what_wings_dare | people in hell want slurpees.

All things considered, this is probably harmless. It's ridiculous, but it's probably harmless. Since his first unfortunate, unexpected encounter with a flower-bedecked stranger out in the streets, he's found himself set upon at every goddamn turn, it seems. The strangers aren't even the worst of it; truth is he's already working very hard to forget about one encounter in particular. But all of it, even that, it's mortifying, but it ain't dangerous. He's still thankful enough for the relative safety of Teleios that he ought to be able to talk himself into not letting it get to him.

It kind of gets to him, though.

Enough that he's beating a retreat, heading home to hide himself away a little while and hope maybe some of this blows over. He feels like an idiot for having to do so, but it seems like the right day to cut his losses.

And as luck would have it, he comes up on the house just at the moment she does, from the other direction. He picks his head up to look at her, and it's too late already.

"Carol," he says quietly, almost a little whine. How can she have gotten so far with a flower in her hair like that, and not know any better by now what it means, what it's bound to do? Like things aren't complicated enough. He slows like he's going to stop in his tracks, but he doesn't. He can't, even if he should, and before he can offer any kind of explanation he's already reaching for her.

How has she gotten so far? If she heard that thought, and knew the source of it, she might have teased him for what could be interpreted, in a playful moment, as jealousy. Fortunately or no, that is not where her mind goes; she is too far removed from comfort (literally and otherwise) for quips of familiarity.

Steeped in guilt, she takes his tone as an accusation and is caught between fear and indignation. So what, she thinks, if she wears a flower? She is bound to mourn in her own way, he of all people should understand...

The thought is only half formed when it gives way, something not exactly alarm rising when she sees how he's approaching her. Unknowing, she moves to grip his arms, not trying to halt him (she trusts him, no matter if he sees things differently) but to question, silently, what in the earthly hell could be going on to make him look at her that way.

He doesn't want to be doing this. It's not about Carol, or about him-- though truth is he doesn't really know if he does want to do this, or if she wants him to, really, which matters more to him than what he wants-- but he doesn't like not having a choice, not being able to give her a choice. That's why there's a hint of desperation in his eyes as he leans in, as slow as he can, sets a hand on her hip, gentle but more certain than he feels.

At home they don't have to talk about this, don't have to deal with it. They're close, and that's enough; there's no time or energy to work out exactly what that means or how far it goes, and that suits him because it doesn't matter. Not that he hasn't wondered-- shit, end of the world or not he's human-- but their lives are too damn complicated already. Besides, the hard part, they've got that covered. Caring. Letting someone mean that much when loss is a when and not an if. He's never had a reason to sort out his feelings beyond that, to quietly enjoy their time together, whatever it means. It's enough. He doesn't need more.

At this moment, though, he needs to kiss her like he needs air.

If he could he'd stop, he'd give her a chance to say no, but this isn't up to him. So here he is, closing the distance to press his lips to hers.

Fuck, he's sorry for this.

The strangeness and suddenness of the kiss prevents Carol from enjoying the little twinge that shoots down to her knees -- it's been a while since she was kissed, even longer since it was by someone she actually respected, and she's not exactly in the business of making sex jokes about people she finds repulsive, so. Shock (not the bad kind, she thinks... probably not) keeps her from being anything but a cold fish since she's focused more on rapid, confused blinking than in applying any sort of feeling to it. Not that she has none; quite the contrary really.

Her fingers clamp down on his sleeves for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which is preventing him from dashing off whenever this is over because that is absolutely not acceptable.

It's about then that Carol realizes her stilted response might be insulting which is the last thing she intends, so the last moment before she gently pulls back and breaks the kiss she leans into it very slightly, maybe he won't even notice but if he does at least he'll know she's not rejecting him, she's just...

Something other than rejecting him. She's still scurrying to catch up with events but she's never do that outright. Not without answers.

"Daryl, what... what?" Her tone is one of gentle questioning, but the way she grips his arms implies that if he turns tail to run she will knock him senseless.

He doesn't notice her leaning back in; the circumstances of this are too distracting for him to make any effort to appreciate what's going on. In the grand scheme of things it's a pretty terrible kiss, between him fighting it just because he doesn't like being told what to do, and her utter shock. It's a damn shame. For all that he's not certain he wants to kiss her, he's also not certain he doesn't, and that's a first for today. For a long while, really.

It's a damn good thing she knows him well enough to know there's a danger of him running off. He'd like to think he'd have the decency not to, but he's always had that habit of lashing out; if she'd pushed him away, could be he'd leave. Break everything off to save face. He'd feel like shit about it, but he's an ass when he's hurt, and Carol-- she's important enough to scare him.

But she holds onto him, and so he doesn't move, letting out a slow, shuddering breath and letting her set the distance between them. His hand's still on her side, the only thing about this that isn't uncertain and uncomfortable, like he's forgotten about it being there.

It's not as abrupt, this time, the letdown; or maybe it is and he doesn't notice because he's so unsure of what this might be if it's anything at all. He only belatedly realizes he's under his own control again, after she speaks.

His gaze flickers upward, like he's looking just past her, at the blossom in her hair.

"Flowers," he says, like that's an explanation.

"What?" she repeats, stuck as a broken record as the processes his seemingly useless answer... but then she remembers several amorous "couples" -- she assumed couples, why should she not? -- on her walk home. If he would look into her eyes, he'll see her working it out. Doing the math. One magic place plus strange free gifts equals GIANT ENORMOUS CATCH. Whether the flower's specific game is lowering inhibitions or some other wizardry, she gets it. And she contemplates being angry -- not at him, but at yet another violation, one more way this place is messing with them. But like the other ways, she can't deem this all bad.

Flowers, indeed. She frees a hand, holding to him all the more with the second, to remove the flower from her hair, and mentally adds this incident to her list of reasons for mixed feelings about colorful foliage.

Carol exhales, offers a tiny smile. "Ah. And here I was thinking not being on the run all the time must be doing wonders for my looks." It's such a dumb joke but what better way to say hey, no hard feelings.

...Actually.

"Don't worry about it. I didn't mind." So true, and yet she's glad he most likely won't ask her to elaborate because God only knows what she'd say. It wasn't any good but it being Daryl prevents her from considering this bad. Unless, of course, he literally or otherwise runs from her.

"Don't be like that," he mutters at the joke, embarrassed enough to be a little bit cross, though actually, honestly, he means that as a compliment, because she looks fine, even if it doesn't really sound like one. And actually isn't one in any meaningful way. But he meant well. He's just terrible at this, whatever this is, because he's still not sure. I didn't mind isn't exactly a rave review, not that he can blame her for it.

She hasn't let him go, though, which is settling his nerves a little bit. It's not just the proximity, or the touch, but the decisiveness. Someone's got to take charge here and Lord knows he's not doing a good job of it.

But he looks down, and he presses his luck, setting his free hand on her arm, almost mirroring her grasp on his. He's not leaning in again, but it's at least a reassurance that he's not going to bolt.

Carol smiles, both at his touch that reassures her that he's not, in fact, going to scatter off into the underbrush and hide, and the memory of the first time she kissed him. Daryl in a cozy, lace-covered bed at Hershel's farm, fresh from falling down a creek bed while refusing to give up on Sophia. How she kissed his head and he hated it, gave her the most put-upon look, a cross between "what the fuck?" and "get the hell out".

He's changed. She's changed. And between them now, underneath the awkward shell, they -- the two of them, together -- have changed.

Carol examines the flower thoughtfully, then tosses it away. Whatever they'll eventually make of what just happened, hell if she's keeping around something that manipulates people like that, especially Daryl who seems so trusting right now with the not fleeing in terror and she's damn well going to reward it by stating, firmly, that she will not stand by and let him be controlled. No matter how much she really and truly did not mind.

She stretches up and kisses his forehead, her lips brushing rather than really kissing his skin because she's smiling still. Fair's fair. Whatever she's not sure of, she is certain that she cares about him, and no flower-forced kiss can hope to put a dent in that.

It's hard for him to shake the habit of reacting to most people getting close to him like a sulking child, bristling and glaring at best. Carol has put up with more than her share of that. After everything-- all winter on the road, her riding behind him and holding on tight; losing her in the tombs and bringing her back against all odds-- there's a hard-won ease that makes this much, this easy contact, blessedly simple. That's what means everything to him, what he'd be afraid to lose by going too far. There's nothing it would be worth trading for; maybe it's how he's grown and changed, maybe it's just how the end of the world shifts your priorities.

He loves her. He'd never say it, any more than he'd say it to Rick or Glenn or even to his own brother, because it's not the kind of thing he says, but that doesn't make any of it less true. What it means, what he wants, that he doesn't know. He's used to not worrying about it, they've got other things to waste their worrying on. Maybe in Teleios that's not going to work. It's safer, here; they're not constantly at death's door; maybe whatever they are will become the elephant in the room and they'll have to deal with it, but for now she's still smiling at him, so it's all right for now. If he lost what they've got over something as stupid as a kiss, he'd... well, best not to dwell on it.

But it's all right. The slightest curve of a smile pulls at his lips when she kisses his forehead, thinking of the same thing, how uncomfortable he was laid up in that bed and with next to nothing to show for it, how far they've come and how hard they've fought, since.

He leans in again, not to steal another kiss-- there are limits to his bravery-- but to wrap his arms around her for a moment, tucking his face against her shoulder, because he can, no matter what else is uncertain. This much is understood.

An embrace she easily and readily returns. It's so easy because in spite of the lack of life-threatening problems here, in spite of everything they're both burdened with, right now Carol just doesn't care what specific box they fit into. If any. He hasn't abandoned her even knowing about what she's done, what else could possibly matter?

Despite the temptation to cling to this moment, Carol doesn't let it linger. Pulling back, breaking contact, she adjusts her backpack (habit to carry one by now, though now it's full of things other than weapons... mostly) and offers what she can to put him at ease:

"So... the flowers. Run into anyone worth running into?"

She's not really trying to fix him up or anything but he reacts so adorably to commentary on this sort of thing, and right now she's not about to make "them" jokes.

(Part of her, admittedly, wonders whether it would be fun to retrieve that flower and set out among the masses here, see what happens. A small part. Can't blame a girl who's not-too-far out of a terrible marriage for wondering.)

To be honest he'd have been content to stay a moment more burying his face in the crook of her neck, but like hell is he ever going to admit to it. He's more tactile than he lets on; he just doesn't trust most people enough to let them get away with it. When she steps away he finally pulls his hand off her hip, feeling like he got away with something, admittedly wondering what else he could get away with.

But the low, displeased grumble that follows has nothing to do with her moving away and everything to do with the question. "Them" jokes would be preferable, though not without an extra layer of awkwardness; and admittedly, if she made a joking pass at him right now he'd wonder more than usual whether she really meant it.

"Don't ask," he mutters, trying not to show any embarrassment, though she likely knows him well enough to know that's exactly why he sounds so irate. For all that he's outgrown many of his prejudices, he still feels like there are several very good reasons to never, ever admit that the most action he's gotten lately was with Glenn.

Oh, she knows. And she can't help being curious... but there are probably better times to ask. Carol pushes him only so much at once. Even though she should really be given a prize for avoiding what he walked right into.

"Okay, okay," she concedes in such a tone that makes it clear she's letting him off the hook, somewhat. "I understand. I don't especially like talking about Ed... it's not the same, I guess, but close enough." In that there was no way out of it at the time. Not without bruises to show for the effort. "Not having a choice sucks."

Carol gives a hint of a smile; she's not trying to make his weird(er), really. "But if you think I'm not going to grab a small bouquet to keep for a rainy day..." To make clear that she's 100% joking on that one, she gives him a playful elbow to the arm.

Putting up with Daryl in his moods might qualify her for sainthood, even considering all the things that have happened lately.

He's a little too still when she mentions Ed; keeping to his own the way he did back outside Atlanta, Daryl can't say he knew the man well. But he knows the type, enough to guess at how bad she had it. He saw her when she put him down, the look in her eyes, and the truth is that was the first time he realized that it was bullshit, trying to keep to yourself, keep your nose out of other people's problems. It's not the same at all, he wants to say; and if he were a bigger man maybe that perspective would make it easier to brush off entirely. But he's still insecure enough that he just doesn't want to talk about it. Easier just to try and forget. For Glenn's sake, too.

He rallies a little bit at the joke, though, narrows his eyes in a way that suggests a smile brewing below the surface of his usual stoic demeanor.

"You watch yourself," he says, with an arch, warning tone, not entirely sure if he's joking or flirting.

Carol would so unsurprised if that were Daryl's idea of proper flirting. Either way, it's a response that's not entirely pouty, and she's considering it a win.

"I promise to only use my flowers for good." God, it's nice to joke. And not just a one-liner in between episodes of certain death, or a single brief speck of levity in an otherwise suffocating life. After all that went on this is something she can have and not feel bad about, finally. She's grown enough to let herself off the hook just enough to allow herself, rather than be the empty shell of a person she was after Sophia died. Such a simple thing, banter between two people who understand each other, but she never had it before and that makes it special.

The problem with that theory is that it presumes Daryl has any idea of proper flirting. Either way, whatever the hell he's doing, the mood has lightened and that can only be a good thing.

"No such thing," he insists, which might break the mood again what with the creepy mind control issues it raises, but they're pros at gallows humor these days. And he's just mentioning it in passing. It's part of what keeps them living, rather than just surviving. And, well, he gets it, the way she's comfortable with him, even in a mess like this. They understand each other better than most. All the ugliness they came out of, the way it changes how they look at the ugliness ahead.

"'Sides, a lady like you don't need to cheat."

She can brush that off as a joke, big talk just like always, except usually she's the one that makes the jokes at his expense.

Basically he doesn't have a clue what he's doing.

A retort so close to seeing daylight is stopped cold when he compliments her, which is a thing Daryl doesn't usually do aloud. It's... sweet. And even though part of her wants to brush him off, correct him in some way, she decides against it. Modesty is a problem for people who still have a civilized society to worry about, and she's not ready to count this place as one just yet.

"That's nice to hear." Earnestly, but without too much seriousness. And she honestly didn't put much thought into how he means it, both as a favor to him and because it's really not that relevant. He likes who she is, and that's meaningful enough.

He shoots her a measured, sidelong glance, annoyingly unreadable. She's better at guessing what's on his mind than most-- which is saying something, really, because all of them have been together so long that they rarely need to talk-- but chances are even Carol can't glean much from his expression. Daryl himself is too divided, trying to work out what response he really wanted, and whether that's it.

But after a moment he looks away, his face a careful blank, paradoxically a clear sign of faint embarrassment, though not so awful that he's going to cut their conversation off. On someone else it'd practically be a blush. He'd laugh, but he doesn't know if they're joking, if he wants them to be.

"Should go in," he says, a little abrupt, looking toward the door cause he's not steady enough to look at her again just yet. Subject changes are always the safest course of action, right?

If she were that concerned with what his expression was, she might be annoyed, but it's true they've been together too long to let petty irritations impact them. When you've battled for each other's lives as frequently as they have, who as time for that nonsense? Whether or not she and Daryl are especially close friends or something else, it's not her main concern. As long as they're alive and he doesn't hate her all else is workable.

...Not to say she didn't give it half a thought. From time to time. And possibly more often going forward since that kiss just wasn't a fair shake and she's no longer in the business of docilely accepting things.

"Privacy, huh... I getcha." Yeah buddy, you aren't getting off that easy -- which, damn it, is a good line too. She'll remember that one. "After you."

The problem with trying to put a label on what they are to each other is that, the whole group, they've all got so little, aside from one another. There's nowhere else to turn, they fill whatever needs they have however they can. Friends and family and lovers and everything else, all at once. In another world... maybe they wouldn't be anything at all. It's pointless thinking about it. They're everything to one another, all of them, and it's easier not to try and fit that into a scheme that died with most of the goddamn planet.

The crack just gets a soft grunt, faux-annoyed, mostly amused, though she's not entirely wrong because whatever they're doing, he'd rather not be doing it out on the street. So he heads down the path, trusting she'll follow along, and holds the door open for her because now and then he remembers how to be a gentleman, damnit.

Grinning, she does follow and nods her thanks to the held-open door. Carol's first thought on entering the house is how she used to drop her purse in the entryway before everything went to hell, but now she'd just as soon keep it next to her. Too much thinking about before and after for one day, really.

She compromises by unshouldering her pack and digging inside. "I baked some cookies today during kitchen duty. Want one?"

He shuts the door behind them as she turns her attention to the bag, and pauses, wondering if anyone else is in. It's quiet, which doesn't have to mean much, none of them are in the habit of making a ton of noise.

It's not that he's embarrassed, he's just... well, private.

And curious enough, since that didn't go entirely horribly in spite of the horrible circumstances, to be just a little reckless. So he doesn't answer the question (though yes, maybe later, he almost never turns down food), he steps closer to her with a purposeful certainty that almost covers up how hopelessly unsure he is. And he's quick enough not to lose his nerve, reaching to cup her jaw, but slow enough that she can stop him.

And if she doesn't stop him, when he pauses just to give her the chance, he's going to kiss her again.

Somewhere during the process of trying to find a ziplock baggie amongst her knifes and other weaponry, Daryl touches her and she glances up, her thoughts jumble and she ends up ironically dropping her bag in the front entrance after all.

Stop him? Hardly. At first it's just more shock and trying to reassure herself that she did drop that flower outside and didn't end up with it stuck to her boot or anything. But then she catches up to events and thinks, well. If Daryl wants to try this again he's damn well going to get a kiss this time.

So she stops thinking. Her response is slow but hardly passive, more waiting to see what exactly he had in mind. It's all fine by her, she won't regret it either way.

He leans in a little too forcefully, actually, mostly because he half stumbles on the bag as she drops it, which means a little hesitation as he kicks it off to the side. But she hasn't slapped him or worse, so it seems like this is okay, which is a relief because after everything else he probably couldn't have taken the stress of an outright rejection. It's been a confusing day.

Some of his other kisses today have been more skillful, aided no doubt by the magicked flowers, since he'd been too struck by shock to really fight their influence. He's a little too hesitant, now, trying to read her reactions before he moves any further, still uncertain. It's the first time today he's honestly cared about his partner enjoying it, in fairness. The hand on her face is probably the only thing steady, as he awkwardly tries to settle the other on her body-- first on her shoulder, but that's goddamn uncomfortable, so he tries to slip it under her arm since touching her hip worked just fine last time.

His hair's too long and his bangs are probably annoyingly in her eyes by now. He's trying, Carol. He's trying so hard.

Hey now, she likes his hair long. And she likes that he cares enough to hesitate, and so she makes it a little easier, hopefully, by shifting her arm so his can move, an awkward little squirm but it works.

She also doesn't give a crap about skill. Whatever he's trying to figure out -- or prove? -- she wouldn't mind that answer, herself. So she shifts from responding to initiating equally. Why not? She'd be an idiot to waste two chances today. Maybe this will become That Thing We Do Not Speak of but maybe...

Carol makes a little sound, soothing like trying to calm a particularly skittish animal, and accepting. If this is what he might want (and she's thinking more every second she might too, at least for now), she'll go there. Try to. The only thing she can't do is reject him. Not ever.

Either way this is probably bound to become That Thing We Do Not Speak of, if only because Daryl's not one for talking about anything if it can feasibly be avoided. If she doesn't try to make him talk, she could get away with damn near anything.

He's grateful that she moves when she does, and soon his other hand is a solid, certain weight on her waist, and he's pressed as close against her as he can comfortably manage, in this position, 'cause he doesn't want to back her against the wall. It's... something. Slow, still, though her response makes him more confident, less self-conscious, even if their noses bump awkwardly when he moves a bit, lips parted.

It's not the wild, electric thrill some of the morning's kisses had been, which has to leave him just a little doubtful; but neither does it have that edge of falseness. He's still trying to pay more attention to her than to what he wants; in part because that's easier, because he still doesn't entirely understand, and in part because he's going to stop dead if he even thinks she wants him to. And that's fine, honestly. He'd rather she reject him and never let him touch her again than put up with anything she doesn't want; he doesn't want to be the kind of man she's known.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject