what_wings_dare | people in hell want slurpees.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Downstairs?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hums affirmatively, too afraid of speaking about Hershel in the obvious past tense to say more. Taking Daryl's hand, she gently pats the injuries with the soaked cotton. It may sting but this is the man who pulled a crossbow out of his own body and then climbed an embankment, she won't insult him by assuming it'll hurt him.

"You know," she says as she carefully cleans his scraped knuckles, "there are easier ways to get into my room." If he won't say it, she will. And as she glances up, the playful glint in her eyes says she just knows he was thinking it, even though she knows no such thing. Among anyone else it might be considered a poorly timed joke but between them, they know if they wait for a good time, a peaceful and uneventful time, there'll never be jokes again.

He doesn't flinch a bit, watching her as she tends to the scrapes. In the grand scheme of things this is so minor that it almost feels like play-acting, going through the motions. That tough exterior of his, it's not a lie, and it's not something he picked up after the end of the world. Bruises and scrapes are just part of a day's work. But that must be true for Carol, too; she's long been used to worse than this on a a daily basis. If it's just for their peace of mind, they deserve the luxury of that.

"On your bed," he counters, rallying a little and trying to force a smile for her. He can joke. It's part of how they get through. He still hasn't sorted out what that joking means in terms of what happened after the flowers, but that's all right. He's coming to think that maybe it's both; maybe being just a joke doesn't mean it's strictly untrue. Right now, though, maybe it's not the time for wondering about all that.

"Keep that in mind before I bust somethin' next time."

That forced smile is noticed, appreciated, and returned, then she moves on to wrapping his knuckles in gauze bandage. Loose enough not to restrict movement, tightly enough that it's not going to slide around. Hershel taught her well, he just didn't have time to teach her enough.

"Do that. Or people will start blaming me for an abundance of broken things around the house." She doesn't mean to make light of what's happening, really... or maybe she does, when she thinks about it. She just can't fit anymore grief inside her head right now or it'll explode.

Once the bandage is tied off, she leans down to kiss the back of his hand, below the wrapping, veering toward the serious again with a quiet voice. "For good measure."

He huffs at that, a laugh that's little more than breath, picturing it. At least he's not quite that immature, he's restricting his anger issues to his own space. Better if he didn't break anything at all, but even a good man isn't a perfect man.

(Maybe it should be more uncomfortable, cracking half-serious jokes about sleeping with her when she's kissing his hurts like someone's mom, but that's how things are with them.)

He smiles-- with his eyes more than his mouth, as usual-- and gives her fingers a good squeeze.

Carol is definitely a mom. Even though there's no more Sophia, no more Lizzy or Mika, that's not something she can stop being. It's not that she means to, well, mother Daryl, that's definitely not the way she sees him, it's hard not to have some of the same gestures of affection come to the surface even if it's not meant the same way.

"You wanna... hang around a while?" The playfulness is gone but her tone is light enough, this is neither a joke nor a solicitation. Just a request for company -- perhaps not just company if that's how things end up but it's hardly that sort of invitation, her primary reasoning is wanting him close and suspecting that he could use the same.

That may be a lot to convey with just tone, even as well as he knows her. So she half-smiles and adds, "I hope you know what I mean because I can't think of a better way to say it." Not without getting overly descriptive and weird, anyway. "I'd just rather not be alone."

It might be stranger, more conflicting, if Daryl was remotely used to being mothered. He was young enough when his died that what pleasant, caring memories he has are dulled by time. Mostly it was just his father and Merle, neither very present, which sometimes was for the best. He's not that used to any kind of nurturing, which makes it hard to pinpoint what his reactions to it mean. Which is a large part of why this is so goddamn confusing if he lets himself try to sort it out, try to find some way to make sense of it by the standards of society.

But society's gone and they're not. When he lets himself remember that things are infinitely simpler.

He gives her a long look as she asks and clarifies, hesitates just a little. He can't help the occasional deer-in-the-headlights moment. But after that moment, he nods, hums a vague affirmative and shifts so he's sat more solidly on the end of the bed. Truth is, he understands exactly what she means.

"Maybe none of us should be."

Part of her wonders what Daryl's reaction might have been to an actual proposition, but it is very much not the time. She'll stick with that for now and not think too much about whether she would have, or will ever, seriously ask.

Then again, he may just take it as a joke.

Carol is too overcome with gratitude at his agreement to focus on the hypothetical for long. She wasn't on her own for long before meeting up with Tyrese and the girls, just long enough to know she never wanted to endure it again; such a simple act on his part but unspeakably significant to her.

She stretches out on the bed to reach her shelf, picking up a deck of cards and making a gesture with them that's equivalent to a shrug. "I don't have much else around, but..." Honestly, she could just rest together in silence, like on the couch those few days ago. But if he wants the distraction, that'd be fine. She understands. They're not terribly used to an abundance of thinking time.

Truth is, part of Daryl wonders the same thing, particularly since that business in the hallway. He's not sure he'd be able to tell the difference, if she meant it; but then, if she were willing to ask she'd probably be willing to prove it. At any rate this moment isn't the right one for that. If he's looking for a distraction, that's not the one he wants.

He leans a little, putting an arm further back to steady himself, not quite comfortable enough to sprawl across her bed because it is a little bit weird, even if it's not as weird as maybe it could be.

"You wanna play Go Fish?" he asks, amused and a little dubious, almost smiling. Not quite, but almost.

There's a strip poker joke in there somewhere; she sidesteps it in favor of laughing, really laughing, at his suggestion. Sure, the idea of a kid game brings back some memories she'd rather not entertain, but the very idea is just too funny to react any other way.

"If someone asked what we did alone on my bed for hours, just imagine their face if we said 'Go Fish'. I'm sure it'd be priceless."

Making her laugh, he'll take that. Both of them need cheering up. There's a nagging little part of him that thinks there's no time for that, that Rick being gone puts them in crisis mode, that he's got problems to solve, shit to do. But there's no fire, there's nothing to be done, no reason he can't take some time for himself and for her before he sets to work. (And he will set to work, he'll find work to do if nothing presents itself.)

"Better'n solitaire," he says, the threatened smile finally breaking.

Since... You know... You play that by yourself and all.

Hah.

That joke is worse than terrible and so she laughs even harder, just for a moment before flopping back onto her pillow. "God, I needed that."

When's the last time she really laughed? She can't recall. What comes first to mind is washing laundry in the quarry with Andrea, Amy, and Jackie another life ago. It's less funny now that none of them are around to share the memory. Carol used to laugh so often, but that was gone long before the world ended. She's glad that part of her isn't completely buried beneath bitterness and battle scars.

The little smile he's wearing, that's as good as a full grin from Daryl. He relaxes halfway, letting himself lean more, propped up on one elbow, his legs still hanging off the edge of the mattress. God help them if this ever actually goes anywhere; dirty talk will be off the table, they'd never manage without laughing.

The silence that lapses is a comfortable one, though. He'll work himself back into a knot of worry sooner or later, but this is good, this is hopeful. Daryl's particular aggressive kind of optimism- more a belief that things can work out if he just wills it hard enough- doesn't work if he can't first make himself believe it'll be okay.

Carol doesn't think she'd mind a hearty combination of sex and laughing, really. At the least it would make a good story later on. Not that her mind is going there just yet, now she's just happy to be happy, however temporarily before reality hits home again.

She flips the cards back onto their shelf; if Daryl looks carefully, they've never been used. She doesn't know why she keeps them around. Then she lounges on the bed, head propped on her hand, leg stretching out to gently nudge Daryl's arm.

"Don't you look proud of yourself?"

Given time and adequate reassurance that she's laughing with him and not at him...shit, if you're not having fun you're doing something wrong, right? But for now just joking around is progress enough. He's overwhelmingly relieved that things haven't gotten weird between them, but not quite ready to push any further.

He lifts his chin a little, drawing himself up as best he can, which given his position, is not actually that much.

"Do I?"

"Mm-hmm." Actually now he looks smug, but because it's Daryl she'll let it slide. After seeing how he was standing at the sink she'll take smug a thousand times over. "You should be. I don't laugh much anymore."

For a long moment, she just looks at him, her smile still present but softened. "So I guess I owe you something good." Perhaps he can tell by the look in her eyes that she knows she doesn't really owe him, the two of them don't tally favors toward one another in search of a zero sum, but she would like to do something for him anyway and it would be fine if he'd make a suggestion.

Resilience is a necessary life skill where they're from. It doesn't hurt any less, the loss, but they bounce back, they function, they put it aside. He had his moment of grief; the smugness is half bravado, mostly because it makes her smile. But he's in better shape already. Has to be.

His smile fades a little, not because he's displeased exactly, it's just how he is.

"Mmn," he murmurs with a slight shake of his head. It's a joke, he knows, but he hates the idea of owing or being owed, especially with Carol. (Besides, she does so much for him. More maybe than she realizes.) Whatever they are, it can't be transactional, or he can't trust it.

But he does, he trusts her, so they can joke.

"I'll put it on your tab."

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BOLT. Crossbow BOLT. Bad typos make bad imagery >.<

<333

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