what_wings_dare | people in hell want slurpees.

If Daryl had been given his choice of jobs... he'd have ended up right where he is. Hunting's something he's good at, something he's used to. Having that point of familiarity was endlessly helpful when he was trying to adjust to life in Teleios; and, honestly, though he doesn't think of it that way, having a task he was competent in helped keep him grounded with his group. The skills that make him useful to them back home, they don't all generalize so well; having a guaranteed way to stay useful, that was good.

Since Carol's been back, he's been making the effort to swing by the lake when he can. It's autumn, there's less game about; shifting more and more to setting traps means he's got more free time to spend while waiting. He's not gonna complain about it. He checks in at home, he swings by the Temple, he keeps an eye on things the way he always has, but checking in with Carol... is maybe for his sake as much as it is for hers.

And that's what he's doing right now, coming up after a few hours checking lines that are still empty. It's all right, there's no rush; people around here pull their weight and the Temple's got plenty of food. (He checks, frequently. He's too used to the alternative.)

He sets his bow down next to a tree before coming to sit beside her wordlessly, close enough to be comfortably companionable without getting in the way of what she's doing.

Fortunately she hasn't had much in the way of bites today and she's using bits of venison meat for bait, so the fishy smell is at a minimum. Also fortunate, he caught her snatching at the wisps of a fond memory for once, the crop up occasionally between the teeth of the bad ones. Carol turns to him with a tired but genuine smile; sitting for hours is plainly exhausting.

"I hope they call us off soon, in a few weeks I'll be ice fishing." And that sounds even less appealing than the regular sort, and even less productive.

She holds the end of her fishing rod between her crossed ankles to stretch her arms overhead, fingers laced.

"Pretty sure they'll get us inside before it freezes over."

Pretty sure but really, he doesn't know. This'll be his first full winter, and though he's not looking forward to being stuck in the Temple for months on end (if they're lucky, if everything doesn't fall apart like they say it did last year), the promise of having everyone nearby instead of scattered among strangers ought to make it easier to bear.

He leans toward her a bit, not quite enough to bump her with his shoulder since she's stretched out, he doesn't want to set her off balance.

"Any luck today?"

"Nope." She drops her arms, more dryly exasperated than surprised by the fact. "I should have moved a while ago." But she didn't especially want to pack up and trudge along the lakeshore, expecting little better luck elsewhere and content to cope with the hand she's been dealt for the remainder of her workday.

"It's nice weather, anyway." Casually, Carol cants her head to rest on his shoulder. "And I caught enough this week."

Look at you, boldly leaning like that. (Never mind there's not a soul in sight, apparently not even any fish. And it's not like he minds, really.) It makes him halfway smile, shifting his arm carefully so his hand rests right beside her without jolting her off his shoulder in the process. At least, that's his goal.

"Things're quieting down for everyone," he says thoughtfully. Save the farming crew, maybe, but they've got an actual harvest goddess working with them, in fairness. It's amazing how calm they can be about fish and game; here a bad day doesn't mean anything but that, there's no looming shortage, nothing to panic over.

Don't be so quick to smile, she's half hoping he has some spare energy she can leech. Or that she can subtly whine her way into a shoulder rub. Sitting was nice for the first few days after all the running about they did back home, but the newness has worn off.

"Hard not to be suspicious of the quiet," she says almost absently. She's not trying to be morbid really, it's plain fact that they had the ground yanked from beneath them too many times. When something's too good to be true...

Present company excluded, naturally.

That's a fair complaint, he thinks. Getting him to rub her shoulders will be easy, if she can manage to communicate it; or at least, if she can wriggle her way into the right position to make him think it's his idea to offer.

"You kinda get used to it," he murmurs. Kind of. Not entirely. Part of him is always going to be waiting for the other proverbial shoe to smack them the second they forget it's due.

Some things seem pretty solid, though. Present company most definitely included. Whatever this is they've got going is new enough to be a little undefined, but he trusts it.

"Smells better, at least, even with the fish," he jokes.

His joke merits a breath of chuckling, but just one. Carol lifts her head and rubs at the back of her neck, abandoning subtlety entirely. Hint, hint.

"I guess I'll have to." She manages not to sound wholly put off by the prospect, for which he has mostly himself to thank. "As much as nothing's biting here, it's something. Having no work at all will be strange."

"Could be they'll give us something, I guess." Just probably not something outside. They'd been pretty adamant about keeping everyone indoors as much as possible, and honestly having gone out, Daryl understands all too well why that is. There ought to be enough stored up to get them through it.

He leans away just enough to pick up his hand, settling it on the back of her neck and rubbing lightly. Yes, he can be taught.

"We'll find some way to keep busy."

Perfectly innocent.

(It's probably her fault he's picking up bad habits.)

He makes cabin fever sound nearly tolerable, when taken with the accommodating way his fingers move on her bound-up neck. She hums a single note, approval and inquiry rolled together.

"What did you have in mind?" Her gaze slides toward him, smooth as the lake's surface and with much the same glint. "Precisely." If he's offering to divert her attention all winter, well. He should have a plan of action.

Such banter is new between them, his end at the least, and typically it's Daryl echoing her mood rather than setting it himself. Carol finds the diversion intriguing, agreeable, however. If he's going to start something she can't be expected to let it slide especially when they're so very much alone, more so even than behind a closed door at home.

The question is, fortunately for him, multiple choice, and he's free to respond with either explanation or example. At least she should be allowed to reel something in today.

Having a plan of action is a little tricky when they're still flying blind. He's joking, but he's not joking, but he doesn't want to imply that he's making any assumptions about what she'll be ready for when. On the other hand, he decidedly is interested in starting something. It just feels like a fine line between showing her exactly how interested he is, and pressing the issue. The latter is something he 's dead set on avoiding.

But.

He matches her sidelong glance and shrugs very slightly, glancing out over the water in a casual fashion, before he stops rubbing her neck to run his fingers slowly down and then back up her back.

There ought to be something about hook, line, and sinker said, but maybe it's too easy.

Way too easy, but fitting, so she'll allow it. She'll also take that skim of his fingers down her spine as he intends it; Carol knows how he is with initiating physical contact in all but the most intense of circumstances, though she is a little off-center as to the exact reasoning. (The thought that she'd ever want to deny him is that far outside her awareness.)

So, maybe the more fitting saying is off the hook, because she looks and leans toward him, hand resting on his knee. She can't quite make it all the way over with her fishing pole perched as it is so he'll have to put forth some effort to meet halfway.

"Something like this?" She's smiling, less mischievous though it's swirled in there with affection and acceptance. He had energy to give her, after all.

Being the one to reach out always feels somehow more vulnerable than being reached for. At least, uncertain as things still are, she's been clear that it's welcome. Testing their boundaries is a slow but hardly unpleasant task. Both of them have their reasons to be cautious, but the tacit agreement that it's worth trying to find a way around their issues means he's not hesitant, only gentle, slow.

He quirks a little smile back at her when she leans toward him, and obligingly leans himself to close the distance, pausing just for a moment to enjoy the easy intimacy of this, the fact that he doesn't even second guess the thought of kissing her or the thought that she'd want him to.

Energy might be a lot to ask, at the very least he can give her a distraction from her poor fishing luck.

Carol's fine, happy even, with being the one to reach. She trusts him to be there when she does, never to let her fall. That's the harder role in her mind, the patience and deference. Her largest worry is that Daryl would respond to her even if he didn't necessarily want to, because that's the kind of good heart he has.

Intimate this is, but easy isn't so much on her mind as restless as her day has been. There's a little more than warmth in her kiss, like fanned embers. Her hand slides two inches up his leg. She's not truly planning to be more bold than he'd prefer, it's just difficult not to think of the quiet lakeside as private. Or, private enough.

And, well. He started her mind down this path. Let this be a lesson.

It's not unreasonable to be concerned. The thing is, it's difficult to detangle. He's much more apt to have an interest if she's the one starting it; so his response being sudden wouldn't necessarily make it any less genuine. Still, he's so concerned with treating her well that he doesn't think much at all about what he wants.

Right now, it's an academic question, because his interest is very genuine. Maybe it should be more of a concern that they haven't got walls, much less a door, but it's quiet enough to feel more private than their house full of roommates, nearly. He shifts his weight, sidling a little closer with a wriggle of his hips. Yes, that's okay by him.

He lets his hand drop again to rest low on her back and kisses her a little more playfully. This is probably a better way to waste energy than to get it, but she can make her bed and lie in it if she so chooses.

Such brash encouragement, he should know better. His shift means more incidental contact, her side flush against him and her mouth more secure over his, the spark of her mood flaring suddenly to life. Navigating boundaries is delicate work but stolen moments are rare, wasting this one when he's so gratifyingly responsive would be tragic.

Taking its queue, her hand skims up --

The kiss stumbles as Carol needs both hands to reach for her forgotten fishing pole, which is tugging urgently. It figures.

Oh, he's all too aware of what he's encouraging. Pressed against each other and knowing her like he does he can feel when she decides to move before she moves, parts his lips a little wider, lets himself get carried away by the thought. Just for a moment. Her fingers drift and for that second he lets himself wonder about the logistics; about the open space around them, about how far she'll let herself take this and a hundred little inchoate joyous thoughts he's been trying not to indulge and--

the flat, muffled sound he makes as she pulls away is more than half curse.

She's supposed to be working and he's supposed to be a responsible member of what passes for society, they ought to be thrilled that she's got a bite. More food to pack away for the lean months and all that. He leans his chin in his hand with a hopeless kind of huff, though honestly the whole thing's so ridiculous that his hand is covering half a smile.

She'd better reel it in. He wants to personally eat this fucker for dinner, all right.

Carol gives the line a hard yank over the shoulder opposite Daryl, to get the hook good and wedged. The line leaps about, definitely a fish and not some snagged litter. She reels as the thing fights uselessly for its life, smile playing on her lips.

"Don't sulk. It just means you should've been here sooner." The only thing that could be more hilarious about this is if she successfully drags the line in only to find a four-inch guppy dangling there. (Not that she hopes for it, pulling her weight is important to her for all the bluster she made about sitting here being a chore.)

"If the people here only knew what you gave up for the sake of their dinner..." Carol shoots over a purely mischievous look, her gaze dipping tellingly. It's an exaggeration but not by much; to say she had a plan is overstating but she'd been entertaining a few ideas.

As the end of her line draws nearer, she wonders if the mood is salvageable. She has a cooler, there's no need to hurry back with her catch -- her hands will definitely smell like fish, though, and because she's smelled like worse in her time doesn't make it any less irksome.

The mood is definitely changed. Salvageable? That remains to be seen. He rolls his eyes because what else can he do.

"I'm a damn saint," he drawls, though the sour tone is all exaggeration, there's definitely a laugh lurking behind his gaze. Still. Carol can get away with teasing him any day of the week, but it feels a little unfair to have the wildlife getting in on it. If this is their lot in life he can't complain, it's like having to worry about wearing suits and getting the laundry done, trivial enough that the frustration is a luxury.

Which... Does not make it not a frustration.

He leans back in a bit to watch her make her catch, the least the fish can do is have the decency to be a big one, damnit.

And yeah, he's not not thinking on it. Are fishy hands a deal breaker? By the standards of polite society they probably ought to be but he's really not sure he cares. It's not like they wouldn't be taking at least one more shower today anyway...

Whether his put-upon tone or the farcical twist that, let's face it, could only happen to them, Carol isn't so restrained in showing her laughter. If she had anyone to tell this story to she'd already be thinking of the cleverest wording for the precise expression on Daryl's face. (Lori would have gotten a kick out of it for sure, and Andrea.)

Finally her catch breaks the surface, a thick, wriggly catfish. Daryl's got his wish, it's a decent enough size, and fighting like hell. Carol drags it in and gets a hand on it, digging in its flanging mouth to see if she can wiggle the hook free.

When the hook comes loose to her satisfaction, Carol holds the catfish up for scrutiny. Fifteen inches, not terrible. She then points the fish toward Daryl, her eyes and voice full of laughter.

"I think it's smirking at us."

(She only teases for a moment though, in favor of bringing out a small thin knife and ending the poor thing's suffering with one decisive stab and hanging it on her prepared line to drip. There's joking and then there's cruelty for the sake of a joke.)

"Won't be when we fry him up," he promises, still on the verge of laughter. It's not that he's holding it in, exactly, he's just quiet in his amusement. The glare he's fixing on the whiskery little bastard is mainly for show, because he likes her laughing about it. There's a not insignificant impulse to drag her home and pick up where they left off and leave the goddamn fish for a victory dinner after, but that's not exactly in line with taking things at her pace. Still, it's a nice idea,

Anyway, this fish is getting what it deserves.

"Guess I'm good luck."

"Maybe so," she quips with a glance back at him that mixes mirth and something altogether softer. Good luck, damn straight he is. The best kind.

Carol grabs a water bottle and upends it to rinse her hands, even uses some liquid soap she's been dragging along on her fishing days just in case things veer into the realm of too gross for the walk back. She was galled at first to waste the water, preferring the lake for quick rinsing, but they have no shortage here. And much as of course she'll be taking a shower later, she hasn't discounted the possibility of having a rather significant, rather pleasant detour.

"Should I cast out again, or...?" She inclines her head, grinning suggestively. Somehow the idea of messing about here is intriguing, just a little risky. The surrounding woods combined with the constant twilight make it less so, maybe just enough to inspire confidence. If he needed a nudge, here it is.

She's not opposed to setting off for home, it just might be a long walk... which has its own benefits, really, now that she considers. Enough to change her mind, in a way.

"It'll only take me a second to pack up."

Prepared for any eventuality, she is. He just sits and watches her, enjoying the fact hat he can take the time just to sit and watch her wash her hands with nothing but an idle glance around them. They're never not going to be aware of their surroundings, but it's nice to know the chances of dead bodies crawling out of the woods is unusually low.

And that is a thought that could spoil the mood if he let it. The point is that they're not at home, they can be a little risky if they want to. And... What he wants is mainly whatever she wants, but he would at least like to finish what he was not saying.

"Depends how hungry we are, I guess," he deadpans, utterly innocent except he follows it up by leaning in to kiss her again. There's nothing hesitant about him right now. Under the circumstances he doesn't need the nudge, but it's welcome, a reassurance that she's not changing her mind any time soon.

Something about the way Daryl responds to her slightest encouragement has her libido roaring to life, no care whatever for the timing or locale. It shows in the way she answers that kiss, a hand on the back of his neck, sinking forward to pare down the inches that separate them. There's as much heat pouring into the contact as she can manage with a mere kiss, and though she had intended to break it off fairly quickly in favor of another plot too tempting to deny, she finds herself curious and so it's not until her advance is blocked by limbs that need reshuffling that Carol pulls back, sudden and smiling.

"Grab my pack for me?" she asks sweetly, gesturing to where her backpack is dangling from a tree branch by its straps, a few steps behind them. She learned the hard way not to leave her things on the ground lakeside.

Assuming Daryl cooperates, he'll have to turn his back on her to follow instructions. She has every intention of interrupting him before he manages to retrieve the thing -- really, she could have just asked him to shift around, but teasing suits her mood. Besides, a little temporary frustration is a good motivator. She intends to make it up to him.

If there wasn't some promise of an eventual payoff he wouldn't be frustrated to begin with, so in the grand scheme of things it's a small price. Besides, having her pull back and pause is a much gentler interruption than a thrashing foot-long fish. And it is a pause, not a hard full stop; so really there's a minimum of grumbling as he pulls away and twists to stand and do as asked. (Not no grumbling, but if there was no grumbling she'd have to wonder if he was taken by pod people, probably. At any rate it's the good natured kind.)

He's wholly oblivious to any nefarious plans that might be afoot. That sucker.

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