what_wings_dare | people in hell want slurpees.

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."

No transactions here, Daryl. Just the sense that Carol wants to make him happy and he doesn't always feel like he deserves to be, so she'll find any made-up excuse she can to get him to accept a good deed here and there. Although she knows if she just asked earnestly enough he'd probably accept most anything she asked of him, she'll save that for the important matters.

"Tab, huh. Guess I'd better get started." She pats the area beside her on the bed. "C'mere." They'll be by no means cramped for space, it's a sizable enough mattress, but if he wanted to stick close that's fine by her.

Unlike before, she leaves her meaning wide open to interpretation. But neither of them is in the mood for anything too intense and she knows it, so she really has no plan beyond taking a load off, both mentally and physically. (Although he might get a back rub out of it if he wants one.)

Rationally that might make sense, but he doesn't tend to look at himself and his reactions in a rational light. He just doesn't think to let her spoil him. It doesn't always occur that she might enjoy taking care of him, that it's not just an unfair drain, if he lets her. (Of course, he likes doing things for her just fine, but he doesn't think it all through.)

If she's going to invite him, though, he's not going to shy away. Even if he's a little uncertain where things are going. (There will, probably, never be a time when he's not uncertain.) On the other hand the position he's in isn't really conducive to looking sexy as he half-wriggles up onto the bed properly, stretching his legs out and falling heavily beside her. Comfortable, real beds, that's a luxury he is still savoring on a daily basis.

But he's not gonna be bashful, he's well within arms' reach, looking over at her, guileless and trusting.

Unfair drain... if Carol could hear his thoughts she would thwack him upside the head, or at least threaten to. Maybe one day she'll get him to start believing how immensely important he is to her; likely no time soon. Which would be sad if she let herself dwell on it, so she chooses instead to focus on how readily he laid beside her, without any apparent hesitation. That's more than might have happened not long ago. (If he'd tried to look sexy about it she might have started laughing again so it's for the best.)

Casually shifting closer, she starts with an easy win: idly playing with his hair, rubbing his head. She's good at this, experienced at tactile headache removal though perhaps out of practice. Carol studiously avoids thinking about how she acquired this particular skill, it'll be better for both of them if it's just a thing she knows how to do, of unspoken but probably obvious origin. Much like some of his survival skills.

Being important to each other is the one thing he doesn't doubt, hasn't doubted for a long while. Now and then a thump on the head might do him some good. At any rate he's more willing to take chances here. Or he has been. The reminder that either of them could vanish without warning is a bit of a damper.

Still.

He's not thinking about her past, or his own, for once. He'd be much more tense if he was. He's not really thinking about anything, just relaxing under her touch, vaguely wondering about what they can do later, tomorrow, to keep the house in order, to move on in Rick's absence, eyes half closed.

Carol smiles at his expression, he looks peaceful for a change. So she keeps doing what she's doing, absently humming a half-forgotten song to herself. If Daryl fell asleep that would be just fine by her, he probably needs the rest. Even if when he wakes he'll probably be consumed with finding something productive to do come hell or high water.

She rests her head on a folded arm, getting comfortable herself. Focusing on applying the right pressure to Daryl's temple is so much easier than focusing on grief that she's a little irritated with herself for not discovering this until now. In fairness they didn't have much idle time back home, nor privacy, but even so. Some things are worth stealing a moment for; else, why bother staying alive at all?

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

<333

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