what_wings_dare | people in hell want slurpees.

Unfortunately for him, she finds it cute when he's all embarrassed like that. Why else would she make the jokes she makes? (Well, other than perhaps a part of her genuinely being attracted to him, but she's more attracted to him as a person than otherwise which she finds so much more significant.)

She's about to say something to that effect when he murmurs his reply, melting what of her heart he hadn't already. Carol sees that effort. So as a reward she decides not to make him proverbially squirm any further by telling him more about how wonderful he is.

Instead: "It's damn sexy when you say things like that." Because it is, but more because joking with him feels normal and comfortable and like a different way of appreciating his words without being all mushy.

She is well aware this might also embarrass him in a way but his head is in her lap and she sidestepped that one, okay.

How's that not supposed to make him squirm? Keep sayin' things like that when he's got his head in your lap, Carol, and you'll make him think you like him.

He makes a face at her, a mock-scowl to cover his embarrassment, shifting to stretch out a bit more. He never knows how much of the joke is a joke, never quite knows what reaction she wants from him, but under the circumstances he thinks he gets a little leeway in questionably joking right back.

"Ain't you had enough of that today?" he drawls right back, raising an eyebrow and managing to sound suitably haughty, though decidedly teasing. After all that she doesn't get to flirt with impunity, okay.

She lifts an eyebrow of her own, since when does he flirt back? Carol can't decide whether she's more impressed with him or (mildly) upset that she's lost her go-to way to get that aforementioned squirming on demand.

"Now you've done it." She's half chuckling, half mock-scolding. "If I say no, you'll think I'm challenging you. And if I say yes..." she leans over him slightly, failing entirely at being serious, "you'll know I'm full of shit."

Carol playfully flicks his forehead for good measure, and to let him know that there's really no pressure or expectation or even request behind that. Just sitting here is as much as she could ever hope for and it's more than enough.

Twice today he kissed her, once of his own volition, and that second one wasn't even awful. That definitely qualifies him to flirt back. She shouldn't worry, though, because he's bound to keep squirming, when he's not in the catbird seat (lap) enjoying the spoils of his victory.

If she's full of shit saying nice things about him, he doesn't wanna know, anyway.

He makes a growly noise and swats vaguely at her hand, exactly as non-serious as she is. The point for letting him down gently is long since past, and she's been hanging onto him pretty hard. He doesn't trust easy, but he trusts her enough to think she wouldn't have taken just a joke so far.

Edited (i am bad at icons) 2014-10-17 01:33 (UTC)

He is right to trust her because she would never, ever, under any threat or circumstance joke about what just happened in the entryway. She's just doing what she does, what they do, because it's been so, so long since she could.

And of a similar vein, she'd never want to let him down, in any way.

Carol starts to say something, but before any bit of it can escape she loses the words in a wide yawn. Who would have thought kitchen duty would make her tired after all the running around and sleepless nights they used to have?

The biggest potential for disaster here, probably, is that they're both so eager to please that they're not worrying about what they want themselves. Nor do they know. At least, Daryl doesn't, but he's yet to run up against anything he doesn't, so that's... Promising. Maybe.

He's waiting for her standard witty retort (and resigning himself to the fact that she'll probably manage to make him squirm this time, because there's only so much he can manage), but instead he half-smirks at the yawn. Guess he tired her out, huh? (He doesn't say it, but you know, he's thinking it loudly.)

Instead, with a little grunt of effort, he hauls himself upright and sits properly on the couch, in the middle so he's still comfortably close, arms stretched along the back of it. Seems fair not to keep her pinned, if she's tired, if she's hit her limit on dealing with this. But he's still not running off.

Speaking of the spoils of victory, Carol takes full advantage of his new position to pull her feet onto the sofa and plop her head on his shoulder. Just as planned... not that the previous setup had been bad, of course.

"I feel like I haven't slept in years." Maybe she hasn't, between Ed's temper and raising a child and then the walkers, culminating in everything that happened since sickness broke out in the prison and then finding herself here and forced to explain it all.

Carol glances up at his face, tentative for the first time. "You mind?"

"Course not."

Offering up an escape route doesn't mean he wants her to take it, just that he wants her to have it.

And it's nice, yeah. He shifts just a bit, to throw his arm over her shoulder, settling into his spot since she looks like she plans to be there a while. Which is also nice, come to think of it. For all he cares if anyone comes in and finds them dozing in a heap, it doesn't matter one bit. That she's comfortable enough to let her guard down, that means something, he thinks something good.

She's had her guard up for so long that it's a relief to know she can let it drop, even if the wrong kind of sound will send her bolting upright. Take what you can get when you can get it, that's all any of them know anymore.

Carol shifts against him to get comfortable, cheek nestling in. "Don't eat all the cookies," she says, a drowsy afterthought. She doesn't so much care if he did, but she felt like she should say something, and any more tiptoeing around the obvious topic is too much a tightrope walk for her tired mind.

He thinks it's probably too much to hope for, that things will stay this comfortable and simple, but for the moment he intends to enjoy it. And yeah, he likely will drop off to sleep not long after her, because Daryl sleeps kind of terribly-- never for long, at odd hours-- but having her pressed against him is reassuring.

He doesn't answer, just leans his cheek against her forehead. Yeah, okay. They've had worse days than this.

If she's looking for him, she won't find him in his room; the door's hanging open but it's empty, the fresh, clean wall marred by a long crack. At its center is a blooming, fractured crater, just the right size for a fist. Not much mystery about what happened here.

And from down the hallway comes the second clue, water running in the bathroom for way too long to be normal. That's where he is, standing at the sink with it running over his knuckles. The worst of it's washed off already, but he hasn't moved yet, just staring at the water swirling down the drain. Or maybe past it, his mind miles away.

All the way back home.

No one had panicked at first, when morning came around and Rick was nowhere to be found, but as the denizens of Honolulu Heights came and went and realized no one had seen him, not even for a minute, it became more urgent to sort it out by the minute; and when it had been confirmed, finally, that Rick Grimes was no longer in the city of Teleios... well, they'd known. They'd known before word came down, but somehow the finality of it hit like a ton of bricks.

For Daryl, anyway. He'd come home calm as anything, and gone upstairs, and taken one deep breath and let himself have one moment of anger before he bottled it back up, before he had to start coming up with answers, thinking how they're gonna get by when Rick has been their single point of solidity for so long that it seems as normal as breathing.

So, here he is. Answers? Yeah, he's got nothing.

If Carol were home when fist met wall she'd have done -- something. She can't quite say what, but when she finally peeks in Daryl's room and sees the result of his over-boiling, her first thought is that she should have been there, that she could have made a difference for him. Somehow.

For herself, what's left in the wake of Rick's absence is mixed feelings. Lost opportunities. Redemption he offered but she couldn't truly accept because he simply didn't know. Standing in the bathroom doorway and watching Daryl's reflection watch the water over his hand, Carol's turmoil gives way to grief, shared and otherwise.

Rick was -- is family, but more than that he was constant. A compass for the group in all ways. His absence weighs her down on the wrong side of the doorjamb for a long, quiet moment before she shrugs it off, as she must, and steps inside.

Against Daryl's back she rests, cheek on his shoulder, arms slipping around him, comfort both offered and requested.

Maybe he'd have managed not to be so destructive, if she'd been here. Honestly, it might be for the best that she wasn't; he's usually pretty good these days about keeping his calm, but this... This is big, this he needed to get out. There are things maybe Carol doesn't need to see, he thinks. He's always working to be a better man, but everyone stumbles.

Consumed in his thoughts he doesn't notice her coming down the hall or standing in the door; he doesn't look up until she moves again, stepping into the room. He catches her eye in the mirror as she wraps her arms around him. He looks like he's taking it well, more or less; at least, his expression is neutral, though something of the grief shows in his eyes, just for a moment.

But it helps, right away, at least a little. His shoulders slump slightly, the tension draining from his spine as she leans against him. A few weeks ago-- well, he wouldn't have counted on this, though it's not so unfamiliar, after all the time she's spent riding with him. It's still novel, though, how different this is, how easily she slips beneath his defenses and how little he minds. How much he appreciates it, really.

He doesn't turn the water off, though dimly he thinks that he should. Instead he settles his other hand over hers, tilting his head slightly, enough to break the gaze in the mirror but not quite enough to meet her eyes.

Carol doesn't care about the water, as long as it's not overflowing or at risk of running out. This place brought them here and then stole Rick from them, they can damn well process as much water as it takes. What matters is Daryl responding to her, however little his movements; that he doesn't run and hide or start sniping at her out of grief. She wouldn't blame him for either reaction but this, this is better.

"We'll figure it out," she says softly, almost too quiet to be heard over the running faucet. She can't quite say they'll be okay, whatever that means these days, but they're together so somehow managing seems possible. Just don't ask her how.

"Mmn," he murmurs, just an acknowledgment that she spoke. He's not sure if he believes that, but he wants to. He knows, on some level, it's true. They'll go on. They always go on, because... well, what else is there? They've all had losses before. Losing Merle for him, Sophia for her, that right there could've meant losing their whole worlds. Rick had made all of them his world, though, and that makes it... different, having him gone. Not dead. Just gone. It makes it seem so unreal.

"Nothin' happened. No reason," he says, and it could be he's talking to himself, how hollow the words sound. "He just went."

Could be he'll get back around to anger, to hiding to lick his wounds, but for the moment this is exactly right. Thank God she's offering some comfort because he still doesn't know how to ask. As best he can he twines his fingers in with hers, his other hand still at the edge of the sink, knuckles a bit torn up. Soon enough the bruises will bloom. He doesn't even feel it aching, yet.

She nods, understanding exactly his complaint. They both know uncertainty, Merle leaving his hand on the rooftop, Sophia's doll abandoned in a creekbed. And, not that Daryl remembers it, more recently with each other when the prison fell. Not knowing is almost worse, leaving you with just enough hope that you can't mourn, can't heal, almost can't move.

Carol doesn't need to look at his hand to know it needs some TLC, she'll get to that in a bit. It's the hurt she can't bandage that worries her more.

Words aren't coming easy just now; what could she say, that he'll be back? They don't know that. That he's in a better place? If he went home, which she can only assume he did, no way is that cause to celebrate. Then there's knowing either of them could just be vanished at any moment, Carol could easily find her arms empty in the time it takes to grab those bandages she was thinking about. There's no upside in this, no inspirational quote that applies.

She clutches his hand, gives a gentle squeeze, hanging on just as much as embracing.

"Yeah." Just that, agreement and acknowledgment, is all she's got. She turns her cheek against him, her face away from the mirror, so he won't see her fighting tears.

For a while-- before Sophia's body came stumbling out of the barn-- the ambiguity of their grief, that's part of what brought them together. No one mourned Merle the way they mourned that little girl, but neither Carol nor Daryl knew, not for sure. Everyone else, their losses were absolute. They got to bury their bodies. What hurt back then was the not knowing, the sharp sliver of hope. And now-- Rick might come back. The Agents, they won't say either way. But back home is anything but a better place.

He's trying not to think about what it means, how sudden and how easy it is to lose someone like that. It's not so different from home, except for the endless questions. Carol knows what Rick has to go back to, more than Daryl does, and she hasn't exactly been encouraging about it. He doesn't expect anything less from the world they live in. If there's a better place to hope for this is it; Daryl's been working to convince himself that they can hang onto it, but... Well. Here they are, and here Rick isn't.

Christ, don't cry, he can't take her crying. He leans forward a little, at last, to turn off the water, pulling away just enough to slip his hand free and make room to turn around so he's facing her to offer her a proper shoulder to lean on. Grief shared isn't grief halved but it's hardly fair to take comfort without offering some. He settles his dry hand on the back of her neck, holding her close.

He wasn't supposed to have to comfort her, but Carol is in no position to deny it. She leans gratefully against him, a few deep breaths warding off her threatening tears. She had just been starting to think of this place as one where they might face less uncertainty, and now she's faced with the reality that there are just as many unknowns here, just as much risk. Those flowers the other week, they seemed so innocent and almost funny at the time but now she looks back with fear for what else this place might do to manipulate them.

Rather than wrap her arms around him, she rests her palms against his chest, needing the stability, and glances up at him, dry eyed, in hopes of providing some.

"Sorry," she says, with a small, forced smile. "It's so unfair. I thought we were safer here. Now, who knows what...". She cuts herself off, not wanting to admit her fears aloud as if they'd be summoned like Bloody Mary. And she shifts a little closer just in case she actually did.

Whatever this might be between them, he'll be a lot more comfortable with it if he gives as much as he takes. Whether he'll always be able to remember to do so, that's a whole other question, but for now this is what they both need. If he were in the shape to think it through he might almost find it reassuring that she's so shaken; Carol is hard to read, now, sometimes. He's forgiven her for the things she's done--the things she will do-- but that only means so much when he hasn't lived it. This isn't the reaction, though, of someone who's too far gone, it's entirely what he would have expected from her.

"We are," he says tonelessly, but he's trying to curb that line of thought. They're safer here, which is just why it's a problem that anyone-- much less Rick-- is anywhere else.

He snakes his other arm around her waist as she moves closer, probably dripping on the hem of her shirt.

"It'll be all right," he murmurs, probably trying to convince himself as much as her.

A nod as she shivers, briefly, at the dampness at the small of her back. "It will." Both of them can be liars, then. He may be right that they're safer here but they also have far less control, as has become stunningly apparent. As miserable as their world has become at the least she could arm herself against its threats, take some solace in growing and changing to adapt. Here...

No use wallowing in it, however. Like before, they'll handle what life hands them and carve out a life for themselves. All of them, ideally.

Exhaling slowly, she pushes back enough to look him properly in the eye. "Much as I don't want to move, we should probably..." she gestures toward the door. Wherever he wants to go other than the middle of the bathroom is fine by her, this just doesn't seem the place to camp out.

It's harder to prepare here, when they never know what they might be facing. At home at least the dead are a stable threat-- dangerous, sure, but they know how to deal with them. The living are more dangerous, but still, there are ways to be ready, to stay safe. Even so... It's worth it, he thinks, this place. He has to believe it. Back home, no matter how long they make it, he doesn't think they're going to live to see things get this good again. The only regret he's got is that he can't bring everyone, can't keep them here.

He might not have any control, might not be able to stay or to keep Carol or any of them with him, but he's gonna do his damnedest to do right by them while he can.

He nods, pulling back his arm and wiping the water off his hands on the leg of his jeans absently.

"Downstairs?"

He's not really married to the idea; he doesn't know if it'd be better or worse, facing anyone else who might be around.

Carol offers a one-shoulder shrug at his suggestion, makes as much sense as anywhere. It might be childish but she just doesn't want him out of sight if she can help it. Not until she gets her feet under her... it shouldn't take too much time. They're used to this, or some approximation of this.

"Let me bandage that hand first? I've got a kit in my room." It's become habit, keeping her stuff close at hand. You never know when you'll have to pick up and be on the move.

Childish or not she'll be in good company; Daryl's gonna be hovering a hell of a lot more than usual in the coming weeks, checking in on his people if only for the illusion that it'll make a difference. There are, honestly, very few things that scare Daryl; that's not bravado, just fact. He's scared of dying, sure, but mostly because he'd be of no use to anyone then. He's more scared of getting back up and taking a bite of of folks he gives a shit about. Most of all, though, he can't stomach the idea of being the last man standing-- of going on alone without anyone to keep him walking. Every goddamn loss brings him too close to that.

So he's in no hurry to shake her, to be alone.

He looks down at his hand like he's forgotten about the scrapes. It's not bad enough that he wouldn't get by without anything more than washing it out, but he's not going to turn down the attention right now. So he just nods at her.

Giving him attention is most of her motivation, though even scrapes and scratches can get dangerous if they're not cared for. Mundane things like infection can kill you, too. And beyond that, who knows when their situation might call for him to punch something again?

Carol starts down the corridor toward her room, trusting him to follow. Her room is incredibly simple, almost devoid of furniture but for the bed and a small shelf, but meticulously organized. First aid supplies, weapons (or items that could be used as such), some easily packed food... all beside a duffel bag that's small enough to easily carry without weighing you down when full.

She grabs the needed items from her kit and sits on the bed as she opens the peroxide and soaks a cotton ball. "It didn't look too bad, but since we have the supplies we should treat it. Hershel..." she pauses, perhaps tellingly. "Hershel said better to treat it needlessly than regret not treating it."

Infection is what kills most often back home; rotten mouths of rotten teeth tearing veins, poisoning the blood. He knows to take it seriously, and since they're in the land of plenty he's not going to turn down an ounce of caution. Besides, he's loath to admit it but he kind of likes letting her take care of him. Not everyone can get away with it, but Carol has been doing it long enough without giving him much choice that it's... Comforting. He might die before he said anything to that effect, though.

He trails along after her quietly. If circumstances were better, he thinks. she'd probably crack a joke about taking him to her room, though after last week perhaps it'd still be too soon, too uncertain. It more or less mirrors his own-- neat and sparse and heavily armed. She's got more of everything else; Daryl's mostly got weapons, it's what he does best.

"Smart man," he murmurs, sitting beside her and obediently offering his hand, flat and palm-down, not missing her hesitation.

people in hell want slurpees.

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~ July 15ish

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