation of his touch, the rhythmic movement of his fingers against her scalp.

"I'm okay," She croaked to him.

Daryl emitted a low, rumbling sound from deep within his throat, a skeptical hum that betrayed his doubt. "In sickness, right?"

Astrid nodded weakly, her movements sluggish and labored. With great effort, she shifted her position again, maneuvering until her back found a more comfortable perch against the bathtub behind her. Her eyes drifted to a close as she remarked dryly, "There's been a lot of that lately."

The bitterness was evident in her tone. Behind her closed lids, images flickered—flashes of Paula's snarling face as she forced Astrid to suffocate in secondhand smoke, Donnie's grimy hands tangled in her hair as he exerted his control, Michelle's sadistic grin, Molly's blood handkerchief. Each memory was sharp, fueling the smoldering embers of Astrid's anger.

A mantra echoed with unwavering conviction within her head: they deserved to die, Astrid.

The sound of running water broke through Astrid's reverie, pulling her back to the present. She reopened her bloodshot eyes and watched as her husband filled a glass cup beneath the sink's faucet. Without a word, he extended it to her, and she accepted it gratefully. Then, Daryl lowered himself to the hardwood floor, too. His back found support against the cupboard, long legs stretching out in front of him, to mirror Astrid's own position as he sat diagonal to her.

Through partially squinted eyes, in the soft glow of the bathroom light, Astrid studied the man she loved. In this late hour, with only the two of them, his walls remained down. She saw tranquility settle over him, a rare moment of relaxation. His tired gaze met hers, devoid of judgment, hidden behind a curtain of half-tousled hair.

He was beautiful, Astrid thought. He was hers.

She hoped that she would always be his. That her hunter could always love her, even for what he had seen her become earlier that afternoon.

Perhaps that had made her sick this evening, too.

Daryl's clothed leg brushed against Astrid's bare one as he shifted, drawing her attention to the small package he produced from his pocket. It was gum. She accepted his offering. "Thank you, honey," She murmured.

Fumbling with crooked fingers, she tore open the wrapper, and as the minty freshness flooded her tastebuds, Astrid fought to mask the wince that rippled from the split in her bottom lip.

But Daryl saw it, his gaze softening. "What hurts?" He asked.

"What doesn't?" Astrid returned. She glanced at her swollen, bruised hands, then shrugged, a feeble attempt to downplay her pain. "I can manage."

"I know you can. But you shouldn't have to."

Astrid's shoulders rose in a shrug again while she grappled with her next response. She knew that confessing this pain did not even rank among the worst she had ever experienced would only add to Daryl's worry. So, instead of speaking, she took a small, measured sip of water.

For a long moment, the husband and wife simply held one another's stare. The Alexandrian house was entirely quiet around them. Eyes drooping, breathing slowing, they could have easily surrendered to exhaustion right there on the tiled floor together.

But Astrid's stomach still twisted. She dreaded the inevitable return of the meager dinner she had struggled to keep down. "You can go back to bed," She whispered.

"Not without you," Daryl replied.

Astrid managed a faint smile, though the motion pulled at the raw edges of her split lips. It was a silly, little comfort to know that he still wanted her by his side, even after all this time. That the thought of sleeping without her nestled beside him was unthinkable. She could not deny feeling the same.

From the moment she met her hunter in those Georgian woods, Astrid's life had been forever altered. Her favorite person in the world. He had been easy for her to love. Well—maybe not always. In their early days of meeting, there were certainly times she had wanted to lash out, to curse him to oblivion . . . But then, upon their first and only night at the CDC, long ago in Atlanta, when she had looked upon him as a potential friend, their history had been irrevocably set.

Astrid sometimes wondered how quickly Daryl had reciprocated such feelings. Had he seen her as an equal during their time at the CDC, too?

She reflected on that day more than she cared to admit. When he had almost lost her, when she had teetered on surrendering to a suicidal firebomb. Back then, it had seemed an easy choice. But now, even knowing what would ultimately lay ahead for her, she could not entertain such thoughts anymore. She remembered Jenner's final words, even to this day when nearly two years had passed. How—despite being promised a second chance at life—the scientist had assured the survivors that one day they would not be grateful for it.

That day, despite everything, had not dawned on Astrid Dixon. Not yet.

She supposed the same could be said for her husband. Deep in her heart, she knew Daryl would never give up on this life. He was born for this world, molded by its brutality into a figure of strength and resilience. It had not broken him; it had forged him into a leader, albeit in his own quiet way. This world had shaped him for the better.

But what had it made of Astrid? As she watched Daryl rise, he had surely watched her own descent. She was a mere shadow of the person she once was in Atlanta, and each passing day seemed to emphasize that painful truth. Today was no exception. Astrid's thoughts suddenly darkened. Would Daryl have made the same choices regarding her—choosing her—had he known the person she would become?

Did he choose to stand by her now out of obligation, she wondered, after enduring so much together? Was it because she carried his child?

The questions burned in her mind, unspoken but heavy with their implications. Before she could contain the next one, it slipped from her lips. "Do you love me?"

Daryl sat up straighter. "Of course I do."

"How?" She asked.

His gaze hardened, his jaw tightening. "What kind of question is that? Where's this comin' from?"

Astrid glanced away from her husband and deliberated for a long moment. "I don't like this version of who I've become," She eventually settled on, tilting her head back toward him. "I tried . . . I tried to kill that woman at Hilltop the other day. I wanted to. I knew I could. And I knew you would let me. Rick would. Michonne would." She paused, then added, "It's become second nature to us. Violence is all we know. Violence is all we can promise."

"But I didn't want our children to grow up surrounded by that," She continued. "Not anymore. I thought we could escape it. Be better. But today, I realized there is no better. It's just you . . . and the stranger that's trying to kill you. Because that's the reality of this world, isn't it? There will always be another stranger. They'll always be seen as a threat first, and a human being second. I was naïve to believe we could raise a child in a world where that wasn't the case. That we could simply stop seeing strangers altogether."

Astrid's throat tightened, tears stinging her eyes. She despised her own vulnerability. She had not wanted to cry. She had no reason to cry, other than to make more of a fool of herself. But Daryl held her stare with unwavering seriousness, his eyes a stormy sea of understanding as he cradled her words as if they were the fragile remnants of a shattered reality. Shattered—but not entirely lost.

"That day could still come," He insisted.

But Astrid shook her head. "I don't know if I believe that anymore. I'm not sure I can," She admitted. "I can't lie to our son one day and tell him this world is good. Because it isn't. We aren't. And if we want to keep him alive, we have to show him the truth. Show him how we learned to stay alive. Show him how to stay alive. To see a stranger and shoot first—so he's the one who always comes home."

"We were always goin' to have to do that," Daryl said quietly. "One day, he'll learn what we had to do to keep the Saviors from reachin' us, to keep ourselves safe."

Astrid's fingers drummed unsteadily against her thigh, throbbing with each flex. But it was a nervous habit she could not break, even in the safety of a small, secure bathroom. She pursed her lips as a new, dangerous thought perplexed her. "What if the Saviors are still out there?" She asked.

Daryl's frown deepened as he studied his wife's expression. "The Saviors are gone," He said. "Negan's dead. You saw that."

"I saw a man named Primo get his brains blown out," Astrid corrected. "Whoever Rick killed, it wasn't Negan. I think . . . I think there's more to these Saviors, Daryl. More than we can see."

Daryl's stare softened. He seemed to be genuinely considering her worry of the Saviors—perhaps, for the first time since Hilltop. But her heart still clenched in defeat when he finally said to her, "It's nothin' we can't handle."

Astrid drew in a deep breath and then exhaled it slowly. Her chest was still painfully tight, but she was too tired to argue. "I just . . . I thought we were safe." She huffed to herself. "Now, I can't shake this feeling that we're just waiting for the next disaster to hit."

Daryl shifted on the hardwood floor, moving closer until his left hand reached out to rest atop Astrid's lower leg. His thumb ran soothingly along her calf. For several minutes, neither spoke. Then, as Astrid was still watching him, she eyed a sudden twinkle of mischief that pulled at his features.

"We need a vacation," Her hunter told her.

"Oh?" Astrid replied. "And where would we go?"

Daryl's lips curled into a wry smile. "We never did get that honeymoon in the Oval Office."

Astrid could not help but chuckle, though the sound was tinged with tiredness, as if the laughter itself had taken the very last strength she had.

"No, we didn't," She agreed.

Daryl's smile softened again. "Someday," He promised.

"Someday," Astrid echoed. But deep down, she knew better than to cling to such dreams. She could not allow herself to believe in "someday" now. For her, their reality with the Saviors was still too near, too entirely possible to lose all that she held dear.

Once more, the husband and wife lingered in the bathroom, its white walls echoing a soft, barely-there hum. And again, Astrid and Daryl's eyelids drooped with the growing pull of sleep. Until the latter subtly stirred, his grip on Astrid's lower leg tightening affectionately. "Let's go to bed, babe," He said, his voice a gravelly murmur.

Astrid merely groaned in answer, and her eyes fluttered shut. Unfazed by her reluctance, Daryl rose from his place on the floor, his silhouette eclipsing the soft glow of the room. Then, he moved to crouch beside her. She felt the warmth of his breath caressing her face, a caress that stirred something within her, a flicker of awareness amidst the haze of sleep.

With practiced ease, Daryl's arms slipped beneath her naked knees and around the curve of her lower back, and effortlessly lifted her weight. Astrid's head immediately nestled into the crook of his shoulder. He smelled of earth and rain, of cedar and leather—he smelled of home.

Silently, Daryl carried her out of the bathroom and down the dusky hallway to their bedroom. The shadowy room greeted them with a comforting chill from the cracked window as Daryl lowered Astrid onto the middle of their king-sized bed. He shed his shirt and crawled in beside her, pulling the covers around their instantly entwined bodies.

His arms enveloped her waist, his touch both possessive and protective, to pull her flush into him. His calloused fingers instinctively dipped beneath the hem of his shirt that she wore to cradle the growing swell of her stomach. But neither parent missed the way his fingertips grazed the bandaged reminder of the danger Astrid had narrowly escaped, the scar that would forever promise the threat that had nearly torn their son from them.

Earlier, in that very bedroom, Astrid had nearly shattered when she told him the truth of Michelle's intentions, that Astrid had almost lost more than just her own life to the Savior. But they would not talk about that now. Not again. Tonight, in the sanctuary of their bedroom, there was only the present moment. The reassurance that Astrid was here, that their son was here, and that their almost-killer was not. That was all that mattered.

Astrid and Daryl lay facing each other, their gazes locked. Belying the ache in her bones, Astrid lifted her unbroken hand, fingers trembling slightly, to cup her husband's cheek. The touch of her bruised thumb against his stubble was delicate and careful. Daryl, his eyes alight with the silver shimmer of moonlight filtering through the window, watched her. Then, he leaned in and brushed a feather-light kiss against her forehead.

But her hunter's affection was not confined to one solitary gesture. He began to trail kisses across her jawline, the hollow of her throat, and the curve of her collarbone, avoiding the cuts on her lips as if to shield her from further pain.

After, Daryl's forehead descended to rest against Astrid's in the most intimate merging.

"I already said it once. I'll love you forever, Astrid," He promised. "Every version of you."

For a mere moment, the iron grip of anxiety loosened its hold on Astrid's chest. Her mind quieted to a peaceful lull. She lingered in his warmth and the peace that only he could bring her.

And when she finally spoke, her voice was a mere whisper that danced on the edge of sleep's embrace. "Goodnight, Dixon," She murmured. In the new stillness that followed, Astrid waited for a response. Daryl's eyes had now closed, and for a heartbeat, she thought her husband had already succumbed to the gentle pull of slumber.

But just as she began to drift off, too, she felt the steady pressure of his touch squeezing against her bare hips, a silent reassurance that he was still there.

"Good night, Dixon."

~~~~~~~~~~

is this the last calm, somewhat happy moment between astrid and daryl?  it might be.