It takes her a second to catch on, just humming along and focusing on her hand running through his hair. When Carol glances down and meets his gaze, her melody stumbles and her fingers pause as she seems, yes, to be getting something from that look.
Maybe she's not grasping his exact meaning, maybe she doesn't need to in order to know the part that matters. Her smile softens and she leans forward, the tip of her nose bumping his temple. Not quite a nuzzle, but affectionate and meaningful in its own way.
It strikes her that she's being a bit careful just now, not something she'd have thought about herself anymore. It's been a while since she had something to lose by being too decisive.
It's one of the few bright spots in their world, the volumes they can speak in silence, the way they can read one another. For Daryl, it's hard enough to admit and deal with his feelings; having to verbalize and discuss them, half the time, it's enough to send him back into defense. Which never goes well.
He half-smiles, tipping his head back slightly, a bit like a cat bumping its head against someone's palm.
This might be careful, but it doesn't strike him as fearful, it doesn't even seem like she's holding back. Maybe he doesn't read her as easily as he used to; or maybe he's just trying to adjust to thinking about this as, maybe, a when rather than an if, which is quite a ways from a maybe if things were just a little different.
The cat imagery seems fitting to her, as well. If only he could purr. The thought keeps here lingering there, her face close to his but no longer touching. Carol relaxes into the pillow, content to just wait for nothing in particular.
There's a lot she could think about now, the experiences they shared and the ones she had to confess, things between them said and unspoken. None of it seems productive, none of it as relevant as the closeness of him and the way he trusts her, still. She never thought she'd have that trust again, even in herself.
It feels too good to be true, time-limited maybe, or it would if she thought about it. But she doesn't.
There’s nothing in this world or any other that isn’t for a limited time only. From time to time, though, it’s nice to pretend.
He half rolls onto his side, the better to meet her eyes, still far more relaxed than he feels he has a right to be. They’re close enough to touch, close enough that it doesn’t matter if they aren’t, right now. Daryl prefers it like this; quiet, understood, without having to say a thing.
Maybe someday they’ll have a moment to laze around like this without the shadow of loss waiting in the wings. Doesn’t seem likely. But holding out hope, for little things or big ones, that’s important. Easy to lose sight of. What he should be focusing on is that they’re both here, for now, they’re safe as they can be and they’re alive, which is no small feat, considering. That should be reason enough to make the most of the time they have.
(But, then, they are in their way, even if he’s not making a move to do anything more than fumble for her hand with his, not looking down. It’s not fear, it’s that he doesn’t want to change things out of sorrow. He’d rather it be clear that there’s more to this than seeking comfort.)
She finds it amazing that she's able to make eye contact and not look away. Lizzy and Mika will forever weigh her down but at least they're not a secret she's afraid to tell anymore. When Daryl looks at her like he understands she knows that he does. She doesn't have to feel like an impostor, some other woman he doesn't know who is failing desperately at being his Carol. She has this place to thank for that; it's as likely as not that she'd never have told him willingly.
Daryl is clear about what there is to this, or rather isn't, at least in her mind, and it warms her heart. The trouble is, from Carol's side, there's nothing she'll do in her life anymore than isn't comfort-seeking. Rick's disappearance is rough but a drop in the bucket comparatively, for her. She knows, though, that for Daryl it's far more than that. He's been Rick's right hand for long enough that he has to feel the burden is on him, now, to lead.
She grasps his hand when it seeks hers. It's not some ambiguous idea of a 'better time' that keeps her from doing more, it's that he thinks there might be one. For her, there won't be. This is as 'better' as it will ever get.
There a times when the world doesn't seem any uglier to him than it's always been, and not because he's sugar coating it now. Other times... Well, that's what makes them who they are, the way they make their choices. They have to survive, and sometimes that means they do things they don't like. Sometimes they get carried away; there isn't a one of them, he thinks, who hasn't strayed, hasn't gone too far. The difference is that when they do they recognize it. It's just as easy for some people to keep on, to pass the point of no return and never look back. That's not who she is, or him, or any of them.
He doesn't know what it means to her, really, losing Rick here and now. Daryl has a hard time wrapping his head around Rick casting her out, he can't begin to understand how he'd be okay with it (but maybe he won't be; he hopes he won't be, he owes her that,) but Rick hasn't done that yet, he's been here. There's never a sliver of doubt in Daryl's mind that he and Rick are brothers, that he's going to stand behind the other man for as long as they've got, but Carol's had her run-ins with him all along. She's trusted him, more or less, but it's always been complicated. More now than ever. She's grieving, though, like he is; if he can offer a little comfort even as he looks for it, that's all to the better.
He's a little too dysfunctional to call a romantic, maybe, but he wants to do right by her if he's gonna do anything. For now he absently twines their fingers together, the tiniest reassurance that they're both still here, together.
She would be grateful for his confidence in her, could she hear those thoughts. Carol isn't always so sure she isn't leaving that point of no return in the distance, but that Daryl believes she isn't would go a long way. He's not the type to believe blindly even in her, she could trust him to tell her the truth.
In terms of Rick, it isn't the sometimes conflict between them that has Carol muddling through her feelings. She may have resented the way he threw her out when he himself had similar sins in his past, but some of that was because anger was easier than mourning, and it didn't last long once the prison fell and she had business to get about. Families quarrel and that's how life is. Rather, she knows more than any of them about what Rick went back to, what would become of everyone. And she doesn't know who he'll be if she sees him again (when she sees him again, maybe; she should think positive if mostly for Daryl's sake), what he'll think of her. If maybe he'll go further in their timeline than she's been and come back with grim news, maybe Carol will have failed in getting Judith back to him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The world has taught them to anticipate the worst.
Which is why it's so strange that she's not doing so now. Daryl's hand laced with hers somehow makes the ever-present noise of 'what-if' dim into the background. At least one thing in her immediate future seems like it might not add to the weight that's always threatening to drag her under.
Before she can think too much on it, she inches forward to close the distance between them with a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. She pulls back because certainty would be a bit much to ask of her, and his reaction matters. It's everything.
If he doesn't believe in that-- in her, in Rick, in all of them-- then it doesn't make a damn difference what happens to any of them. Hope is what Daryl clings to; it's fragile, sure, but it keeps him going. It's not about the future; at least, not in any long-term sense. He keeps going one day at a time, tries not to worry what trouble will come, just be strong enough to get through it.
It's hard not to speculate, with Rick gone. He wonders if it's worse or better for Carol, who's seen some of what's ahead for them; he tries not to ask too much, in part because it obviously stings to talk about but also because he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to ruin now by dreading the future.
That whole now thing, it's pretty important.
The kiss doesn't surprise him this time (somehow it did last time, even when he was the one initiating it,) and he gives her a small smile as she pulls away. Funny, Carol being the uncertain one this time. Not that he doesn't understand.
He leans closer without hesitating this time, taking that gentle brush of her lips as tacit permission, to kiss her in return, gentle and unhurried but more sure of himself this time around. At least apparently. In the moment it feels honestly ridiculous to worry over this, like it somehow invalidates everything between them to kiss her. So for the moment, he's just not going to worry. He has better things to focus on.
It wasn't clear to Carol that she was nervous until Daryl responds and she feels her tension draining away. Staying as they were would be fine and so would more of this, but what would not be fine is anything one-sided. She's precariously enough balanced as it is.
The part of her that's supposed to tell her this is a bad idea never pipes up so she returns the kiss with lazy contentment. It's the wrong time but there's not going to be a right one, she's mourning and so is he but that's just as much a part of their lives as breathing. She's not sure of herself but he's sure of her.
In so many ways, the ways that matter, nothing has changed. This is only going to be difficult if she makes it that way. After so much ambiguity and doubt, this choice is easy. She's not only not running away, she's running towards someone; only he could bring that out, and maybe only since she came here. This is as close a clean slate as she'll get, it doesn't heal all the damage by a longshot but it's amazing how much one or two less cracks make things feel so solid.
Even if the arm she's laying on his falling asleep and when she tries to shift off it she kicks him in the shin, and even if that makes her giggle against his mouth, somehow that only makes it better.
Some vague, theoretically rational part of his mind wants to insist that this is a bad idea, but he can't come up with any reasons that hold water. So maybe the rational part of him is the part that's looking at this as a reminder that taking chances isn't a bad thing. That they've only got so much time to spend. He's still a little hesitant, for a million reasons-- because he doesn't want there to be any doubt of what he wants, because he doesn't want this to be a byproduct of grief, because he's not used to navigating emotional intimacy and it seems way too complicated to add something physical into the mix-- but after everything he's finally getting better at putting this out of his mind.
All of this dramatic, philosophical thought is totally derailed when she kicks him, and he gasps against her even as she giggles-- not that it hurts particularly, this bed's big but not big enough for her to have much leverage, especially since they're practically falling on each other-- but because it's unexpected. He huffs a laugh right back at her and tries to shift to give her a little more room to maneuver her arm, which is actually a terrible idea because matresses aren't terribly stable, so all he really does is exacerbate the dip between them.
She does roll into him, but unevenly, leading with her top hip and the rest of her tugged unwillingly along in a movement that reminds her of when Sophia used to set a Slinkee going down the stairs. Catching herself isn't so successful either, one hand landing on his shoulder and the other wedged between them. The mental image combined with the way they've ended up has her unable to swallow her laughter.
A second and a remarkably unsubtle wiggle later, Carol's hand is free and her face is somewhere between the crook of his neck and his collarbone. "Hi, there." She can think of nothing better to say, whatever mood they had going is dead and gone but she can't manage to dislike this one. One of them may end up with a concussion if they keep going. Sounds worth it if you ask her.
They’re utterly hopeless, he has already pretty much accepted that. It’d probably be for the best if he never actually tries to look good for her, because chances are someone’d break a bone.
Since it’s more than obvious that she’s not laughing at him, though, he grins and half-laughs along with her, trying to wriggle in a complementary way to help her out. It’s somehow more difficult than it ought to be. Eventually their undignified tangle of limbs settles, and he takes advantage of the shift in positions to run a hand through her hair, because if she gets to play with his he gets to ruffle hers a bit. Fair’s fair.
“You come here often?” he deadpans, because he really has no idea what to say either, but at least that might make her laugh again.
He succeeds in that, prompting a short burst of soft laughter. And she doesn't mind that hand in her hair either, and takes advantage of the way they ended up to nuzzle against his neck.
"Not yet, but I might. It's kinda homey." The words are light even if the meaning isn't. After everything that happened in the prison she has trouble thinking of it with anything but pain anymore, so it's been a while since she's had a physical structure to call home. Wandering doesn't do much for her, whether from place to place or person to person. The stability of this moment, mattress dips notwithstanding, means more to her than she can say.
No complaints here. It's hard not to enjoy having someone you're pretty damn fond of snuggled up against you. He leaves his hand where it is, fingertips tracing idly back and forth.
"Good."
Stability isn't something any of them are used to, not anymore. But he wants her to stay, every way he can want that. To stay here and now, a while longer, to stay with him without pulling away. To stay in Teleios, not that either of them get much of a say in that. That last would be true if she was anyone, but she's not anyone, and while he wouldn't trade anyone's safety for hers (except maybe his own, but then, Daryl values his own safety less than anyone's,) he's desperately glad to have her.
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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Maybe she's not grasping his exact meaning, maybe she doesn't need to in order to know the part that matters. Her smile softens and she leans forward, the tip of her nose bumping his temple. Not quite a nuzzle, but affectionate and meaningful in its own way.
It strikes her that she's being a bit careful just now, not something she'd have thought about herself anymore. It's been a while since she had something to lose by being too decisive.
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He half-smiles, tipping his head back slightly, a bit like a cat bumping its head against someone's palm.
This might be careful, but it doesn't strike him as fearful, it doesn't even seem like she's holding back. Maybe he doesn't read her as easily as he used to; or maybe he's just trying to adjust to thinking about this as, maybe, a when rather than an if, which is quite a ways from a maybe if things were just a little different.
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There's a lot she could think about now, the experiences they shared and the ones she had to confess, things between them said and unspoken. None of it seems productive, none of it as relevant as the closeness of him and the way he trusts her, still. She never thought she'd have that trust again, even in herself.
It feels too good to be true, time-limited maybe, or it would if she thought about it. But she doesn't.
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He half rolls onto his side, the better to meet her eyes, still far more relaxed than he feels he has a right to be. They’re close enough to touch, close enough that it doesn’t matter if they aren’t, right now. Daryl prefers it like this; quiet, understood, without having to say a thing.
Maybe someday they’ll have a moment to laze around like this without the shadow of loss waiting in the wings. Doesn’t seem likely. But holding out hope, for little things or big ones, that’s important. Easy to lose sight of. What he should be focusing on is that they’re both here, for now, they’re safe as they can be and they’re alive, which is no small feat, considering. That should be reason enough to make the most of the time they have.
(But, then, they are in their way, even if he’s not making a move to do anything more than fumble for her hand with his, not looking down. It’s not fear, it’s that he doesn’t want to change things out of sorrow. He’d rather it be clear that there’s more to this than seeking comfort.)
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Daryl is clear about what there is to this, or rather isn't, at least in her mind, and it warms her heart. The trouble is, from Carol's side, there's nothing she'll do in her life anymore than isn't comfort-seeking. Rick's disappearance is rough but a drop in the bucket comparatively, for her. She knows, though, that for Daryl it's far more than that. He's been Rick's right hand for long enough that he has to feel the burden is on him, now, to lead.
She grasps his hand when it seeks hers. It's not some ambiguous idea of a 'better time' that keeps her from doing more, it's that he thinks there might be one. For her, there won't be. This is as 'better' as it will ever get.
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He doesn't know what it means to her, really, losing Rick here and now. Daryl has a hard time wrapping his head around Rick casting her out, he can't begin to understand how he'd be okay with it (but maybe he won't be; he hopes he won't be, he owes her that,) but Rick hasn't done that yet, he's been here. There's never a sliver of doubt in Daryl's mind that he and Rick are brothers, that he's going to stand behind the other man for as long as they've got, but Carol's had her run-ins with him all along. She's trusted him, more or less, but it's always been complicated. More now than ever. She's grieving, though, like he is; if he can offer a little comfort even as he looks for it, that's all to the better.
He's a little too dysfunctional to call a romantic, maybe, but he wants to do right by her if he's gonna do anything. For now he absently twines their fingers together, the tiniest reassurance that they're both still here, together.
no subject
In terms of Rick, it isn't the sometimes conflict between them that has Carol muddling through her feelings. She may have resented the way he threw her out when he himself had similar sins in his past, but some of that was because anger was easier than mourning, and it didn't last long once the prison fell and she had business to get about. Families quarrel and that's how life is. Rather, she knows more than any of them about what Rick went back to, what would become of everyone. And she doesn't know who he'll be if she sees him again (when she sees him again, maybe; she should think positive if mostly for Daryl's sake), what he'll think of her. If maybe he'll go further in their timeline than she's been and come back with grim news, maybe Carol will have failed in getting Judith back to him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. The world has taught them to anticipate the worst.
Which is why it's so strange that she's not doing so now. Daryl's hand laced with hers somehow makes the ever-present noise of 'what-if' dim into the background. At least one thing in her immediate future seems like it might not add to the weight that's always threatening to drag her under.
Before she can think too much on it, she inches forward to close the distance between them with a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth. She pulls back because certainty would be a bit much to ask of her, and his reaction matters. It's everything.
no subject
It's hard not to speculate, with Rick gone. He wonders if it's worse or better for Carol, who's seen some of what's ahead for them; he tries not to ask too much, in part because it obviously stings to talk about but also because he doesn't want to know, doesn't want to ruin now by dreading the future.
That whole now thing, it's pretty important.
The kiss doesn't surprise him this time (somehow it did last time, even when he was the one initiating it,) and he gives her a small smile as she pulls away. Funny, Carol being the uncertain one this time. Not that he doesn't understand.
He leans closer without hesitating this time, taking that gentle brush of her lips as tacit permission, to kiss her in return, gentle and unhurried but more sure of himself this time around. At least apparently. In the moment it feels honestly ridiculous to worry over this, like it somehow invalidates everything between them to kiss her. So for the moment, he's just not going to worry. He has better things to focus on.
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The part of her that's supposed to tell her this is a bad idea never pipes up so she returns the kiss with lazy contentment. It's the wrong time but there's not going to be a right one, she's mourning and so is he but that's just as much a part of their lives as breathing. She's not sure of herself but he's sure of her.
In so many ways, the ways that matter, nothing has changed. This is only going to be difficult if she makes it that way. After so much ambiguity and doubt, this choice is easy. She's not only not running away, she's running towards someone; only he could bring that out, and maybe only since she came here. This is as close a clean slate as she'll get, it doesn't heal all the damage by a longshot but it's amazing how much one or two less cracks make things feel so solid.
Even if the arm she's laying on his falling asleep and when she tries to shift off it she kicks him in the shin, and even if that makes her giggle against his mouth, somehow that only makes it better.
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All of this dramatic, philosophical thought is totally derailed when she kicks him, and he gasps against her even as she giggles-- not that it hurts particularly, this bed's big but not big enough for her to have much leverage, especially since they're practically falling on each other-- but because it's unexpected. He huffs a laugh right back at her and tries to shift to give her a little more room to maneuver her arm, which is actually a terrible idea because matresses aren't terribly stable, so all he really does is exacerbate the dip between them.
Luckily he'll forgive her if she rolls into him.
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A second and a remarkably unsubtle wiggle later, Carol's hand is free and her face is somewhere between the crook of his neck and his collarbone. "Hi, there." She can think of nothing better to say, whatever mood they had going is dead and gone but she can't manage to dislike this one. One of them may end up with a concussion if they keep going. Sounds worth it if you ask her.
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Since it’s more than obvious that she’s not laughing at him, though, he grins and half-laughs along with her, trying to wriggle in a complementary way to help her out. It’s somehow more difficult than it ought to be. Eventually their undignified tangle of limbs settles, and he takes advantage of the shift in positions to run a hand through her hair, because if she gets to play with his he gets to ruffle hers a bit. Fair’s fair.
“You come here often?” he deadpans, because he really has no idea what to say either, but at least that might make her laugh again.
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"Not yet, but I might. It's kinda homey." The words are light even if the meaning isn't. After everything that happened in the prison she has trouble thinking of it with anything but pain anymore, so it's been a while since she's had a physical structure to call home. Wandering doesn't do much for her, whether from place to place or person to person. The stability of this moment, mattress dips notwithstanding, means more to her than she can say.
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"Good."
Stability isn't something any of them are used to, not anymore. But he wants her to stay, every way he can want that. To stay here and now, a while longer, to stay with him without pulling away. To stay in Teleios, not that either of them get much of a say in that. That last would be true if she was anyone, but she's not anyone, and while he wouldn't trade anyone's safety for hers (except maybe his own, but then, Daryl values his own safety less than anyone's,) he's desperately glad to have her.