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 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.
Carol likes him this way, playful and sweet and open. It feels like something only for her, and even if she tries hard to say 'couldn't be' she thinks she'll just believe it anyway. Watch yourself Daryl, she's bound to get spoiled.
"You're just full of surprises today. Good ones." The afterthought is something she'd hope is obvious, but in case it isn't.
They should probably talk more about that. It would be the smart thing, the advice Carol would offer someone else in the same situation. She doesn't want to, and doesn't care about 'smart.' Right now she just wants to keep twiddling his hair between her fingers and feeling his breath on her face and not have to think for once about what this is or isn't, will or won't be. It doesn't matter. Her feelings haven't changed.
Come to think of it, their circumstance hasn't changed either, still out here in the foyer in an intimate embrace, just waiting for someone to burst the bubble. Moving would probably be the thing to do. In a minute, or two. Three at most. It wouldn't break her heart never to do this together again but that doesn't mean she's going to just walk away from a moment that, beyond all expectations, is peaceful.
As long as she spoils him in return. Don’t get too excited, Carol, it’s bound to get annoying sooner or later, Daryl hanging around like a puppy hoping for scraps of attention, waiting for her to think to notice him, half expecting her to get bored with him. She’s a woman not-too-far-out of a terrible marriage, after all, and her options here are hardly as limited as they were at home. For now, at least, insecurities aren’t on his mind; whatever he was trying to prove, to her or to himself, seems pretty solidly established; and maybe it’s trite to think it, but it does make him feel alive, more genuinely human. They don’t always have the time for that, back home, but it’s what he needs; it’s why he couldn’t stand the idea of being on his own.
He doesn’t want to break this off any more than she does. He doesn’t answer except with a slight flicker of a smile that she probably can’t see, and he just… waits. Stands there tracing the line of her jaw idly, catching his breath and letting his heart slow to a normal pace.
But life moves on and all that. He draws back the hand on her cheek after a moment, pulling away from her slightly, though his other hand’s still resting comfortably on her waist, and bends to reach for her forgotten backpack for her. When he rises, he shifts, slipping his arm further around her waist so they’re standing side by side to walk into the living room proper, instead of being stuck forever in the hallway.
It’s a pretty suave move. He gets one, okay, he’s been largely useless otherwise. He punctuates it with a quick kiss on her cheek, because after all this that’s easy, because he wants to reinforce that this isn’t done and forgotten, just… enough for the moment.
"Options" are not a thing she wants. No one else would understand what they've been through, what it was like for her to lose Sophia and Lizzy and Mika. Why she became who she is. Even her occasional musings (fears, more accurately) of what this moment might perhaps entail are far surpassed by Daryl's unexpected calm. Who needs options? The only thing that could make her happier right now is a chocolate chip cookie and a nap on Daryl's shoulder.
His Valentino-like moves only add to her delight, it's nice to see him with confidence for a change. Where has that been?
Once they reach a good distance Carol drops onto the sofa and gives Daryl's vest a tug just in case he had any delusions about not going with her. She proceeds to dig into her pack and finally produces the near-forgotten baked goods, which she offers to Daryl without a word.
He has plenty of confidence. He's a goddamn good shot and he's known very few better trackers in his life. He's a survivor. Those are things he's good at. Emotional stuff, though, he doesn't have much reason to be confident about that.
"Bossy," he mutters as she grabs him, not actually complaining, not even a little. He does better with direction, and moreover, it's nice to be rather obviously wanted. It always is, even if he never understands why.
So he helps himself to a cookie, and to her lap, sprawling onto the couch and throwing his feet on the arm, resting his shoulders and head on Carol's legs.
See, you were definitely inviting trouble with this plan.
She can handle trouble, don't you worry. He inadvertently thwarted her nap plans, so Carol breaks off a small chunk of his cookie and helps herself. Her other hand goes right back to stroking his hair. He seems to enjoy it and it's nice to be able to do it so casually. How long could she have done this, but didn't? All that wasted time, so many mussed hairdos that never came to be.
So tempting to say something like 'how was your day, dear?' but she thinks he's covered that as much as he's going to. Pity, she could do with some names and details, but it's not worth souring his mood.
"If you feel like spoiling dinner, let me know before we get too comfortable and I'll grab some milk and candy."
Truth is Daryl would have been content if they could have gone straight to lying in a heap on the couch, not that he's complaining about the kissing by any means. It's just... secondary to this, the thoughtless, comfortable contact. They've always had that to an extent, though he's bolder than usual today, and reaping the rewards of his boldness. She can play with his hair anytime, it's not like he puts any effort into it to ruin.
He makes a dismissive noise around a mouthful of cookie. Daryl can always eat, sure, but he'd rather get too comfortable here than have her get up on his account.
Carol would be more amenable to skipping the kissing if she knew she had implicit permission all along. She was still thinking of Daryl as the one who flinched at a touch, who had too many boundaries she was afraid to breech. She's come a long way, isn't any longer the meek and frightened woman she once was, but she's still human with all the fears and worries. And pushing Daryl's boundaries when who knows what reaction it might garner hadn't seemed worth the risk.
Nothing has changed between them meeting in the driveway and now, except that she's more aware of where she stands with him. Where she's stood for a while, perhaps. Aside from the prospect of hair-twirling she can't manage to mourn that lost time; she needed it. Maybe it was her who had the boundaries, in the end.
Idly, she rubs his neck through the fringe of his hair and wonders aloud about other matters.
"Last time we had the chance to ask for something from home, I couldn't think of a single thing. I don't want to waste my next chance." This is her asking for ideas, or something. A brainstorm. Maybe just trying to come to terms with everything that happened in a way that feels less like a confession.
Nothing's changed; maybe the potential for this has been there for ages, waiting. At home it would've been harder-- he would have been less willing to risk rejection, knowing how easily he could lose everything. He always figured she knew; that she understood how he feels, and he thinks she does, but... well, this is different, this place is different. For Daryl they barely even have the stability of the prison, they've only just begun to imagine that they could have a life; and for Carol they've already lost it.
(And in a month, less, he'll lose her again, not that they could know it.)
He tilts his head a bit, leaning into her touch, considering the question. It's way easier to talk about this, something that's not a question about them.
"I dunno, not like we got that much," he muses. All he wants, all he ever asks, is for their people, and the Agents won't do it. It's how he ended up with the bike; it's the last thing he's got to remind him of Merle. "What some folks got, I think, doesn't even have to be from home. If you could have anything..."
He trails off. Anything, from anywhere. Something wild. It shouldn't be such a hard question, but he's not sure he can answer it himself.
"Anything? Huh." Her first thought, nonsensically, is for a time machine. But no, she can't go back and be Sophia's Mom again. She's too far removed from that person.
"Funny, not too long ago I could've made a list three miles long." It's not really that funny but her mood isn't dampened. That's just life, now. "I could ask for some movies, maybe. I kinda miss those."
A time machine probably wouldn't work, and if it did, it'd cause more trouble than it solved, he figures. Daryl doesn't think about going back, much; there're things he regrets, sure, things he'd do different, problems he'd fix or avoid, but the list's too long to make sense of. He tries to live in the moment. It's hard enough managing that.
He tucks an arm under his head, propping it up a bit more, his fingers brushing hers. There's something strange about such a mundane conversation, but he doesn't mind. It's... Nice. Maybe talking about something abstract and unimportant will keep the mood light, so they don't have to deal with everything at home, with the potential awkwardness of here.
So much casual touching that's not causing either of them to freak out. Will wonders never cease.
A grin. "I was thinking Die Hard." Something action-filled, where there's a satisfying ending and some variant of happily ever after in which the world keeps on spinning, less a bad guy or two. Where the psychopath gets what's coming to him without taking out sweet, older Patriarchs who want nothing but peace.
In another life though, he might be right about the chick flicks. Carol once swooned over that stuff, wishing it could be her life, but that's not the world anymore. No amusing romantic interludes, no more comic relief. Just fighting tooth and nail to survive, that's what she can relate to now.
Hey, Carol’s always been luckier on that count than most, not everyone gets backrubs for their recoil bruises. He makes an honest effort not to shy away from their people, they’re family; a friendly pound on the back, a bump of the shoulder, even that kind of vague affection, he’s not used to it. Needing anyone, he was always taught that made you weak. It’s not true, but it’s a tough lesson to unlearn.
It’s an unexpected answer and it makes him smile, just a little curve of his lips, most of the expression in his eyes. Surprisingly, he doesn’t much miss most of the distractions of his old life-- maybe because he had little else-- but at least that’s more fun than what he expected.
“Nothin’ comes through on the t.v.s,” he says. Yeah, he’s checked, he was curious. Being in a place with all these creature comforts he’s poked at just about everything, with a weird mix of nostalgia and fascination at how much he used to take for granted. “Maybe they got a stash somewhere.”
Imagine, they could have a bad movie night, camp out under a blanket. How weirdly normal would that be?
(Possibly enough to set them into a panic, let’s be real, here.)
She was thinking just that, a night with cold beer and popcorn and a movie from any genre but horror. It would be a nice way to spend time together that was about the time and not finding food or deciding what the hell was going on and what to do about it.
"Maybe. If they can access everything from everywhere, they have some system for keeping the good stuff." And maybe it's colored by the hard time she had before coming here, but mindless action movies that make you laugh are certainly good stuff.
"Do you think they can get very specific things? Like," she pauses, as if considering, even though she knows exactly what she wants to say, "a picture?" She's trying hard to be casual here, not delve too far into the maudlin, since she's not entirely sure she's ready for that anyway. But just... in case.
Free time isn’t something they’re used to having. Daryl has been consistently terrible at filling it, particularly with anything approaching actual relaxation. At home there’s always something more to do, something they’re behind on. It’s a hard mindset to shake, particularly when the kinds of things he would have done a lifetime ago aren’t an option, or aren’t appealing anymore, or both.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, if they could turn something up. A quiet, normal evening together, companionable and uncomplicated. Potentially. He’s not discounting the idea of complicating things, after all-- just at maybe a less frantic pace. Since he first saw her out there, flower in her hair, Daryl’s only been worried about Carol’s comfort level; he’s at least as anxious about scaring her off as she is of pushing too far with him, though he’s totally oblivious to the fact that she thinks he might bolt. If they never go any farther than this, he’ll be fine. But that doesn’t mean (he thinks) that he doesn’t want to. That he wouldn’t want to if she did. There’s more to living than survival. There’s room, here, there’s time.
He looks up at her, considering the question, so carefully vague. It’s always easier, not talking about things. They so rarely need to. His expression is soft, thinking (as he assumes she is) of Sophia.
“Don’t see why not,” he affirms. “Can’t hurt, askin’.”
Of course Sophia. It was easier to be without her back home because Sophia was too sweet to survive in that world. Here, she could have. (It would never occur to her to ask for Sophia to be brought here because she couldn't bear for her daughter to see how she is now. But a picture, that feels safe enough, something to remember other than a walker wearing Sophia's rainbow shirt getting its head blown off and landing akimbo in a pile of decaying corpses.)
Daryl's expression pulls her out of that unpleasant reverie and she smiles at him, both reassurance and gratitude. Daryl barely knew Sophia yet he worked harder to find her than anyone else, and did more to bring Carol back from the brink of giving up. She never did figure out exactly why, but it doesn't especially matter. He did so much -- does so much -- to make her okay when by all rights she shouldn't be, that's what's important.
"I'll think about it." She will. Just not right now. "Do you know what you're asking for next time?"
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what_wings_dare2014-02-14 08:31 pm
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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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"You're just full of surprises today. Good ones." The afterthought is something she'd hope is obvious, but in case it isn't.
They should probably talk more about that. It would be the smart thing, the advice Carol would offer someone else in the same situation. She doesn't want to, and doesn't care about 'smart.' Right now she just wants to keep twiddling his hair between her fingers and feeling his breath on her face and not have to think for once about what this is or isn't, will or won't be. It doesn't matter. Her feelings haven't changed.
Come to think of it, their circumstance hasn't changed either, still out here in the foyer in an intimate embrace, just waiting for someone to burst the bubble. Moving would probably be the thing to do. In a minute, or two. Three at most. It wouldn't break her heart never to do this together again but that doesn't mean she's going to just walk away from a moment that, beyond all expectations, is peaceful.
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He doesn’t want to break this off any more than she does. He doesn’t answer except with a slight flicker of a smile that she probably can’t see, and he just… waits. Stands there tracing the line of her jaw idly, catching his breath and letting his heart slow to a normal pace.
But life moves on and all that. He draws back the hand on her cheek after a moment, pulling away from her slightly, though his other hand’s still resting comfortably on her waist, and bends to reach for her forgotten backpack for her. When he rises, he shifts, slipping his arm further around her waist so they’re standing side by side to walk into the living room proper, instead of being stuck forever in the hallway.
It’s a pretty suave move. He gets one, okay, he’s been largely useless otherwise. He punctuates it with a quick kiss on her cheek, because after all this that’s easy, because he wants to reinforce that this isn’t done and forgotten, just… enough for the moment.
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His Valentino-like moves only add to her delight, it's nice to see him with confidence for a change. Where has that been?
Once they reach a good distance Carol drops onto the sofa and gives Daryl's vest a tug just in case he had any delusions about not going with her. She proceeds to dig into her pack and finally produces the near-forgotten baked goods, which she offers to Daryl without a word.
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"Bossy," he mutters as she grabs him, not actually complaining, not even a little. He does better with direction, and moreover, it's nice to be rather obviously wanted. It always is, even if he never understands why.
So he helps himself to a cookie, and to her lap, sprawling onto the couch and throwing his feet on the arm, resting his shoulders and head on Carol's legs.
See, you were definitely inviting trouble with this plan.
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So tempting to say something like 'how was your day, dear?' but she thinks he's covered that as much as he's going to. Pity, she could do with some names and details, but it's not worth souring his mood.
"If you feel like spoiling dinner, let me know before we get too comfortable and I'll grab some milk and candy."
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Truth is Daryl would have been content if they could have gone straight to lying in a heap on the couch, not that he's complaining about the kissing by any means. It's just... secondary to this, the thoughtless, comfortable contact. They've always had that to an extent, though he's bolder than usual today, and reaping the rewards of his boldness. She can play with his hair anytime, it's not like he puts any effort into it to ruin.
He makes a dismissive noise around a mouthful of cookie. Daryl can always eat, sure, but he'd rather get too comfortable here than have her get up on his account.
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Nothing has changed between them meeting in the driveway and now, except that she's more aware of where she stands with him. Where she's stood for a while, perhaps. Aside from the prospect of hair-twirling she can't manage to mourn that lost time; she needed it. Maybe it was her who had the boundaries, in the end.
Idly, she rubs his neck through the fringe of his hair and wonders aloud about other matters.
"Last time we had the chance to ask for something from home, I couldn't think of a single thing. I don't want to waste my next chance." This is her asking for ideas, or something. A brainstorm. Maybe just trying to come to terms with everything that happened in a way that feels less like a confession.
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(And in a month, less, he'll lose her again, not that they could know it.)
He tilts his head a bit, leaning into her touch, considering the question. It's way easier to talk about this, something that's not a question about them.
"I dunno, not like we got that much," he muses. All he wants, all he ever asks, is for their people, and the Agents won't do it. It's how he ended up with the bike; it's the last thing he's got to remind him of Merle. "What some folks got, I think, doesn't even have to be from home. If you could have anything..."
He trails off. Anything, from anywhere. Something wild. It shouldn't be such a hard question, but he's not sure he can answer it himself.
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"Funny, not too long ago I could've made a list three miles long." It's not really that funny but her mood isn't dampened. That's just life, now. "I could ask for some movies, maybe. I kinda miss those."
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He tucks an arm under his head, propping it up a bit more, his fingers brushing hers. There's something strange about such a mundane conversation, but he doesn't mind. It's... Nice. Maybe talking about something abstract and unimportant will keep the mood light, so they don't have to deal with everything at home, with the potential awkwardness of here.
"What kind?"
Chick flicks probably, right?
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A grin. "I was thinking Die Hard." Something action-filled, where there's a satisfying ending and some variant of happily ever after in which the world keeps on spinning, less a bad guy or two. Where the psychopath gets what's coming to him without taking out sweet, older Patriarchs who want nothing but peace.
In another life though, he might be right about the chick flicks. Carol once swooned over that stuff, wishing it could be her life, but that's not the world anymore. No amusing romantic interludes, no more comic relief. Just fighting tooth and nail to survive, that's what she can relate to now.
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It’s an unexpected answer and it makes him smile, just a little curve of his lips, most of the expression in his eyes. Surprisingly, he doesn’t much miss most of the distractions of his old life-- maybe because he had little else-- but at least that’s more fun than what he expected.
“Nothin’ comes through on the t.v.s,” he says. Yeah, he’s checked, he was curious. Being in a place with all these creature comforts he’s poked at just about everything, with a weird mix of nostalgia and fascination at how much he used to take for granted. “Maybe they got a stash somewhere.”
Imagine, they could have a bad movie night, camp out under a blanket. How weirdly normal would that be?
(Possibly enough to set them into a panic, let’s be real, here.)
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"Maybe. If they can access everything from everywhere, they have some system for keeping the good stuff." And maybe it's colored by the hard time she had before coming here, but mindless action movies that make you laugh are certainly good stuff.
"Do you think they can get very specific things? Like," she pauses, as if considering, even though she knows exactly what she wants to say, "a picture?" She's trying hard to be casual here, not delve too far into the maudlin, since she's not entirely sure she's ready for that anyway. But just... in case.
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Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, if they could turn something up. A quiet, normal evening together, companionable and uncomplicated. Potentially. He’s not discounting the idea of complicating things, after all-- just at maybe a less frantic pace. Since he first saw her out there, flower in her hair, Daryl’s only been worried about Carol’s comfort level; he’s at least as anxious about scaring her off as she is of pushing too far with him, though he’s totally oblivious to the fact that she thinks he might bolt. If they never go any farther than this, he’ll be fine. But that doesn’t mean (he thinks) that he doesn’t want to. That he wouldn’t want to if she did. There’s more to living than survival. There’s room, here, there’s time.
He looks up at her, considering the question, so carefully vague. It’s always easier, not talking about things. They so rarely need to. His expression is soft, thinking (as he assumes she is) of Sophia.
“Don’t see why not,” he affirms. “Can’t hurt, askin’.”
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Daryl's expression pulls her out of that unpleasant reverie and she smiles at him, both reassurance and gratitude. Daryl barely knew Sophia yet he worked harder to find her than anyone else, and did more to bring Carol back from the brink of giving up. She never did figure out exactly why, but it doesn't especially matter. He did so much -- does so much -- to make her okay when by all rights she shouldn't be, that's what's important.
"I'll think about it." She will. Just not right now. "Do you know what you're asking for next time?"
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