what_wings_dare | people in hell want slurpees.

"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.

That he'd even bother to think about what she wants or doesn't makes him so radically different from Ed that there's no use comparing. It's those things, the things Daryl probably hates about himself, the caring and hope, that she loves most about him. Her back isn't against the wall and she has every chance to say no. That's why she isn't. But something feels a little off. Something.

Her arms wind around him, both for somewhere to be and once again for that fear that he's going to run. He could anyway since Carol can't hold him there forever, and wouldn't want to.

For now...

"Don't be careful." She hadn't intended to say it aloud, and it's possible he didn't hear since her voice was muffled against him none too gracefully. She'll be damned to be treated like some fragile thing even for consideration's sake, especially if it means he's being less than honest. If this is going to crash and burn at least it should be for a reason other than that.

She just hopes that, if he caught that and -- bigger 'if' -- listens, she doesn't flinch first.

Careful is what keeps them alive, he thinks, but even that isn't that easy. Careful helps, but it's never been a guarantee, and there's been times when recklessness was the only thing that saved the day. It's easier to risk when it's only life or death, somehow.

With her arms around him it feels less awkward, and he responds by pulling her tighter against him, his arm slipping further around her waist. He can almost let himself believe that this is normal. He's not thinking of running, now, for once; not unless she sends him off, which it doesn't seem like she's planning on.

But his pace doesn't change so much. It's not that he's holding back, he's just taking his time, trying to sort out what this means or at least enjoy it if he can't know. Time was, maybe, it would've been different, rushed and hot and heavy; back when the world was still around, back when he was younger. This is... intimate, and the truth is that's kind of new to him.

On the other hand, as he shifts to bring his other hand down from her jaw to rest on her waist as well, he might just cop a feel.

He's human, okay.

He's just challenging all her perceptions of him at once. Not that Carol's complaining, exactly, even if she does take in a quick, sharp breath at his wandering hand. She's not letting go though so that's not exactly complaining either. She'd be hard pressed to explain what it is but she's pretty clear on what it's not, because she trusts him. Completely. Which is enough to negate any lingering issues she might have with this kind of contact, even if it is the intimate part that scares her a little...

Maybe it's unfair of her to ask him not to be careful when she's being just that. Careful not to feel too much one way or the other so she's covered no matter what direction he wants to go. Maybe if she knew what she wanted she could pick a side.

It's nice though, no denying that. If she was waiting or worrying about something horrendous interrupting it hasn't happened. She relaxes whatever tension she had left and melts against him. Gives in. Tells herself to stop thinking and is at least somewhat successful. Tangles her fingers in his hair because she's been dying to muss it forever and right now he can't stop her.

Was that a good gasp or a bad one? It's ambiguous enough that he errs on the side of trusting that she'd stop him if she wanted to, so he doesn't stop, though he doesn't try it again. Partly, too, that's just positioning, it's not worth trying to snake his hand back up. Maybe he's moving a little fast. It's hard to gauge, when they've gone about everything as backwards as they have. Hard for him because what they do have going-- what they've had for a while, what's been building since Atlanta, that unspoken affection-- matters so much more than anything physical. Even Daryl, who is not exactly the king of confidence, is pretty sure he could've gotten laid here in Teleios if that was all he was looking for, but he isn't. Hasn't been for longer than he likes to admit, honestly, because even before the dead he was tired of one night stands and meaningless fucks. Whatever this is, it's not about sex; or, it's not just about sex; and maybe it's a little bit about proving to himself that he doesn't actually want what his body was pretty damn sure it wanted in the road earlier; but mostly, he thinks, it's just about closeness, about trying to sort out what she wants because he'd settle for anything she'd give him.

He makes a low, little noise as she cards her fingers through his hair. It's undignified and he'll probably deny it ever happened if necessary, but yeah, he's more than okay with that. She doesn't have to kiss him to get away with it, even, because he trusts her as fully as she trusts him; he can let himself like being touched, trusting affection not to have an ulterior motive.

If she hadn't just relaxed against him he might have broken this off, uncertain and awkward of where to go next though he can't deny he's pleased, but with the way she's pressed against him... he relaxes, too, unaware he'd still been tense to begin with, giving in, inexpert but passionate, like he's sure this is what both of them want.

A smile threatens at the sound he makes -- she'd let it out if she weren't happily occupied -- so, his hair? Carol makes note to remember it the next time he gets himself in knots.

Speaking of, that's probably just what would happen if someone were to walk through the door now. Maybe others had assumed things about the two of them and maybe not, it's not as though anyone had the time or energy to bother with gossip. Here, though, there was plenty of time, and the last thing she thinks Daryl will appreciate is jokes about this incident, no matter how good-natured.

And, honestly? She wouldn't, either. She has her fun with Daryl but that's for them alone, and so is this. At least until they figure things out a little more and for that, they need time.

It seems a shame to stop, she's quite enjoying herself and only just got to relax. Then there's how he'll take it if she is the one to stop -- but they'll be fine. If he can forgive her killing Karen and David, they can endure navigating whatever this is. She won't let there be another outcome.

Carol eases the kiss to a conclusion but doesn't move back a single inch, resting her forehead against his. "You're welcome," she says merrily, her breath a little short. "To hell with the flowers, I'll just bake more cookies."

No running, mister. She's still got you by the hair. Her fingers rub his scalp in slow circles, already using her new favorite trick.

You never know, he might surprise her. As much as he doesn’t like letting his softer side show in public, he’s not embarrassed of her; and frankly, Daryl would be shocked if anyone who knew them would be shocked to find them like this. If there’s gossip, he doesn’t know about it, but he thinks he’s been fairly open with how much he cares. And their people, at least, they understand what the world’s like, how hard you have to cling to the things worth keeping. But he’d rather keep it private, because it doesn’t need to be about anyone but them. Because if something happens, neither of them need the pitying glances to remind them of what they’ve lost.

Besides, in practical terms it’s not like they can keep making out in the hallway forever.

It’s more than all right when she stops, and he lets himself rest there against her, eyes falling shut a moment as he raises a hand to cup her cheek, thumb on her jawline, gentle and pleased. The thing he doesn’t think she gets, the thing he has no way to convey, is that she’s the one in control here. At least, he’d like her to be the one in control. Maybe in its own way that’s no healthier than her marriage had been, and maybe it should scare her, how much it doesn’t scare him. He’d give her nothing or everything, exactly as she wishes. Especially if she keeps touching him.

“Could just ask,” he murmurs, impishly.

It’s a joke, she doesn’t even have to ask.

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